Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4

PART 2: THE FOUR MAP PIECES

Deep in the Caribbean, hidden by an endless storm, lies LeChuck's fortress. It is not a hospitable place, and almost impregnable. The fortress is a towering construction of steel and stone, built on a rocky island made almost unapproachable by fierce undercurrents and strong waves. The only way in is through a pair of doors fifty feet high. They open from the inside, allowing ships to dock within.

As for the fortress, it takes up the entire island, small as it is. It rises many stories high, with battlements and cornices and arches. There are no windows.

There are many many rooms in LeChuck's fortress, all lit by cheerless orange torchlight, rooms for grim stratagems and brutal torture. Many of them are separated from the main entrance by a labyrinth of fiendish complexity and stunning size.

One such room, perhaps the largest of them all, was currently being prepared for LeChuck's return. The voodoo high priest was looking at LeChuck's throne. It is difficult to decide which is more striking to the untutored observer - the priest or the throne. The voodoo priest, for his part, wore a deep purple ceremonial robe and a hideous facial mask two feet high, from which a further two feet of purple feathers sprouted. He held a walking stick in his right hand and something black and menacing in his left.

The throne, on the other hand, was at least three times as tall as the voodoo priest. It was built onto a huge stone shelf three feet above the ground. Here LeChuck would sit, and be dwarfed by the skull that glared down at him from its perch on the very top of the throne. It was about four feet wide, and was decorated with a ceremonial headdress like the priest's that extended its width further. The arms of the throne were two skeletons, crouching fearfully with their hands in their mouths, an expression on their face of pure, naked terror. This was not the kind of chair you sat in while playing a nice hand of backgammon. This was the kind of chair in which war was declared, fiendish plots were hatched, and pronouncements of doom made. Satan would be happy if he had a chair this good.

Largo was approaching the voodoo priest, and even the ledge on which the chair was built dwarfed him. "So," he asked, "when are we going to resurrect the old bloated fool?"

At his words there was movement in the shadows behind the voodoo priest. Into the light came the figure of the Ghost Pirate LeChuck.

"Oops," said Largo.

You would have to search hard for compliments to give this figure. The clothes -a stained red coat, brown pants and a brown tricorner hat - were rotten and torn, but they looked better than the body below, which was a dark swamp green, and unpleasantly mottled. LeChuck shuffled closer. Largo caught a whiff of him, and recoiled involuntarily. The body was still a little putrescent. There also seemed to be a lot of muscular atrophy, judging by LeChuck's awkward shuffling walk. One thing, though, hadn't changed at all. LeChuck was still as large and menacing as he'd ever been.

LeChuck stopped, and glared at Largo with muddy brown eyes. "I'll ignore that comment just this one time, Largo," he spoke, in a voice deep, strident and somewhat throaty, "only because they tell me you've found Guybrush Threekwood." His beard swayed as he spoke, and Largo thought it was the only part of him that really looked alive.

"It's 'Threepwood', and I've found him on Scabb Island."

"Very good," said LeChuck with a nasty smile. Another thing had changed since his resurrection - the mouth also seemed to malfunction. Whenever he spoke, it involved a violent, spastic roll of the head that caused saliva to spray from his mouth. "No one gets the upper hand on LeChuck without getting what he deserves. I want Guybrush brought to me, and I want him brought alive. I am entrusting this to you." Here he paused, and looked at Largo. There was no expression on his face - none was needed. "Do not fail me."

"Never, your voodoo lordship," said Largo respectfully. He left.

"Aye," said LeChuck to the voodoo priest, "Guybrush Threepwood is finished. I need you to start building me a very special doll."

The voodoo priest spoke: he had a nasty, unsettling voice. "With pleasure."

The sun had dawned on a beautiful day.

Guybrush stood on the main deck of Captain Dread's ship, looking overboard at the mild seas. Already he'd gotten used to the sway up and down of the ship. He was off to find Big Whoop, and he felt just fine.

He went into the main cabin, where Captain Dread was holding the wheel and in a similarly jolly mood. "Welcome to the Jolly Rasta!" he greeted.

The Jolly Rasta was as crowded as ever, but the morning sun was forgiving and gave his surroundings a golden, cheery air.

"So, where do you want to go?" asked Captain Dread.

Guybrush wasn't sure. "I'm not sure," he said, "what are my choices?"

"I only know how to get to three islands, mon," said Dread.

"What are they?"

