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Prologue:
From the Diary of a Governor's Husband
“Captain’s Log. Stardate……uh……I’d say July………
Well, it’s finally happened. Elaine, my exquisite Pirate Princess of a wife, has evicted me from our humble mansion overlooking the bayside Capital of Melee Island. I swore to her that Timmy and I would be on our best behaviour, but she wasn’t prepared to take any chances. Yup………that’s my wife. She’s been at her wits end ever since she caught wind of that Caribbean Sanitation Commissioner’s arrival to the Tri-Island Area of Melee, Scabb and Plunder. She says that all of the islands under her jurisdiction are as hygienic as a bullet wound at room temperature, and that she faces possible impeachment if the level of cleanliness doesn’t meet the Commissioner’s standards of excellence. So now she’s on a last-minute crusade to disinfect the festering regions of our beloved providence. I asked if I could help, but she says that my………incompetence………is cute, but potentially harmful to her position as Governor.
That’s why I’m here. Here on the sun-dappled shores of Chubb Island. It’s a resort island crafted exclusively for wealthy and important pirates looking to get away from the decidedly lethal overtones of everywhere else. It was initially a part of Dinky, but some curious continental driftage made it independent of the whole Tri-Island regime. But I’m babbling. I guess the whole point of this entry lies with my unhappiness concerning Elaine’s distrust of me. She says I’m the embodiment of unsightly mishaps and unnecessary mayhem, but I think that’s an unfair generalisation: my involvement in all of the Caribbean’s noteworthy misadventures is purely coincidental, and - -”
“Your drink, Monsieur Threepwood,” interrupted Raoul, the waiter of unparalleled snootiness.
“Aha! New Grog Twist, the same palate-scalding brew of its predecessor with a refreshing citrus tinge! Thanks a bunch, Raoul, that’ll be all for now.”
Raoul bowed with subdued disdain and left Guybrush where he lay, on a deck chair beneath a palm tree, the only protruding apparatus on the unspoilt golden beach. Taking a quick sip of his beverage, the enigmatic adventurer finished his log entry.
“Besides, there’s nothing especially unsanitary about the Tri-Island Area. How could any man find fault in the enchanting mysteriousness of the Swordmaster’s Meadow? The rustic and inspiring tradition surrounding Puerto Pollo? The authentic and occasionally washed barnacles encrusting just about all of Booty Town? I tell you, my presence here on Chubb is all but unnecessary. Nevertheless, it is a burden I bear with a heavy heart, and I shall indulge in the five star luxury of its exclusive amenities to the best of my ability. Elaine would’ve wanted it that way. After all………she’s paying for it.”
Sighing, Guybrush closed the journal and cast it lazily onto a towel beside him. He adjusted the position of his shoulders in retrospect to the angle he was reclining at, and turned to face Timmy, his chimpanzee companion.
“Well, Timmy?” he began, “Think we can handle another week of spread-legged slovenliness?”
“Ook,” grunted the miniature primate in reply. Guybrush grinned and took a hearty swig of his grog, the seething foam of the dangerous beverage hissing malevolently in response.
“Aah,” breathed the self-confessed Mighty Pirate, “If those years of perpetually interactive dialogue hadn’t given my tongue such a high threshold for pain, I’d be writhing about in torturous agony just now.”
He rested the empty mug beside him and rolled to his side, the steady breathing of the tide and the ominous intensity of the sun sending him adrift to a mythical destination nestled deep within his subconscious, and before long, he was fast asleep. He remained that way for longer than he had intended to, and when twilight drew near, he was awakened by the somewhat less than subtle slap across the face from his furry comrade.
“Ee-ee-ee-ah-oo!” demanded the monkey. Guybrush looked up at him and tilted his head quizzically.
“What is it, Timmy? Fatal Scurvy epidermic? Unwarranted grog depletion? A renegade faction of LeChuck’s skeletal hoard?”
Before any of his suggestions could be confirmed, a wave of icy evening seawater ploughed over him, soaking his whole body and leaving him sprawled across the sand when the waters pulled away momentarily.
“Perhaps you’re trying to tell me that it’s high tide?”
Sighing, he clambered to his feet as Timmy scurried onto his shoulder. The two made their way back to the quaint harbour town of Puerto Gato, named so because of the domestic cat’s synonymy with sophistication. Elaine had booked him an apartment at the Silver Cutlass, the Island’s most prestigious hotel, perched on a plateau above the town, and overlooking the bay on the other side. The Sunday markets centred in the town square had closed, and all of the peddlers were securing their wares in wagons or dinghies, ready to shroud their exact whereabouts till next they were called upon. Fixated establishments were also finishing up for the day, except for The Tasteful Phlegm, Chubb Island’s only tavern, which was just opening for business as Guybrush and Timmy passed by.
“Aye, dost me eyes deceive me, Mr. Threepwood?” came the melodious cackle from inside the institution, a sizeable galley masquerading as a bar. “It looks as if the Mighty Pirate is all washed up, har har!”
Guybrush grinned and peered through the entrance. Though the interior was centred inside the hull of the beached vessel, it was very tastefully decorated; complete with glimmering chandeliers, exotic rugs and varnished mahogany tables.
“Evening, Mr. Hockworthy,” he chuckled.
“Would ye care for one of me patented Algae Shooters, melad?” the Bartender continued, gesturing for the sopping Pirate to enter.
“Ah, I wouldn’t wanna put a damper on your evening,” Guybrush replied, winking at his own pun. “It looks like you’ve got a full house tonight.”
He made the comment in regards to the generous helping of ‘Reserved’ cards positioned on most of the seating quarters.
“What’s the occasion?” he inquired.
“Argh, I won’t lie to you, Guybrush,” Hockworthy acquiesced, “Cap’m Adrian Sever and the crew of the Lingering Floater’ll be docking here in just a couple o’ minutes, they will. He booked the whole place, he did, saying he’s pay me double quota if I can make everyone under his command unconscious before midnight.”
“What a curious request,” Guybrush grunted to himself.
“Aye, lad,” he continued, “That’s why I’m offerin’ you a drink now. Surely as I’m standin’ here, you won’t get another chance tonight.”
“No, it’s okay. With a full house you probably wouldn’t wanna spare a single drop. I’ll see ya tomorrow.”
“Bubbye, Mr. T!” called Hockworthy as Guybrush departed for the far end of town. The numerous lanterns dotting the cobblestone sidewalk were being systematically lit by one of Puerto Gato’s Union employees as dusk became night, and Guybrush bid the man a friendly hello as he passed by. He took the road from the Cay at the far end of town to the elevation nestled amidst the jungles behind it.
“Evening, Mr. Marley!” called Gertrude, the manager of Silver Cutlass.
“Threepwood,” corrected Guybrush through clenched teeth.
“But of course,” the man replied, bowing apologetically. “Did you have a nice time down at the beach today?”
“As always!” grinned the Pirate, overlooking the common error and passing Gertrude to enter the establishment. “I inhaled a sizeable dune bug in my advanced state of relaxation!”
“Terrific, sir,” chuckled Gertrude, grimacing at the thought as he handed his guest a towel. Timmy scurried up the stairwell to their apartment on the second floor, and Guybrush, drying himself off, followed behind. His room was tastefully furnished, with a velvet and timber décor, and an Ocean Mythology theme. A foghorn sounded from outside. Identifying the noise as the arrival of the Lingering Floater, Guybrush approached the main window and gazed out over the harbour. Three dozen lumbering gorillas of men trundled anxiously along the boardwalk towards The Tasteful Phlegm, ready for a night of coherence drowning and miscellaneous mirth.
Smirking, Guybrush fell languidly onto the bed and let the resonating orchestra of belches and cheers loll him back into comforting recesses of sleep.
“Guybrush!” came Hockworthy’s fevered calls of desperation from below. “Guybrush!”
Begrudgingly, the half-conscious Pirate rolled from his unflattering repose on the bed and onto the unforgiving floorboards some three feet beneath. Wincing from the impact, he shifted onto his haunches and crawled from the bed to the balcony, rubbing remnants of his slumber from his eyes.
“Mm…..m-what’s goin’ on?” he mumbled, hoisting the weight of his body onto the balcony railing and teetering sedatedly over it.
“Oh, Guybrush, ‘tis a horrible tale of and deception and malevolent betrayal!”
“Did Timmy authorise another fake ID for himself? Because he really doesn’t look eighteen, and - -”
“Worse! Come down ‘ere, quick!”
