'Quite, Ozzie. I'm still captain of this… crew and so I am the one who is going to be giving the orders.' He turned to the crew ozzie had just addressed, 'you guys, do exactly what Ozzie told you to do, just do it to me.'
***
Guybrush was taken to the cloak's lodgings. On this island, as mentioned before, everyone boarded at bars, and for the cloak it was no different. Guybrush was taken to a seedy little place with a sign over the door, where in big letters was painted GRIME, painted by a man whose brush work was worse than his handwriting. Or was it the other way around? Guybrush was taken up to the cloak's room, where, amazingly, the man took off his cloak. Guybrush hadn't known him for that long, but he'd been through more with this guy than anyone else in the world, and frankly, Guybrush was kind of used to the cloak. It would take a lot to get used to this new visage.
For a start, he was young, at least a year or so younger than Guybrush. He wasn't built as such, but strong enough to wear the clothes he was too clearly wearing. It wasn't armor; by the look of him, he didn't need it. Some may say that he had rugged good looks and a dashing smile. Guybrush would be the last to admit this, and about fifty other guys would have to do so first before he did. But he was ruggedly handsome and could be passed off for dashing if he maybe tied his hair back and cleaned up a little, but maybe his long wild hair gave him more of a character. His goatee style beard and moustache certainly did, it was the kind of goatee that actually suited him, unlike Guybrush, who was born not to actually be a beard wearer but did it anyway.
Of course, some may be repulsed at the fact that he had a scar on his face the size of the Grand Canyon, or other large gorges in the earth that Guybrush didn't know about. It seemed like the kind of scar that would tell a thousand stories, of which only one would actually be about how he got the scar. Guybrush took a moment to take it all in.
'So, who are you? I mean, what do I call you?' asked Guybrush.
'I am known by many names. But I let my friends call me Rider.'
'And am I considered a friend?'
'Wouldn't know. I've never had any. But call me Rider anyway.'
'And you can call me—'
'Guybrush Threepwood.'
'H-how did you know my name?'
'I thought everyone knew the name of Guybrush Threepwood, a mighty pirate.' Guybrush grinned, if only for a second, until reality dawned on him.
'Um… actually, not many people know my name, or at least can pronounce it well. So, how much do you know about me?' He asked, intrigued.
'Quite a bit actually; you arrived on Mêlée Island for some unknown reason, and wanted to be a pirate. From there on end, it all went downhill. You fought and defeated LeChuck four times, constantly ran after your love Elaine and had gotten yourself into more predicaments than anyone I know. What I would like to know about is your childhood, who are you, where are your parents?'
'The details of my past are quite inconsequential.'
'What?'
'Uh… never mind. Basically, I was orphaned as a child and brought up by a fisherman name Jack of the coast of Smolder Island. I grew up and now here I am.'
'But why the uncontrollable urge to become a pirate?'
'Ah, that is a long story…'
***
It is six in the afternoon and the sun is just about to set. A young man sits in the sands of a secluded island. He has no idea where he's going, or where he had been, he just knew that the sunset looked beautiful from that beach. That's all he cared about, that's all he knew to care about.
But things were about to change.
Before he knew what was going on, he was grabbed by two strong men and carried away. He struggled to get out, but didn't succeed. He was thrown onto a ship with a load of other prisoners and the grate was shut on him. It was dark.
The ship sailed for hours, rocking back and forth. The prisoners couldn't see each other's faces, but most didn't really want to. The young boy had realised very early on, that this was a slave ship and he was going to be bartered for money. But he didn't have a prayer.
Unfortunately, neither did the ship and its occupants.
No one understood it at the time, although later a lot of them found it made perfect sense, but a ship had appeared from out of nowhere right next to theirs. There was no fog or mist, no way of hiding themselves. It had been told that many a strange thing happens in these waters. This was not expected. But that wasn't half of it, for on top of the mast they saw the most fearsome sight ever, the skull and cross bones, the mark of the Jolly Roger, and it was aflame. These were ghost pirates.
Cannons fired, as was mandatory for any sea battle. The crew found their high class cannonballs doing nothing to the other ship; it was as if it was going straight through the ship. But the cannons protruding from the other ship were doing mass damage. Suddenly, the crew looked around and found themselves surrounded by pirates.
Straight into action they went as the battle began, and all that could be heard was the swish of metal and the clang of steel. The young man heard lingo that only a pirate would understand, and down in the hold the boy watched through the grate and saw the brave and courageous acts of these heroic men. He was enticed by the feel of cold steel, the blood on the deck made his mouth water and the sound of the cannons and clangs of swords made him tingle inside. He now had a purpose.
The last words he heard on the ship were 'I don't care if you feel seasick, we need someone to lead us through that patch of coral or else no one will survive this battle, what? What do you mean there's no paper, I put a fresh roll in this morn-'
And then came the crash.
Waking up, face down in ankle deep seawater nine minutes later, the young boy only had one thing on his mind; where am I, what happened, what's going on. He had so many questions without answers. So the first thing he said to the world in general was:
'I wanna be a pirate!'
***
'Pulling myself together and looking over at the shipwreck I had just flown out of, I knew there was nothing to go back to. So I went forward. And became a pirate.' Guybrush finished.
***
After Ozzie had been stitched up, Largo had sent him to scour the island for food. Ozzie wasn't too pleased with this as could be heard by his mumbling in the deepest forests of the island. The island being very small, it's deepest forests were a good thirty feet away from the crash site of the ship, but no one seemed to care as long as Ozzie was thirty feet away from them. But there was another sound. A rustling in the bushes. Strictly speaking he couldn't be killed by any wild animal. His death would have resulted from a complicated process involving roots and/or mass destruction of the soul.
Knowing that, it didn't stop him from worrying. This time the most outlandish insults in the world wouldn't help him. Well at least that's what he thought if he in fact knew what the sound was.
He couldn't be too sure what it was, but he was sure that he didn't want to be around when it revealed itself. He tried to run away but tripped over and landed in the grass.
Something stepped out of the bushes. Ozzie could have sworn it was a man if it wasn't missing that vital piece of human anatomy. The figure stood above him and looked down at Ozzie. Or at least tried, had it not been missing its head. Ozzie backed away and then got up to face the thing. Or at least try to face the thing, but despite the total lack of head, Ozzie was unbelievably short.
'Who are you?' he asked the figure.
It didn't answer; it had no way of doing so.
'Speak to me!' then Ozzie realised what he was saying and more importantly what he was saying it to. Trying to talk to someone with no head was like riding a bike with no legs. The figure made no sound, but instead, picked Ozzie up with one giant hand and threw him into the bushes.
Then it did make a sound, an ear-piercing sound. It came from the top of its neck and out, wakening the entire island, if indeed anything was still asleep.
When it had finished, Ozzie got up and stared at it. There wasn't much else he could do. But staring even more, he could se that it wasn't angry or hungry, but sad. It wanted something it couldn't have and Ozzie knew just what it was. And Ozzie was going to give it to him. This may have been considered nice on Ozzie's part, but this was all going to work out better for Ozzie anyway, so he could still keep his reputation as the agitator of the Caribbean.
And then Ozzie grinned an evil grin, got out his sword, and started cutting the thread holding his own head to his neck. He laughed while doing so. It didn't hurt, so he laughed anyway.