"There's where we just came from, Scabb Island. The only island where pirates are free to be pirates. Then there's Booty Island. The festive, French, Mardi Gras, party-all-the-time island."

Guybrush liked the sound of Booty Island. But he was caught completely off guard by Captain Dread's next sentence.

"It's run by one of the most respected and loved governors around - Governor Elaine Marley."

"Elaine?" said Guybrush, startled into speech.

Captain Dread continued on regardless. "And last, there's Phatt Island. A fascist dictatorship, run by an over-bloated pig named Governor Phatt." He reached into his large pockets, and took out a tattered, folded piece of paper. He handed it to Guybrush. "Here, take this easy-to-read reference map courtesy of Dread Tours. You can use it to show me where you want to go."

Guybrush unfolded the map and looked at it. There were, as Captain Dread had intimated, only three islands on the map. Filling in the space were handy illustrations of mermaids, sea serpents, dugongs and compasses. And, of course, the grid co-ordinates around the corner.

Guybrush made a quick decision. Booty Island sounded good, but he had work to do at the Phatt City library. Big Whoop, after all, came first.

"Phatt Island," he said to Dread.

Dread nodded. "OK, mon." He took control of the wheel and brought them gently to starboard.

Guybrush walked back out into the sunshine and sat down. Clouds were just starting to gather above, small fluffy patches of marshmallow.

Elaine. There were a whole welter of emotions connected with that name. Guybrush had been so sure she was the one. But it wasn't to be. What hurt the most was the way she'd just left, without final word, without goodbye.

At least, that was what had hurt at first. But what had surprised Guybrush the most was the way, in the next few months, that his life reasserted itself and got back on a level keel. He'd gotten along okay without her.

Did he really need her? How much did he care about her?

Guybrush suspected he might soon discover the answers to these questions.

But it was a long journey and he couldn't spend all of it turning her over in his mind, so Guybrush took out the thick red book the voodoo lady had given him and started reading.

Big Whoop: Unclaimed Bonanza or Myth? turned out to be fascinating reading. According to the author, there were four pirates: Rapp Scallion (the cook), Young Lindy (the cabin boy), Mister Rogers (the first mate), and Captain Marley. This last name caused Guybrush to look up, wondering if there was any relation.

These four pirates buried their treasure along with plenty of - Guybrush swallowed nervously - booby traps, on a place believed to be Inky island.

Guybrush looked up from the text again. According to Wally, there was no such island. He continued reading after a moment's pause.

It turned out that they made a map which they divided into four pieces, each pirate taking one. Rapp Scallion later opened the Steamin' Weenie hut on Scabb Island. It was a huge success but fell into disrepair after Rapp was killed in a flash fire.

Young Lindy drifted aimlessly, down on his luck until he mysteriously came into money while panhandling on Booty Island. He used the cash to bankroll an advertising firm which failed after its gross mishandling of the Gangrene 'n' Honey account.

Mister Rogers retired off the coast of Phatt Island. He marketed homemade contest grog brewed in a bathtub until his recent disappearance.

Captain Marley vanished while sailing in the America's Cup race. His boat was leading at the time.

Here the account ended. It hadn't been as specific as Guybrush had hoped. For all he knew, Captain Marley's map had gone down in the ship, Rapp Scallion's map had burned in the hut, Mister Rogers had taken the map with him after disappearing, and Young Lindy had sold it to pay off his debts. Still, it was a start. One piece of the map on each of the islands that Captain Dread could get to, and there was always Elaine Marley as a lead on the fourth.

Guybrush shut the book. It might be difficult, but his path was set. The hunt was on.

Phatt Island used to be quite a good island. Its famous beach promenade, for example, built around a beautiful and sheltered harbour, compared well with southern France, the buildings coming almost right up to the sea. But time had passed the place by. The revellers had moved on (some as far as neighbouring Booty Island).

Phatt Island was no longer a fun island. The rule was oppressive. The ruler was fat. And nobody seemed to go there any more.

Accordingly, Captain Dread was able to find a choice docking position for the Jolly Rasta, and moments later Guybrush stepped out onto the wooden pier and up a set of concrete steps.

They led to a crossroad intersection and a stretch of wall. There was a very large man, almost two feet taller than Guybrush, and he was looking at the wall. Guybrush looked at the man for a moment. He was wearing a massive golden helmet, had a cutlass in his left hand, had a huge broomstick moustache, and a naff red shirt. He was obviously a guard.