Denying the bewildered adventurer a second chance to respond, Hockworthy anxiously paced away from the resort, back to his Tavern over at the west side of town. Squinting, Guybrush averted his gaze to the horizon beyond. From what he could deduce, it promised to be another day of sunshine and spontaneously bracing sea breezes, although it was a tough call to make - - the sun hadn’t even risen from behind the arcing dome of the ocean, the thick magenta shades of the distant beyond serving as the only light amidst the star-studded expanse above. Grunting with annoyance one final time, Guybrush returned to his room to ready himself.
The crispness of the morning air invigorated his senses, and he broke into a jog as he passed the same Union employee of the previous night, this time extinguishing the aforementioned lamps.
“Good morning, Rufus!” he beamed.
“Mister Threepwood!” acknowledged the employee, “What on earth is a Pirate of your fine stature doing awake at such an obscene hour?”
“Aw, you flatter me with your kind words.”
“I should hope so - - it’s company policy!”
“Oh,” he sighed, bluntly. “Well, anyways, Hockworthy’s called me over to The Tasteful Phlegm. He sounds pretty upset.”
“And with good reason,” Rufus continued, still busying himself with the task at hand, “He’s gotten himself into a right pickle. Why, if it weren’t for his desperate act of bribery, I’d be tempted to go and tell my employers of his felony right now!”
“Felony?” Guybrush wondered aloud.
“Go see for yourself.”
Now quite concerned, Guybrush made his way back to the beached galley beside the harbour, but was stopped dead in his tracks when first he caught sight of it. So horribly jaded was the scenario before him, his heart wretched with physical pain, (he has a thing for Taverns,) and he fell to his knees, whimpering like a child.
“You maniacs!” he wailed, “You destroyed it! Darn you! Darn you all to heck!”
In his passionate outburst of characteristically cliché behaviour, he fought bitterly to turn away from the sight before him, but to no avail. He was wrought with horrified fascination, and took in every detail. Shattered barrels of life-giving alcohol were strewn messily about the cobblestone of the immediate area, mangy dogs and assorted vermin accompanying it. In a daze, he sauntered through the entrance and was overcome with the unmistakable stench of the downside of drunken glee and stupor. The interior was completely unrecognisable to him, as all of the brass had been dented; all of the mahogany, worn; and anything that could be potentially shattered - - shattered. To top it all off, so to speak, putrid froth soaked the entire flooring, and more than thirty uncouth, unshaven and unspeakably unhygienic apes of men were draped precariously over everything, as if they were some sort of slovenly décor.
“What…..happened here?” he whispered in awe.
“Aye,” moaned Hockworthy from behind him. “’Tis a ghastly sight. ‘Tis also the visual representation of me career’s conclusion! Y’see, that traitorous lubber, Cap’m Sever, actually left these soppin’ scoundrels ‘ere when he set sail earlier this mornin’!”
“Left them here?” Guybrush repeated to himself. “But this is his crew! Who would leave their crew stranded on an Island without their consent?”
“Whatever ‘is reasons, it leaves me in a wretched jam! Th’ Sanitation Commissioner’ll be here this afternoon, and if he reports this barren wasteland to th’ Chubb Island Union, they’ll be authorisin’ the first public floggin’ since the Great Laundromat Scandal of ‘53!!!”
“The Sanitation Commissioner?!” cried Guybrush, continuing his unofficial echo routine, “But he’s supposed to be at the Tri-Island Area by Wednesday!”
“Haven’t ye heard, ya ignorant bilge swigger?” Hockworthy scoffed, “He’s investigatin’ all of the South Islands! If that accursed Cap’m Sever were still here, these swelterin’ swines’d be his responsibility. But he’s not - - and I’m gonna cop it!”
“Okay, calm down. I may be naïve, but I know that we can’t clean this up before then…..how about we push the whole Tavern into the ocean?”
“Ach, yer a flamin’ ninny.”
“No? Well, we’ve got to do something! Elaine told me that just one example of bad hygiene can cause closure of a whole Island if the Commissioner sees fit. And I’ll be an undead zombie pillaging the homes of disabled Bank Accountants before I see Chubb Island shut down. It’s the only place in the Caribbean where I can command respect simply on the grounds that my presence suggests I can afford to be here!”
“Aye, that was an inspiring speech, Guybrush,” sighed Hockworthy, “But words alone won’t clean this mess. And even if we did manage to tidy it up, not even th’ Air Conditioning could filter out that horrid odour.”
“Air Conditioning?” Guybrush inquired, the words foreign to him.
“S’right,” Hockworthy explained, “Revolutionary new technology. Uses circulative air to adjust th’ room temperature to yer likin’. S’quite primitive at th’ moment, but.”
Shaking his head resignedly, Hockworthy slumped over the Bar and absent-mindedly polished a mug with a rag, while Guybrush was left to ponder the concept of the device in question. He furrowed his brow for a moment, before turning to face the crestfallen Bartender.
“Where does this Air Conditioning System operate from?” he asked.
Hockworthy took Guybrush around to the starboard side of the galley and pulled away a slab of hardboard, revealing a large metal box with a steadily rotating fan behind the mesh grill at its front. Two large cylinders extended from both sides of the box and into the workings of the whole barge.
“Th’ cylinder on th’ left circulates air inwards, and th’ one on th’ right filters it outwards. I’ve got her pumpin’ as hard as she can, but ‘tis all in vain, I’m afraid.”
“Could I have a moment alone with the Air Conditioner?” Guybrush inquired, sheepishly.
“Aye, sure,” replied Hockworthy, “But whatever ye plan t’do, it won’t help me when the Sanitation Commmissioner arrives.”
He left Guybrush to tinker hesitantly with the bizarre contraption. Not long afterwards, Timmy came scurrying curiously around the corner.
“Well, Timmy,” he began, “I’ve re-aligned the circulation so that both clockwise and anti-clockwise filtration run through the same length of piping …… a-although I’d be lying if I told you I knew why.”
The monkey folded his arms and nodded understandingly.
“If the fan-force were more powerful, I could probably achieve a pretty interesting result from inside. But, uh…..it’s not.”
“Ee-oo-ah-ah?” suggested Timmy.
“My inventory?” repeated Guybrush. “Uh, all I’ve got is a half-empty can of cool refreshing Grog Twist. I could pour it into the mechanical workings of the Air Conditioner, but what are the odds such a senseless act of vandalism could achieve a faesible result?”
Timmy shrugged and gestured for Guybrush to do so.
“Yeah, you’re right. It never stopped me before!”
He held the can over the mesh grill and steadily poured the sparkling green brew into the bowels of the device; a series of sparks and high-pitched wheezing noises making it clear to both the pirate and the monkey that perhaps it wasn’t such a bright idea. However, their misgivings were soon dissipated as the intensity of the fan’s movement increased dramatically. As both directions of circulative air were drawn along the same length of piping, it created an enormous self-contained vacuum, a powerful tornado spiralling angrily into existence inside of The Tasteful Phlegm! The force of the vacuum in question launched every unconscious Pirate, (as well as everything that wasn’t nailed down) into the ocean, some thirty feet away.
Hockworthy stood outside in open-mouthed astonishment as Guybrush and Timmy came around the corner. Smiling to himself, Guybrush examined the recently vacated interior of the Tavern. Granted, it was certainly barren - - but there wasn’t a trace of hygienic neglect.
“Wha - - Guybrush, melad! H-h-how did ye do that?! Ye’ve saved me business, ye have!”
“Oh, ho ho!” chuckled the Pirate, modestly, “Don’t thank me. Thank the aerodynamic properties of new Grog Twist!”
Bestowing the bumbling adventurer with countless thanks, Hockworthy began repairs. Happy to have been of service, Guybrush took his log book, and went to sit on the pier with Timmy by his side. In his preoccupation, he disregarded the rapidly rising sun, and before long, a large shadow was cast over him. He looked up from the book and met the gaze of an intimidating specimen of a man resting against the mast of the arriving vessel. It was the infamous Caribbean Sanitation Inspector. One of the crewman dropped anchor beside the boardwalk, and the Inspector, still holding Guybrush’s fascinated gaze, leapt over the railing.
“You there,” he began in a deep tone, his thick Spanish accent further amplifying his already apparent dignity, “What occupation do you hold here at Chubb?”