Guybrush shrugged, and looked at the object of the guard's attention. It was a poster. The poster had the word WANTED in big red letters at the top of the page, then a picture of Guybrush, then below the word GUYBRUSH in black lettering. The picture wasn't perfect - he had no beard and someone had drawn a black moustache on - but good enough to get a general idea.

Guybrush became aware that the guard was staring at him suspiciously. "Excuse me, sir," said the guard in a loud, booming voice.

"Yes?" asked Guybrush, contriving to look innocent.

"Aren't you Guybrush Threepwood?" asked the guard.

Guybrush rubbed his beard in a meaningful, conspicuous motion. "No, my name is Smith. You must have me confused with someone else."

"Smith, eh?" said the guard. "That's an unusual name. Perhaps you have some identification?"

Guybrush had a brainwave. "My ID is on my ship. Wait here while I go and get it."

He took two steps before the guard spoke. "Nice try, Guybrush."

Guybrush froze, and turned around. The guard had twigged. "You better come with me," he said. "Governor Phatt would like a word with you."

"I'm really very busy," said Guybrush apologetically. "Could we do this some other time?"

The guard, by way of answer, removed a large pistol from his right pocket.

"Coming!" said Guybrush brightly. He allowed himself to be led away.

He was taken to the Governor's mansion.

Very few people go to see the Governor's mansion on Phatt. This is partly because it is a very good mansion, and the Governor doesn't want people seeing it because then they might get all grumpy about the extravagant opulence and have dark, dangerous ideas about violence and revolution.

The only way to see the mansion in the first place is to be allowed in through the gate. Once you're on the right side of the fence, however, the view is picture perfect. There is the mansion itself, built on a small hill with white walls, arches and latticed windows, a manner reminiscent of the Greek isles. There are the surrounding gardens, and a lawn shorn to bright green perfection. There is the backdrop, a stunning view of yellow sand, gentle waves cresting onto the beach, clusters of palm trees, and green hills in the distance.

The interior, unfortunately, was less inspiring. Drab paintings, rugs on the floor, and a strange musty smell in the air. Guybrush was led through the entrance, up the stairs, and into the bedroom of Governor Phatt.

His first thought was that it was a very appropriate name.

Governor Phatt was not sitting at a dressing table awaiting their entrance - rather, he was lying in bed under a large quilt. The bed, a four poster with red curtains, was nearly filled to capacity by his rotund girth, which extended some feet into the air.

Guybrush was shown around the bed towards Governor's Phatt's head, about the only way of conducing a conversation with him. The size of the head matched the size of the body. Governor Phatt didn't so much have double chins as an amorphous fatty thing which drowned out all chinlike features altogether. Flies buzzed around his mouth, which was crusty with food.

The guard stood watchfully at the door.

There was a single book on the bedspread - Famous Pirate Quotations. There was also a strange apparatus here by Governor Phatt - three metal pipes, ending in narrow nozzles bare inches from his mouth.

Governor Phatt spoke at last, fixing his beady eyes on Guybrush.

"Well, Mr-"

That was as far as he got before there was a loud ringing nearby. "Oh, excuse me," said Governor Phatt, before turning his mouth eagerly toward the nozzles. Out of the nozzles was ejected a stream of food - green from one, beige from another, brown from the last. This landed straight in his mouth, some splashing out but most being swallowed straight down the gullet.

The stream ended. Governor Phatt wiped his mouth on his arm and looked at Guybrush again. He let out a huge belch, and grinned. "Well, Mr Threepwood," he said, starting over, "I can't tell you how pleased I am to have you as my guest."

Guest? Guybrush wasn't sure he cared much for his method of invitation.

"Oh, why is that?"

"I thought we might talk about a few things," said the Governor.

"Thank you," said Guybrush politely, while being able to see why the Governor might need armed assistance to get people to talk to him. He thought of an opening line. "Your home is lovely."

The compliment pleased Governor Phatt. "You have an eye for the finer things in life, Mr Threepwood," he said, smiling. "I admit my tastes run to the expensive."

Guybrush couldn't resist. "To the expansive is more like it." Under cover of the insult, he wondered: how can he afford this? Phatt Island doesn't look that prosperous.

The smile disappeared. "I am not a patient man, Mr Threepwood. Yes, I've had to indulge in a bit of creative financing. But I've just made a deal that will keep the bill collectors out of here for a long time."

"Selling your old clothes to make circus tents?" said Guybrush sarcastically. "Melting down your silverware to build an oil pipeline? Renting yourself out to ship captains as ballast? Selling advertising space on your stomach? What?"