“I’m just a tourist,” Guybrush replied, his voice breaking slightly.
The man grunted with contempt and paced along the length of the boardwalk to the town. Guybrush and Timmy gave each other nervous sidelong glances before returning to their previous recreations.
“Well, Timmy,” he yawned later that day, “What’s say we turn in for the evening and settle Thursday night’s postponed wrist wrestling duel?”
“Ee-ha!” the chimpanzee acquiesced, before scurrying onto Guybrush’s shoulder as he stood up and stretched in the evening haze. He began to trudge wearily back along the pier, at the same time the Sanitation Commissioner from earlier that day was returning to his ship. Though there was nobody else present, the man failed to acknowledge Guybrush’s presence, as he was lost in his own thoughts, mumbling to himself as he paced by.
“….That’s odd,” Guybrush heard him murmur, “Adrian said the place was trashed…”
Guybrush paused and contemplated the significance of what he had just heard. Adrian? Wasn’t that the name of the Captain from the previous night? His curiosity fuelling his trademark whimsical musings further, the seasoned adventurer began to suspect that perhaps something was afoul in the Caribbean………….
“Must you leave so soon, Mr. Threepwood?” Gertrude sighed.
“Indeed I must,” replied Guybrush. “Nevertheless, it’s been a mighty fine stay for a mighty fine Pirate, and I won’t ask for a refund for the remaining days.”
“Good show, sir.”
“Come on, Timmy!” he called as the bellhop struggled to manoeuvre his luggage from the plateau to the docks, “Back to Melee Island, to attempt a simple task that will no doubt go horribly wrong, resulting in many a hilarious misadventure.”
“Ook-ah-ah-ah,” Timmy bemoaned, rolling his eyes.
“That’s the spirit.”
“Last call for Melee Island! All aboard! Please forfeit exotic shoulder parrots at the front desk!”
“That’s us,” Guybrush remarked. “Have you got all of your things, Timmy? Your chew banana? Your Gubernatorial Collar? Your latest edition of Divine Pelts?”
The small chimp nodded impatiently and, smiling, Guybrush climbed aboard the small ferry as it hoisted anchor and drifted gently away from the serene harbour town of Puerto Gato. Guybrush rested his elbows against the deck railing and sighed longingly as Chubb Island grew decreasingly visible, before being masked by the glimmering mirage of the afternoon sun on the water. Sighing once more for good measure, he turned and clambered below deck, where three dignified, middle-aged men (and Timmy) were playing cards around a lantern at the centre of the table.
“Ahoy, there!” he beamed, “I’m Guybrush Threepwood, Mighty Pirate.”
“Fascinating,” grunted the stoutest of the men. Nothing further was said, and Guybrush scratched his neck uncomfortably as each of them gave the other tense sidelong glances, before Timmy grinned slyly and laid five of a kind across the table.
“Ach!” seethed the tallest, a knobbly gentleman with chiselled features, “Blast your Primate intuition, ya sneaky scoundrel!”
Annoyed, the other men laid their inferior dealings on the table, and pushed their respective piles of shining dubloons over in the direction of the eager chimpanzee.
“That’s my monkey,” chuckled Guybrush with pride. The mention of his relation to the winning animal piked the gentlemen’s interest in his presence, and they all turned to face him.
“Hey, I know you,” the muscliest of them remarked, “You’re Governor Marley’s lackey, aren’t you?”
“Uh, actually I believe the word you’re searching for is husband.”
“Aye, same difference,” snorted the stoutest. “Yer still half the man she is.”
The joke caused the men (and Timmy) to laugh uproariously, slamming their hefty palms against the wood with glee. Guybrush frowned with considerable disapproval, hoping that his look of icy rage would cease their fevered guffaws. When that was unsuccessful, he felt it necessary to defend himself through words.
“For your information, I was the hero responsible for saving the Caribbean from the iron grip of the Undead! On four consecutive occasions!”
“Is that so?” chuckled the tallest. “Then why hasn’t your name been celebrated throughout the region? Why is it distinguished and well-educated noblemen such as ourselves can only recognise you as the significant other of a popular politician?”
“Uh……b-because excessive fame would clash with my modest persona?”
“Huh! Yeah, right.”
“Ah, you guys wouldn’t recognise a hero if it swung from the trees and galloped you off into the sunset on a white stallion. Let’s go, Timmy. And don’t forget the dubloons.”
Annoyed, Guybrush climbed back onto the deck and sat under the shade of the cabin, folding his arms in profound irritation as their words of scorn and mockery resonated about his frequently vacant skull. Timmy offered a joking apology by petting his pouting owner’s springy blonde quaff, but that did little to ease Guybrush’s troubled mind. But, as luck would have it, his thoughts of ‘if only’ were suddenly wrought with a realistic edge as a mammoth cannon ball ploughed through the railing and onto the deck.
“We’re under attack!” wailed the Captain of the passenger vessel. Stunned, Guybrush looked up and observed a much larger galley glide up beside theirs, as half a dozen fearsome buccaneers swung from the topsails and boarded their prey.
“Yer treasure or yer life!” thundered one.
Guybrush sprung from his seat, and valiantly reached for his belt to draw a sword from its sheath, instead pulling his fountain pen from his trouser pocket. Though the Pirates jeered, he was not intimidated, and clashed ballpoint with cutlass in a tense deadlock with their leader.
“Yer pen is no match fer the force of me cleaver!”
“With an overbite like yours, you could pass for a beaver.”
Guybrush’s rhyming retaliation took his opponent off guard, and he attained the upper edge as they struck at each other’s weapons, the force of one blow in particular sending a thin geyser of black ink into the villain’s eyes.
“D’argh!” the main bawled, before staggering backwards and falling into the waters below.
“Ha-ha!” Guybrush crowed, triumphantly. “The Pen is mightier than the Sword!”
The five other men, however, posed somewhat of a greater problem for him. They formed a menacing semi-circle, advancing towards him in synchronised fury.
“Whoa-kay…..” he conceded, taking intimidated steps backwards. Nervously, he searched his pants for anything that could be of use to him in his hour of need. An empty can of Grog Twist, a tiny vial of vodka that he smuggled from his hotel room, a sachet of oxygen crystals that came with his new boots, and a melted wax Bride & Groom that stuck to the fabric of his trousers when he took it as a souvenir from his Wedding Day. In other words, not a heck of a lot.
The rest of the passengers looked on in open-mouthed horror as the intruders raised their blades, ready for a hearty dismemberment of their bumbling victim. Without thinking (a fine art for Guybrush), he emptied the vial and the sachet into the can, and it began to shudder violently, instilling his attackers with a sense of hesitance. He let the mock grenade fall to the deck and dove behind a large barrel of rum before it erupted, coating everything within an eight foot radius in a thick sheen of foam.
“G’argh!” one of them fumed, wiping the substance from his eyes. “Whar is that lubber?! I’ll have ‘im disembowelled and made into a new figurehead for th’ ship!”
In a rage, he grasped the barrel with one arm, exposing the lubber in question. Still crouching, Guybrush looked up and grinned sheepishly before the man made a motion to smash the same barrel over his head. Terrified, he combat rolled out of the way and frantically made a dash up the small flight of stairs leading to the cabin roof, the rest of the enemies in hot pursuit. He turned at the top and leapt over them, clutching one of the thick wooden beams of the topsail, and there he hung precariously over their anxious swords.
Curious, Timmy clambered up the length of the mast and made a gesture towards one of the topsail support ropes.
“Ook?” he grunted.
“Sure,” replied Guybrush, “I’m damned if you do, and damned if you do-WHOOA!!!”
Timmy snapped the spindly apparatus with his glistening incisors, and the beam Guybrush clung to swung away from its fixated position, simultaneously striking all five pirates in one fell swoop, sending their stout bodies rocketing over their galley, and into the briny deep beyond. He dropped from his perch back onto the deck to the rousing cacophony of applause - - even from the three men who doubted him.
“I’ve won respect!” he beamed. “And a new ship to boot!”
Guybrush took the abandoned galley of the invading Pirates for himself, and made his own way back to Melee, as repairs were needed for the damage he had done to the passenger vessel during the fight.
“Land Ho, First Mate Timmy!” he grinned as they arrived Melee Harbour that night. A few Dock Attendants catered to the logistics of the arrival as he trudged down from the boardwalk and onto streets. Fuelled by his own determination and an insatiable sense of nostalgia, Guybrush swiftly made his way through town, acknowledging (with no small amount of curiosity) that the International House of Mojo had closed, a flyer reading ‘Visit our New Location on Flaccid Island.”
“Well, whaddaya know,” he mumbled to himself, “My first adventure that didn’t involve the Voodoo Lady’s guidance and/or mystical exchange of dialogue.”
Still pondering, he passed under the archway and towards the Cliffside Marley Mansion, the noble infrastructure’s silhouette clearly defined in the radiance of the full moon behind it.
“Honey, I’m ho-ome!” he called, bursting through the doorway. “Heh heh…..I’ll never get tired of saying that.”
There was a long silence as he stood in the main foyer.
“Honey? Elaine? I’m home!”
“She’s not here,” he heard a raspy man’s voice mutter from behind. He turned to see his grandfather-in-law, HT Marley, busy at his desk.
“Well, then - - where is she?” Guybrush inquired.
“On Plunder Island, handing out free gangrene vaccinations to the citizens of Puerto Pollo. Y’know…….before the Sanitation Commissioner sees.”
“Ah, but that’s what I need to talk to her about. Y’see, I’ve uncovered a web of treachery and deception - -”
“Aren’t you supposed to be on Chubb?” Marley interrupted, looking up.
“Yes, I was. But that’s where I uncovered a web of treachery and deception involving the Sanitation Commissioner and the mysterious Captain Adrian Sever, who - -”
“Adrian Sever?” Marley interrupted again. “He’s docking here on Melee tonight.”
“He is?” Guybrush gasped. “But if my suspicions are correct…..then he’s gonna trash the SCUMM Bar! I’ve gotta stop him!”
“What’s this all about, boyo?” Marley asked.
“Well, Gramp……uh, Herman……..er, whatever! I don’t mean to alarm you, but Elaine’s position as Governor of the Tri-Island Area is at risk; and the very foundations of the Caribbean are at stake unless I can put a stop to a sinister alliance!”
And with that, Guybrush stormed out of the Mansion and into the bracing night air.
“It’s the last part of that statement that worries me,” Marley grunted, before returning to his work.
‘Remember, Guybrush,’ he thought to himself as he approached the SCUMM Bar, ‘Act casual.’
With a half-hearted push, he let the door sway ajar before him and sauntered in with deliberate nonchalance. It was practically empty, with a seedy looking fellow throwing darts at the wall, and Ignatius Cheese, the Bar owner, sitting at the far end of the room. Regardless, Guybrush still kept his casual façade apparent, and approached the Bartender, who was wiping the counter down with a surprisingly clean rag.
“Yoha, gregarious employee,” Guybrush chuckled in a supposedly deep tone.
“Evenin’, Mr. Marley,” the horribly scarred man acknowledged. Guybrush flinched slightly, but didn’t break his knowing smile.
“Soooo……..the uh, the Bar looks pretty deserted tonight, huh?”
“And it’s a good thing, too,” the man replied. “Cap’m Adrian Sever’s bringin’ his whole crew here tonight for a bit of hearty stupor.”
“Really?" mused Guybrush. “I heard he left his crew back on Chubb Island.”
“That he did, on their own volition, too, or so I’m told. Turns out he’s had a lot of different crews under his command, but they all bail out for reasons undisclosed, and he picks up new ones on his travels.”
Guybrush couldn’t contain himself any longer. He slammed his hands against the counter and began to feverishly explain in a whiny tone.
“You can’t let them come in here! Adrian Sever is suspected of being in collaboration with the Caribbean Sanitation Commissioner! He’s gonna leave his new crew passed out on your floor in pools of their own Grog and bodily fluids as a deliberate set-up in order for the Commissioner to authorise new management of the Tri-Island Area!!!”
The Bartender grunted.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Marley, but Cap’m Sever’s made us an offer too good to refuse. Says he’s gonna pay us double quota if we can have his whole crew unconscious before midnight.”
“Yes, exactly! What does Mr. Cheese have to say about this?”
“Aye, he’s even more adamant about it than I am!”
“Well, darn,” sighed Guybrush, turning away from the counter. “Say, you wouldn’t happen to have an Air Conditioning System installed, would you?”
“What the bleedin’ ‘eck is that?”
“No? Curses.”
An hour passed as Guybrush leant up against a lantern post beside the harbour, the late evening mist shrouding anything beyond the end of the pier. He was waiting for an opportunity to confront Captain Sever, in a last-ditch effort to save Melee Island from itself. A distant foghorn caught his attention and he turned to observe the curtain of thick vapour withdraw to reveal a majestic galleon sailing into port.
“Hey, wait a minute,” he mumbled, “Elaine?”
“Guybrush?!” his wife called in bewilderment as a broad plank was rested on the cobblestone forming a bridge between the deck and the harbour.
“Elaine!” he cried joyfully, sprinting over to embrace her.
“Guybrush, why aren’t you on Chubb?” she inquired dubiously.
“Well, I just thought you had a right to know that a sinister conspiracy is threatening to usurp your position of Government!!!”
“Ohh, Guybrush!” she moaned, rubbing her temple in frustration, “I’ve just had an encounter with a seven foot chicken. I’m really not in the mood for your inane babblings.”
“But Elaine, I’m telling the truth!” he insisted. “I think the Sanitation Commissioner is in collaboration with a mysterious pirate. T-they’re trying to take over the Caribbean through underhanded schemes!”
“I don’t want to hear it, Guybrush!” she fumed. “I booked you a perfectly good, perfectly expensive vacation on a resort island, and you wasted it to come home and tell me a whole bunch of nonsense!”
“Elaine…”
“No, Guybrush. Whatever it is, no. If there is anything going on, and I doubt that, it does not concern you in any way, shape or form. I don’t want you embarking on any surreal ‘romps’ that involve random inventory item combinations, Pirate Curses, or the addition of Grog to heavy machinery. Is that understood?”
“But…..”
“Is that understood?”
“Ah……..yes, dear,” he sighed, crestfallen.
“Thank you, Guybrush,” she smiled before embracing him again. She slipped a large wad of money into his coat pocket as she did so. “Here’s a loaner. Why don’t you go and drown your crazy suspicions at the SCUMM Bar while I go and sort some things out with my grandpa. The Sanitation Commissioner will be here tomorrow, and I want to make sure I’ve done all in my power to clean up Tri-Island.”
“Sure,” he mumbled.
;_;
“Woman troubles, Cap’m T?” chuckled Ignatius Cheese, the stocky Bar owner and former navigator for Guybrush’s previous escapade.
“Like you wouldn’t believe,” he sighed, swirling his mug of Grog Twist around sadly. “I’ve just uncovered a diabolical plot threatening to jeopardise the lifestyle of everybody in the Caribbean, and Elaine won’t believe me. I’ve done all in my power to convince you people of the Sanitation Commissioner’s foul play, but I get the feeling the whole ordeal has just been a big Grog Twist promotion.”
“Aye, well - - there’s no denying it’s a fine brew.”
“I know. Nothing quenches a mighty thirst like Grog Twist. But Mister Cheese, you have to believe me! Adrian Sever is going to turn your Bar into a fetid, stagnant stink hole before sunrise, and Elaine is going to lose her job because of it! Please…. can’t you cancel his reservation?”
“I’m sorry, Skipper, there are no cancellations ‘ere at the SCUMM Bar. Besides…. ‘ere comes Cap’m Sever now!”
A raucous aggregation of sailors trundled through the door and seated themselves wherever they saw fit, dozens of them clambering to place their order first. Behind them came a man dressed in a black leather cloak that extended from his sturdy neck to his big, black boots. Black leather gloves adorned his large hands, and an enormous black hat rested atop his head, a single red feather protruding from its side. Though his face appeared relaxed, Guybrush noted that his features were twisted into an irreversible sneer of contempt. His jawbone was sturdy, arced outwards in a pronounced underbite, with messily unshaven whiskers disguising most of his mouth. His nose appeared to have been broken on several occasions, as it was lumpy and thoroughly unattractive. And his eyes were thin slits that contrasted dramatically with the theme of his appearance, as they demonstrated an eerie perception when they darted about the room, taking in every detail.
“Oy,” Cheese whispered in subdued awe, “He looks like a right character. S’pose I’d best go greet him, then. ‘Ave a nice evening, Mr. T, and don’t let yer wife’s words get ye down. She’s just a little stressed, I’m sure.”