Governor Phatt's eyes narrowed further. "I shall be selling something that I believe I will be glad to get rid of. I'm selling you, Mr Threepwood. To the Ghost Pirate LeChuck."

"LeChuck's dead," said Guybrush. "I killed him. Say, you don't want to hear the story of how I blew his top, do you?"

The Governor was not perturbed. "Perhaps you didn't kill him quite so thoroughly as you imagined. He seemed perfectly healthy the last time I saw him."

The words struck a cold chill in Guybrush's heart, even as the alarm sounded for Governor Phatt's next meal. "Last time you saw him?" he echoed. "Oh, no! LeChuck's back!"

The Governor wiped his mouth. "I beg your pardon, what did you say?"

"He doesn't scare me," said Guybrush boldly, if insincerely. "Just tell me where I can find him."

"I rather think he'll find you, Mr Threepwood," contended Governor Phatt. "You see, he's put a sizeable bounty on your head."

"Oh?"

"A bounty I intend to collect."

"Oh." So much for a pleasant conversation, thought Guybrush. "I bet that bounty would buy a lot of pure grease and bacon fat, huh?" he added as a parting insult.

"Why, you!" snapped the Governor, red spots flaring on his cheeks. "You can figure it out while you wait in jail for LeChuck to pick you up. Take him away!"

The guard, taking this as his cue, saluted. "Yes sir, Governor Phatt! Come on, you little weasel." He took Guybrush by the arm and led him out.

"I'll be back!" shouted Guybrush defiantly as he was pulled through the door.

The Phatt city jail was small - only two cells. They were, however, strongly constructed from stone and steel bars. Into one of these cells Guybrush was put. The guard shut the door and turned the key.

"Don't try to escape or anything," he warned. "Walt will chew you to bits." Walt was the small, brown and white beagle which stood to attention by the door leading out. The guard came over to Walt and looked down. "OK Walt, I'll be back to relieve you at eleven," he said, before leaving.

It looked like Guybrush would have a lot of time to examine his surroundings, in minute detail. He sat down on the rock hard mattress to think.

The mattress really was uncomfortable. Guybrush lifted it up to reveal a long stick wedged below. He took out and threw it on the floor. He sat down again.

In the cell next to him, he now noticed, was a skeleton, obviously either a long dead prisoner or an example of dieting gone horribly wrong. The sight of the skeleton didn't give Guybrush much cause for confidence.

Over in the corner near the exit was a tall cupboard/bookshelf. Contained thereon was a large manilla envelope, containing all his possessions. If he could just reach it... he wouldn't be able to escape, but he'd feel a bit better. Looking at his possessions, however, he caught a glimmer of light that seemed to come from Walt.

Walt held a set of keys in his mouth.

Guybrush quickly drew in breath, and knelt down to the edge of his cell. "Here, boy," he said as softly as possible.

No movement from Walt.

Guybrush gently knocked the stick against the bars of the cell.

Walt stayed still.

Guybrush was not about to give up. Somehow or other, he'd get Walt over here. And now, looking at the dead prisoner, he had a new idea how.

Guybrush reached for the leg of the prisoner with his stick, it being the closest appendage. Slowly he dragged it along the floor, before he was able to reach down and pick it up. Now he crossed his cell to Walt, and waved the bone between the bars. He whistled softly.

"Here doggie, here boy..."

Walt, at last, came. He reached the bars, dropped the saliva-coated keys and gratefully took the bone. With it safely in his mouth Walt turned and ran out into the sunshine.

Guybrush picked up the keys, or, as he now saw, the one key hanging from a large chain.

They fit the cell door perfectly. The cell door swung open, and the sound of an ungreased hinge had never sounded so good. Guybrush stretched his legs, and went to collect his stuff.

Beside his envelope was another, similarly sized manilla envelope. This one was marked as the property of a Mr. Willy Gorilla, who had been arrested for grinding his organ in public. Curious, Guybrush opened the envelope, finding a banana and an organ.

The organ he left behind. The banana, however, apart from looking delicious, might also come in handy. Guybrush had previous experience with bananas, and to come across another one was perhaps a good sign.