He left Guybrush where he sat at the far end of the room, and went down into the lower chamber to commune with the deceitful Captain.
“Elaine,” he muttered to himself, “I know you warned me away from any bizarre circumstances involving fiendish puzzles………… but if you only knew how much depended on it!”
He downed his grog and slipped furtively away from the table, into the kitchen behind him.
“It looks like Elaine was especially thorough when it came to this kitchen,” he noted, “I’ve never seen it so clean.”
Granted, he’d only seen it once before, during a frivolous escapade to complete his Pirate trials a few years prior, but back then it had been a stinking brothel for bacteria, with most everything soaked in stains of innumerable uncooked meat products. Now it was a radiant chamber of cleanliness, so much so that Guybrush needed to shield his eyes for a proper inspection. A pyramid of about ten large kegs of grog stood dormant beside him, strapped together with a tough length of wire. Their mere presence filled his head with dozens of ideas concerning ways to sabotage Captain Sever’s plans. He turned to his right to observe the back exit, which he knew lead to a very short boardwalk overlooking the cove. Grinning, he pushed against the door, only to discover (to his dismay) that it was locked.
“Well, darn,” he sighed. “Hang on, if I can snap this cable that holds the kegs together, they could probably barge it down.”
He turned to face the kegs once more and plucked tentatively at the wire. It was a lot tougher than he anticipated. Sighing in frustration, he folded his arms and thought for a while.
“It looks like I’m in one of those situations,” he moaned, “The kind where the solution is right in front of me, but is too obscure for me to deduce for at least three days……. the cable is too tough for me to slice with any of these knives…….”
He put his hands in his pockets subconsciously, before realising that he’d stumbled upon the melted wax Bride & Groom. He pulled the sticky object from its grip on the trouser fabric, taking a lot of his pocket with it.
“Ew, gross,” he remarked, squinting. “I should’ve known that it wasn’t actually plastic when I smuggled it from my Wedding Cake.”
Repulsed, he rubbed the badly disfigured object against the length of wire that held the kegs together.
“Well, it’s ruined my trouser pocket,” he sighed. “Hey, wait a minute - - the melted wax has fused with the spindle fibres of the cable!”
He was telling the truth. The heat from inside his pocket had softened it further still, and it had melted into the wire, before hardening in the cool of the kitchen. He drew a large steak knife from a drawer under the counter and struck at the wax/wire hybrid, snapping it with ease. The hierarchy of kegs toppled loudly away from each other, smashing down the exit and rolling into the ocean outside. There was a commotion from inside the Bar, and Guybrush thought it best to take his leave, pacing out onto the boardwalk and edging up beside the exterior of the building before anybody could identify him as the culprit.
“Wot in the name of me pegleg’s parasites happened to the Grog?!” thundered Mr. Cheese.
There was the sound of unrest amidst the crew of the Lingering Floater as they comprehended the situation properly. The sound grew more and more distant as they flooded away from the SCUMM Bar and into town, in a desperate attempt to find Grog elsewhere. If Guybrush’s hearing was accurate, he deduced that only Mr. Cheese and Captain Sever remained in the kitchen.
“I wanted my crew unconscious, Mr. Cheese,” he heard the gravely hiss of the Captain.
“Wot - - you’re blamin’ me for the grog depletion?!”
“It’s your Bar. Good day, Ignatius, there’ll be no double quota for you.”
Guybrush heard the shady character storm away, leaving Mr. Cheese to curse and growl at his leisure inside the kitchen.
“I was really lookin’ forward to that double quota,” he seethed. “Curse that ineffectual keg restraint wire……. why I oughtta…….”
“Crew!!!” Guybrush heard Captain Sever holler from the docks beyond, “Back on the Ship! We’re settin’ sail for Scabb Island!!!”
“Oh, no!” whispered Guybrush to himself. “I’ve gotta protect the rest of the Tri-Island Area before its too late!”
Act 4:
When Credibility Counts
“Avast, ya lubbers!” Captain Sever bellowed, “Back on board, I say!!!”
He was angrily trying to round up his crew, who had segmented into denominations about Melee. Meanwhile, Guybrush crept from around the side of the Bar and back onto the streets, where he made a swift and agile retreat (in his opinion) into the mists of the harbour. And if swiftness and agility involved tripping over one’s own feet and toppling over the pier into a half-submerged rowboat, he was right. Gagging, he clambered back on and continued his clandestine creeping to Captain Sever’s ship, the Lingering Floater itself. It was a gargantuan barge, and left Guybrush feeling more insignificant than usual as he stood beside it.
“Elaine said no frivolous escapades,” he pondered to himself. “I guess that means I can’t stow away on board and undermine his attempts and vandalising all of Tri-Island.”
He thought for a moment, before his trademark grin of bumbling mischief took a hold of his features.
“But perhaps,” he mused, “I can leave the good Captain with a parting gift…….”
Tiptoeing with mock sneakiness, he scurried along the length of the plank that adjoined the ship and the harbour, slithered along the deck, and dove below. The hull was basically a large chamber stacked full of ammunition and miscellaneous weapons of considerable destruction.
“This hull is basically a large chamber stacked full of ammunition and miscellaneous weapons of considerable destruction,” he noted, raising his eyebrows in surprise.
Awed, he strode slowly amongst the clutter, whistling softly. In his compelled state of scrutinising observation, he failed to notice an unusually large cannon ball at his feet, and stumbled. Immune to humiliation, however, he denied himself an opportunity to curse, instead crouching to examine it.
“Wow,” he grinned, “This cannonball could pierce even the most battle-seasoned warship.” Then, in a deeper, Shakespearian tone, “Mayhap I have stumbled upon a chance for havoc?”
He eagerly wrapped his arms around the solid lead dome, arced his back and hoisted with all his might. It didn’t even slide along the wood, instead remaining fixated where it sat. Guybrush let out a laboured breath, and fell onto his behind.
“Aw, this would’ve been simple in my caber-tossing prime,” he groaned.
Frowning, he searched about for anything that could assist him.
“Hmm…….,” he wondered aloud, “……I need to find something to help me propel this cannonball through the floor. And besides that cutlass and barrel poised conveniently in a position to make an ideal lever, I can’t think of anything!”
Disregarding his lame attempt at subtle humour, he wedged the blade of the cutlass under the cannonball, the barrel propping it up on an angle. He pressed his ankles together and sprung, landing on the protruding apparatus with all of his weight. Which, in comparison to the cannonball, was pitiful. The cutlass bent low, before launching the hapless hero across the length of the hull, and into a crate full of cannonballs of a similar nature. They spilt around him, and he tucked himself into the foetal position for fear of being squashed. None of them bounced upon hitting the floor, instead leaving perfect hole impressions. Perfect hole impressions that were soon masked by the geysers of water they allowed through.
“Enjoy your trip on the Lingering Sinker, Captain Sever,” Guybrush chuckled, before tiptoeing excitedly back onto the deck and beyond.
= ^_~ =
“I heard a commotion at the SCUMM Bar,” Elaine remarked as he sauntered triumphantly through the door to the mansion, “I trust it didn’t involve you?”
“Not to their knowledge, anyway,” he smirked.
She frowned and returned to her deskwork as he fell contentedly onto the sofa, emitting small giggles at the thought of Captain Sever’s ship going under at Golfo de Pollo, the reef off the Coast of Plunder Island.
“Something funny, Guybrush?” she inquired.
“Hm? Oh, not really - - just reminiscing over my fabulous stay at Chubb Island.”
“You mean you’re fabulously short stay,” she muttered.
“Ohh, I know you’re upset, honey,” he explained, sighing. “But my presence here on Melee was necessary!”
“If you’re presence here was necessary, why then did I send you to Chubb?”
“You tell me.”
“Guybrush, you know I love you. And you know I always will. But, look back over the last four years, and you’ll see that you have a knack of unwittingly engaging in the most bizarre and unlikely of circumstances. It’s not that I don’t trust you, but so much is riding on the Sanitation Commissioner’s approval, and your accident-prone nature is a real threat.”
“Elaine,” he whined, “If you only knew how much my accident-prone nature has helped you just now! I am your husband, and you won’t even believe me when I say the Sanitation Commissioner is deliberately trying to have you impeached! If it hadn’t of been for my help, the Greater Panama Union would’ve legally acquired Chubb, and put it under new management. If it hadn’t have been for my help, he would’ve done the same to Melee - - nay - - the whole Tri-Island Area!!!”
She looked up at him and sighed resignedly.
“Look,” she said, “Why don’t I make an inquiry to the Commissioner concerning your accusations; we’ll get his personal confirmation! How does that sound?”
“Oh, dandy!” moaned Guybrush, “After all, such a respectable and ethically rigid gentleman must be oozing with honesty.”
Annoyed, Guybrush paced upstairs to his chamber, leaving his equally irritated wife below.
0_o
“I think you’ll find, Mr. Cleave,” Elaine beamed proudly, “That Melee shows not a trace of hygienic neglect.”
She was guiding the Sanitation Commissioner, one Mister Lance Cleave, through the town that following day, and noticed, to her surprise, that he appeared agitated where he stood.
“Is there a problem, sir?” she asked.
“Yes, there is a problem,” the dark man fumed, “And the problem is: there is no problem!”
“I, uh…….I don’t understand.”
“I do,” Guybrush interrupted, pacing towards them. “You’re a little upset at your lackey for not gettin’ the job done right, eh? Y’know - - Captain Adrian Sever?”
“I know you,” Cleave hissed in his thick Spanish accent, “You’re that bile-guzzling wimp from Chubb, aren’t you?”
“Hey!” Guybrush replied, “I resent the phrase ‘bile-guzzling,’ thank you very much! And yes, I am! I’m also the one who cleaned out Hockworthy’s Tavern after you had it arranged to be trashed!”
“Guybrush!” Elained seethed in mortification.
The Commissioner sneered.
“Say what you will, boy,” he remarked, “But there’s no way you can protect the rest of the Tri-Island Area from Captain Sever and his crew.”
“What?” Elaine cried.
“Oh-ho, I’m afraid you’re wrong,” Guybrush chuckled, happy that (for once) he had the upper edge in a verbal confrontation. “I made a few modifications to the good Captain’s ship. You might just be able to find him in a life raft out in the middle of nowhere.”
Vehement, the Commissioner sucked a piercing breath through his teeth and clenched his fists, his hulking body standing a good foot above the (now considerably intimidated) hero.
“We’re not done yet, Guybrush,” he growled, his voice dripping with disdain. “For while you may have saved your precious Tri-Island Area, my little scheme has conquered many an island for the men I represent. And it will only be a matter of time before you let your guard down. Good day to you, Governor Marley. Melee certainly is very clean.”
With a symbolic thrust of his flowing robe, the Commissioner span about on the balls of his feet and paced indignantly away from the couple.
“Guybrush,” Elaine whispered, her eyes misting over, “I’m so sorry, I……I…….”
“No, it’s okay,” he smiled, embracing her warmly. “I can understand where you were coming from. I guess my credibility is a little jaded.”
“B-but……we’ve got to do something!” she cried, “Before it’s too late!”
“I think it’s too late for a lot of islands already,” he sighed. “But it’s not too late to get ‘em back! Whereabouts is the Union HQ?”
“On Flaccid Island,” she replied.
“Flaccid Island? Isn’t that where the Voodoo Lady shifted residence?”
“Uh-huh.”
“I guess I was wrong, then.”
“If the Union is crooked,” she continued, “The only way to resolve the matter is through war. But………I have a feeling the Union isn’t responsible for this scheme.”
“Then let’s set sail for Flaccid Island and find out for ourselves!!!”
“Yes, but Guybrush………do be discreet.”
“Elaine, my love,” he grinned, “Discretion is my middle name.”
“Ulysses is your middle name, and your Three-headded-monkey bluff can only be pushed so far. Just be careful. I think we’re in way over our heads here.”
= ^_^ =
Following the departure of Commissioner Cleaver, Elaine summoned her crewmen and, with her bumbling if lovable husband by her side, began the voyage from Melee to Flaccid.
“Estefan!” she called up to the crow’s nest on the third day of sailing. “Are we nearing the Island yet?”
“Wonderful timing, Mademoiselle!” he called down to her, chuckling, “I can see Authority Point from here! Land ho!”
Act 5:
Artesians of the Reminissiance
“Alright, Guybrush,” Elaine began as they strolled through Flaccid Town, “I’m going to the Chamber of Political Bigwigs at one. You can busy yourself about the place until it’s time to go. How does that sound?”
“Well,” he sighed, “there’s a big risk I could stumble upon a more diabolical scheme in my spare time, but hey! Nothing ventured, nothing gained.”
“Be good,” she whispered, leaning over to give him a quick peck on the cheek.
“Bye, Elaine,” he chuckled as she jogged further into town.
=0_^=
“Let’s see if we can go find the Voodoo Lady, Timmy,” Guybrush eagerly suggested not long afterwards. “I’ll bet she’d enjoy nothing more than hearing about how I destroyed LeChuck and his evil Australian partner in doom, Ozzie Mandrill!”
Timmy rolled his eyes.
“Hey, wait a minute,” Guybrush began, frowning. “What does that sign say? Stan’s Appliance World? What the heck?”
“Ook-oo-ha,” Timmy noted aloud.
“Yes,” Guybrush replied, smirking, “Good ol’ Stan’s been a hawker of every dodgy retail medium available. But in the back of my mind, I knew that no fast-talking salesman in his right mind would ever pass up appliance marketing. Shall we go say hello?”
Timmy made it poignantly clear to his taller intellectual inferior that he had no intention of doing so, instead leaping from his perch on Guybrush’s shoulder and scurrying into an alleyway.
“Huh. Fine, then,” Guybrush grunted. “Why don’t I just go alone?”
With a nostalgic smile, Guybrush pushed open the door, only to be overcome with an icy gust of arctic wind.
“W’aaa-aargh!” he squeaked, his body turning rigid. A commotion sounded from a room behind the shop, and the door opened revealing a man in a large caribou pelt. He wore an equally large hat, and an even larger grin, rubbing his gloved hands together and assisting the nearly solid Guybrush in approaching the counter.
“A refreshing change from the unforgiving Caribbean humidity, am I right?” he beamed.
The only sign of life from Guybrush, however, came from his widened, darting eyes, and the man thought for a moment before adjusting the room temperature, Guybrush’s body relaxing accordingly.
“Welcome to Stan’s Used Appliances!” he chuckled, “And for a remarkably low price, this bone numbing Chill-Instil could cool your loved ones from the beginning of the Monsoon till the end of Swashbuckling Season, Mr…..?”
“What?” Guybrush choked, “You don’t recognise me? It’s Guybrush Threepwood! I’ve witnessed every one of your business ventures over the last four years! Even your largely unsuccessful life insurance frontier!”
“Yes, it was a bit of a flop,” Stan chuckled, “Probably because of the location. But I’ve overcome failure and am now earning a hearty living here on fabulous Flaccid. Now, what can I interest you in, Mr. Threepwood?”
“Actually, I was coming here because encountering you is a prerequisite for all of my misadventures.”
“O-hokay, then!” he grinned, before turning back to the other room and closing the door behind him.
“Well, gee,” Guybrush frowned, “The least you could do is catch up on old times.”
Shaking his head resignedly, Guybrush exited the store and was refreshed by the warmth of the Caribbean sun on his face. For the first time, he chose to properly examine Flaccid Town in all of its serene glory. Unlike Puerto Pollo, it was essentially a commercial-based area, with most every establishment advertising their respective field of trade or commerce. The harbour was located, not at the forefront of the town, but in a cove to the far west. Overlooking the cove in question was an ominous plateau called Authority Point that extended out beyond the general geography of the island and to the coral reef not far from the bay. Atop the plateau was the Greater Caribbean Union HQ, where Elaine had requested an audience with the Governmental head honchos of the entire Island regime. The whole town was nestled within a large expanse of Cliffside, so that the northern horizon could not be properly examined by anyone from below, the whole area resembling a great big motion picture set as a result. To the best of Guybrush’s knowledge, naught but a small expanse of rainforest dwelt behind the cliffs, and like most every other island, he assumed, only the prominent seaside locations were populated.
“Aha!” he cried as his observant eyes fell upon another outlet, “I’ve found her!”
He had located the Voodoo Lady’s new residence, The International House of Mojo, (formerly Voodoo and Things,) and eagerly approached it. As was to be expected, it still pertained its eerie, mystifying theme of old, the small darkened room reeking of incense, and numerous beaded strings dangling from the ceiling. As was also to be expected, she was nowhere to be found, and Guybrush was forced to find whatever finger and/or stuffed alligator tongue needed to be tugged in order for her to make an appearance. To his utmost surprise, she waddled out from behind a nearby curtain, stirring what appeared to be icing mixture in a bowl.
“Guybrush Threepwood,” she marvelled with a knowing smile, “How did I predict you’d find me here?”
“Uh……you’re adept at manipulating the forces of nature?” he guessed.
“Yes, that’s probably it.”
She set the bowl down on a nearby coffee table and sat before Guybrush with a look of patient expectancy.
“I sense that something is troubling you, Guybrush,” she noted.
“Well, yeah. It started out on Chubb Island - -”
“Ah!” she interrupted forcefully, “There will be no need for a reiteration of your harrowed tale, for I have already seen the depths of your current situation.”
“Hey, really?” he grinned boyishly. “Can you tell me if it’s nearly over, I want to make it back to Plunder Island before Slappy Cromwell’s latest theatrical medley on Friday.”
“In order to witness the conclusion to your new adventure prior to its actual happening, we must consult………The Skull.”
“The Skull?” Guybrush remarked, dubiously.
With characteristic flair, she whipped a long silken drape away from its perch on a pedestal, revealing what Guybrush had feared for a long time.
“Muhuhahahahahahahaaaaaa………!!!”
“Oh, no.”
“Oho, yes!” crowed Murray the Skull, triumphantly. “I have returned to harass you from beyond the beyond! The obligation of the Undead will result in your shortcoming, and once I embody your feeble mortal carcass, then shall I be the real terror of the living! Muhuhahahahahahahahaaaaaaa………!!!”
Rolling his eyes, Guybrush grasped the material and draped it over Murray before any other pointless ramblings could be uttered.
“A Skull is a very dangerous thing!” Guybrush remarked in a somewhat less than subtle movie parody, “They are not all accounted for, you don’t know who may be watching.”
“Very well, Guybrush, I will use my own Voodoo intuition. And I sense that another, more shocking twist awaits you on your journey. For while you have succeeded in overcoming the mundane necessities of a timeless puzzle based adventure, the conclusion to this tale is likely to be sudden and more than a little unexpected.”
“So you’re saying the Sanitation Commissioner’s scheme goes beyond the Union?”
“Guybrush?” called Elaine from the foyer, “Are you in here? Oh, there you are. Guybrush, I’ve just spoken with the Members of the Board, and it turns out they didn’t even authorise the Inspection. In fact, Lance Cleave isn’t even the real Commissioner!”
“Whoa,” he grunted, turning back to the Voodoo Lady, “that is unexpected. But if he wasn’t representing the Union, then he couldn’t have legally acquired those islands, right?”
“That’s right!” Elaine beamed.
“I wonder who this Cleave guy is working for, then?”
“That is what you must uncover, Guybrush,” the Voodoo Lady conceded. “In order to fulfil your destiny, to truly satisfy your Pirate criteria, you must confront him before he can deceive any more Islands!”
“Word has it he’s docked here,” Elaine remarked. “Perhaps it’s not too late to catch him! Guybrush, let’s go!”
“Thanks for your help!” he beamed as he sprinted out of the building.
Timmy the Monkey leapt from his vantage point atop a lemonade stand and onto Guybrush’s shoulder as he an Elaine valiantly made their way through the bustling crowds and back to the harbour. They could not, however, locate his ship upon arrival.
“Excuse me,” Elaine asked a small Pirate.
“Wow, Elaine!” the little man remarked, “That’s some ring!”
“Oh, Wally!” she cried in surprised delight. “It’s you!”
“Is this some sort of retirement complex for Monkey Island characters of old?” Guybrush wailed.
“What can I do for you, Mr. And Mrs. Wood?” he inquired.
“Did a tall, intimidating and very obviously unsavoury character leave here not long ago?” asked Guybrush.
“You mean Mr. Cleave?” Wally suggested, their frantic nodding encouraging him to continue, “Actually yes, if you look out over yonder you’ll see his ship sailing into the afternoon haze!”
“Guybrush, let’s go!”
“Wait, Elaine!” Guybrush complained as she struggled to rig the topsail, “Where did the crew go?”
“They’re on shore leave, Guybrush,” she explained distractedly, “We don’t have time to round them up, I’m afraid. And it’s probably going to make our voyage a difficult one.”
Never a fan of difficult voyages, Guybrush let his eyes scan the docks, and located, to his delight, the three gentlemen from the Chubb/Melee passenger vessel.
“Guys!” he called down to them, and they in turn looked up at him. “How’d you like to join my ever-growing Pirate crew?”
“For Guybrush Threepwood,” the tallest of them grinned, “Anything.”
Act 6:
To the Bowels of Adventure
“How do you know these people?” Elaine queried as she kept her gaze focussed on Cleave’s ship through the telescope.
“A random encounter on a passenger barge, of course,” he replied, matter-of-factly.
“Of course. What are their names?”
“Uh, the short one is Bobby Fatt, the tall one calls himself ‘Sea’ Thrippio, and the muscly guy goes under the nickname of ‘Chewy.’”
“Wow. What a shameless LucasArts plug.”
“I know. There’s just no subtlety anymore, but I’ll overlook it this time because I’ve got me a whole crew - - and not a caber or banjo in sight!”
“Well,” Elaine remarked, shifting topics, “We’ve breached the outer rim; it looks like he’s heading deeper inwards. But that can’t be right, there aren’t any properly documented islands this deep in the Caribbean.”
“Deep in the Caribbean,” Guybrush whispered to himself while staring vacantly out at the blue, “Monkey Island.”
“Excuse me?”
“Monkey Island, Elaine. I knew I hadn’t seen the last of it. And no destiny-fulfilling adventure would be complete without a daring finale in its mystery-addled jungles of incomprehensible peril and deception. All of my Pirate years, all of my escapades, all of my log entries surround it; who am I to properly fulfil my Pirate criterion without paying a visit to the Island of a thousand bad memories? So, in conclusion - - let’s turn back.”
Elaine smiled lovingly and dropped down beside her bumbling husband.
“Guybrush,” she whispered while caressing his face, “I take pride in knowing I married the true hero of the seven seas. You’ve never failed me before, and I know you won’t now. Let’s go put an end to this plot………together.”
“Aw, okay.”
“Land ho, Cap!” cried Fatt from the crow’s nest.
Guybrush gasped and propped himself up on the rigging to get a better view. There it was. The pointed crag of jaded rock standing dormant above the wretched tangles of foliage below. A wellspring of fresh water cascading over a ridge and into the enchanting depths of a cove beneath. And a stone idol of a monkey’s head carved by a congregation of faceless Tribesmen at the Western point of the whole island. And it was there that Lance Cleave docked, against an almighty sandbar not far from the jungle at the end of the beach as the sun dropped below the horizon, illuminating the whole visage in a striking shade of orange.
“What business could Cleave possibly have here on Monkey?” Elaine wondered aloud.
“It looks like he doesn’t have a crew with him,” Guybrush noted after taking the telescope from his wife and gazing through it. “He’s going into the jungle. Mr. Thrippio, make for the central shore and drop anchor there! We don’t want him to think we’re following him.”
“Uh, Guybrush?” Elaine asked, flatly. “What other reason do we have to be on a deserted tropical island in the middle of nowhere?”
“Okay………if he asks, I proposed to you again and we’re on our second honeymoon.”
“Of course. Let’s just follow from a distance.”
The ship thudded to a halt against the sand, and Elaine left the crew with a sizeable bag of booty in exchange for their loyalty. Provided they wouldn’t abandon the couple while they’re away, she promised, more rewards would be in order upon their return. The Pirates understood, and bade the two a fond farewell as they too darted into the jungle.
“Elaine!” panted Guybrush as they sprinted under the ominous canopy of vegetation, “How do you know which way to go?”
“My grandfather spent most of his life here,” she replied simply. “When you found him and brought him home just last year, he came with detailed maps of this island’s geography. Trust me, I know my way around. And there’s a clearing just up ahead that stands adjacent to where Cleave docked.”
“Whatever you say, hon,” he breathed before she skidded to a halt and pressed her palm against his chest as a motion for him to do likewise. He gratefully acquiesced, resting his hands against his knees and doubling over to catch his breath. Elaine’s gaze was focussed and thorough, the rising moon radiating its blue luminance through the gaps in the foliage and casting the shadows of the fronds across her intent face.
“What are we looking at?” he whispered after a brief recovery.
She pointed down over a clearing below the ridge they were perched upon, and there stood Lance Cleave, the infamous impostor, gliding his hands across the smooth marble of the mountain base.
“It should be here somewhere,” he murmured to himself.
All of a sudden, a resonating click followed by a dull hiss sounded about the immediate area, and a rectangular section of the stone pulled away from the rest of the mass, Cleave smirking malevolently at his success before entering the vacant opening.
“Must be his secret hideout,” Guybrush remarked. “Quick, let’s get down there before it closes!”
Elaine nodded in agreement, signalling for Guybrush to follow her lead as she slid down the face of the ridge on her feet and into the clearing. Guybrush did likewise, only his posture gave him too much leverage and he rocketed into the opposing wall of jungle.
“Guybrush, we really don’t have time for incompetent boobery,” she scolded, pulling him out of a large cluster of leaves. He dazedly staggered about on the spot before being guided inside the lair.
Both were taken aback by what they saw inside. Following a brief trek through a narrow passageway, the interior of the mountain branched out into a massive chamber, the cavernous ceiling rising a good forty feet above their heads. Dimly lit torches were propped evenly around the circumference of the room. A semi-circular table arrangement rested unused before a large bamboo throne resting atop a thatch pedestal at the adjacent end. Assorted fruits and meat products sat waiting on carved platters, and the aroma was thick as there was no ventilation.
“It looks like some sort of pre-Tribal banquet,” Guybrush noted softly, taking a few awed steps in front of his wife. “But where did Cleave go?”
A brief whoosh followed by a loud thud from behind averted the adventurer’s attention back to his wife, but to his surprise, she no longer stood there; instead, Cleave had swung down on a length of vine and taken her with him to the other end of the room, on a platform above the chamber.
“Elaine!” Guybrush cried, alarmed.
“Hey, put me down!” she demanded, but the malevolent Spaniard paid little attention.
“Sir!” Cleave announced to an invisible being, “They have arrived!”
A small tremor shook through the room. Elaine’s struggling was silenced as she perked her ears to listen for it again. Guybrush raised his arms to steady himself as the tremors grew rhythmic and more intense about him. The silverware on the table shuddered in response, some vibrating right over the side and onto the floor. And before any uncomfortable queries could be made concerning the unsettling chain of events, a rippling sphere of flame spiralled into existence on the throne, and the translucent visage of the spectral LeChuck embodied it immediately.
“No,” Guybrush uttered in disbelief.
There he stood, almost nine feet tall. No longer did he command a physical presence. His whole body was encased in bright fire, smouldering with intense power and authority. He was more terrifying than he had ever appeared previously. Not even his popular demonic representation could compare to his latest form. Menacingly, he descended from the throne and approached his cowering archenemy.
“Guybrush Threepwood,” he uttered in a resonating tone of pure disdain. “I knew you would try to interfere with my sinister plot. But if only you had known that your interference was the critical inclusion to it!”
“That, uh………that kind of doesn’t make any sense. How can you still be alive? I mean, not alive. But, y’know - - talking. And poised ready to kill me on the spot.”
“Argh, at first my love for Elaine kept me from crossing over to the great beyond. But over time, I realised, t’was not my love for Elaine but my hatred for you! You who have foiled every one of my diabolical schemes! This is where it ends, Threepwood. It’s time for you to finally discover the true Secret of Monkey Island!!!”
“What?!” cried Guybrush. “You mean Big Whoop?”
“Aye, Threepwood. The legendary treasure of Big Whoop. Otherwise known as The Gates of Hell themselves!”
With dramatic flair, LeChuck raised his flaming arms, and a sinister vortex tore through the very fabric of human existence, the gaping void roaring ominously before the wide-eyed hero.
“Ye’ve wasted your time, boy,” laughed LeChuck. “Ye’ve made a valiant effort to stop me from buying out the Caribbean. But now it’s time for you to cross over, and leave behind your precious widow - - who will no doubt turn to me on the rebound.”
From above, Elaine rolled her eyes.
“Have you a valediction, Threepwood?” LeChuck sneered, bending down so that his face of evil was level with his prey, the rippling heat distorting it badly.
Guybrush frantically checked his inventory for anything that could be used, retrieving a solitary can of unopened Grog Twist.
“Nice try, boy,” the smouldering cacodemon laughed, standing upright. “But I’m no longer in my ghostly form. A measly can o’ grog won’t do the trick this time over.”
“This is no ordinary grog,” Guybrush remarked, his voice rising as he shook the can feverishly, “This has a refreshing………citrus………TINGE!!!”
His index finger fastening over the tab, Guybrush turned away from the trembling aluminium cylinder, and with an almighty thrust of his forearm, the explosive carbonated beverage erupted from its prison, the impact of the blast launching the vehement entity into the very void he had opened.
“D’AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarrrgh!”
LeChuck’s abrupt intrusion into the land of eternal punishment caused the vortex to collapse upon itself, which, in turn, caused the entire chamber to begin a long and painful implosion, lethal chunks of debris falling about the place.
“Elaine!” cried Guybrush.
As her captor was stunned, Elaine bit into his large shoulder.
“Pappapishu!” bawled Cleave, dropping her onto the platform. She pressed the weight of her body against the flooring and spun one of her toned legs about, sweeping his feet from under him, and sending the startled lackey plummeting to the floor some thirty feet below. Grasping the vine, the daring Governess swung down, releasing it at ten feet and drifting daintily (in her opinion) into the arms of her love. And if daintiness involves slamming into him at an alarming rate and riding his floored body across the length of the passageway like a sled, she was right.
The claustrophobic atmosphere of the chamber was instantly forgotten as they dove out into the crisp evening air, the mountain collapsing on itself almost immediately afterwards. And as the two scurried into the recesses of the undergrowth, only the dull roar of the failing protrusion was heard. That, and the distant echoes of a bloodcurdling scream from beyond.
“From the log of Guybrush Threepwood. A Saturday, if I’m not mistaken………
Here I am back on beautiful Chubb. Who’d have thought that such an insignificant chain of events would have led to the ultimate demise of the infernal cacodemon LeChuck? Not even my perceptive significant other could have predicted that the so-called Sanitation Commissioner was a henchman of our worst enemy, but now I know she’ll think twice before dismissing my feeble ramblings as poppycock. Once again, the Caribbean is safe from the treacherous threat of the Undead; LeChuck has been banished to the nether regions for all eternity, where he’ll have to face the cruel reality of Elaine’s rejection without the ability to return and do anything about it. My peculiar tale has finally reached its almighty conclusion. It’s safe to say that I, Guybrush Threepwood, really am a mighty Pirate. I mean, seriously. For real. I genuinely doubt any other Pirate has such an impressive lineage of adventures under their belt. And if they do, so help me - -”
“Guybrush,” Elaine sighed from the deck chair beside him, “Are you nearly finished with that log of yours?”
“Just a second, honey!” he replied.
“And now, as the sun sets on my time as a novice, I can safely say that I’ll go down in Caribbean history as the Legend of Monkey Island, the Swashbuckling Rogue who for almost five consecutive years has rescued the unassuming buccaneers of the seven seas from death and dismemberment. Though I look back on my adventure-riddled days with a fond sadness, I look forward to the future with zest and vigour, for truly I have satisfied my Youthful ambition.”
“Elaine,” he beamed as the first signs of dawn peered tentatively over the horizon, “My journal is finally complete. An absolute chorographical record of all of my misadventures, retold with no small amount of poetic flair and exaggeration.”
“I’m very proud of you, Guybrush,” she smiled, leaning over for a warm kiss. “I’ll be right back, that snooty waiter forgot my complimentary beverage parasol.”
He dreamily watched her saunter away in her denim midriff top and flowing sarong tied loosely around her surprisingly curvaceous waist. With a satisfied sigh, he placed his hands behind his head and gazed up at the lavender sky, the thick wisps of cloud retreating to the south as the sun rose ever higher.
“Well, Timmy,” he chuckled to his primate companion, “I think it’s safe to say we’ve both learnt an important lesson over these last couple of weeks, am I right?”
“Ook-ook-ah?” The monkey asked.
“Never underestimate the life-saving properties of new Grog Twist.”
And with that, he took a hearty swig from his hollowed coconut, before passing out to the gentle melody of the tide.