Guybrush walked back out into the sunshine. The jail entrance led out to the main dock area, in fact the very place where Guybrush had been arrested. His poster still hung on the wall by the jail. Now that he had a bit more time, Guybrush read the small print. It turned out he'd been arrested for the murder of G.P. LeChuck, which was a bit rich. Other offences included the use of witchcraft on the person of Largo LaGrande, the thievery of clothing and medically prescribed hair supplements for such witchcraft, graverobbing, trespassing, larceny without a permit, exceeding allowable FDA limit for rodent parts in vichyssoise, unauthorised exiting from a penal institution, and releasing a dangerous reptile in a populated area. He was also wanted for questioning regarding the disappearance of prescription eyewear.

Actually, when you looked at it, it was a pretty hefty list of offences - they might well have arrested him even if LeChuck wasn't offering the money. Still, what did they expect? Pirates get up to that sort of thing.

A reward was offered for information leading to his apprehension. And lastly, a line which Guybrush quite liked, he was to be considered armed and dangerous!

"Armed and dangerous?" said Guybrush. "Right on!"

It was time to find the Phatt library. Guybrush walked back down the concrete steps to the pier, and looked along the promenade. There, to his left, was a large sign reading LIBRARY. Guybrush set off toward it.

He passed a narrow alley on his left. He looked in and saw two people standing near a big wheel. Curious, Guybrush took a short detour.

The alleyway was small, but uncluttered, and reasonably bright here at its end. Set against the back wall was a large wheel, with handles allowing it to be spun. Standing in the spinning position was a brightly dressed, Italian looking gentlemen with black hair. He was the dealer.

His customer, or audience, or whatever the other person was doing, was a small, rodent-like man with an awful taste in hats and pants (both green).

The dealer looked around the alley. "No more bets?" he called out. "Okay, here we go." He gave the wheel a huge spin.

Ever so slightly it slowed down, until finally coming to a halt. "25 black," read the wheel spinner.

"All right!" exclaimed the punter.

"You're a winner, sir!" congratulated the dealer. "Which prize would you like?"

"What have you got left?" asked the punter. He had a lower-class, nasally accent.

"We have money," said the dealer, in his role as croupier and host, "an invitation to Governor Marley's Mardi Gras Party, and a free pass to see the Linguini Brothers Circus."

They all sounded like good prizes to Guybrush. But that Marley Mardi Gras party immediately caught his attention.

"I'd like the money," said the punter.

"The money it is," agreed the dealer. He reached into the thick folds of his red coat and took out a small brown satchel. The punter took it greedily and stuffed it down his pants for safekeeping. He gambolled off.

Guybrush thought he might try his luck at the roulette wheel. He came forward, and spoke to the dealer. "Hello."

"How ya doin'?", responded the dealer merrily.

Guybrush had never gambled before, and he was a bit unsure how things worked. "Can you explain how this game works?" he asked.

"Sure! It's easy. Just tell me which number ya want, and I'll spin the wheel. If yer number comes up, ya win!"

"Sounds simple. What numbers can I bet on?"

"One to thirty-two, red or black."

Guybrush nodded. "Do many other people come to play here?" he asked.

"Lotsa people come to play when we've got a bunch of prizes," said the dealer proudly. "But we're almost out today. We only have three left."

"What prizes do you have left?" asked Guybrush. He hoped the invitation hadn't been taken.

"A Free Pass to the Linguini Brothers Circus, an invitation to Governor Marley's Mardi Gras Fish Fry, and of course, money. Sixty pieces of eight for each bet!"

"Wow!" exclaimed Guybrush. In the corner of his eye, he could see the green-trousered punter coming back. Well, too bad for him, because Guybrush was about to have a punt himself. "I'd like to place a bet," he said to the dealer.

"Betting costs money, kid," said the dealer. "One piece of eight for each game."

"Oh yeah," said Guybrush. He handed a piece of eight to the dealer, who took it gladly.

"OK kid," said the dealer, "which number ya want?"

Guybrush had a really good feeling about 7 black, and told the dealer so.

The dealer nodded, and spun the wheel briskly. Guybrush stared into the spinning disc, its pegs clacking at a furious pace. Gradually they slowed.

The wheel stopped on 6 black. "Too bad!" commiserated the dealer. "Better luck next time."

"Thanks, anyway," said Guybrush. He hated losing, and the sympathy from the dealer only marginally made up for it. He might have stood there for a moment, lost in thought, but the punter barged up and scowled at him.

"Excuse me, pal."

Guybrush moved out of the way, allowing the punter to state that he wanted another bet - this one on thirteen red.

For a moment Guybrush hovered, wanting to see someone else fail, then he turned and trudged down the alleyway, back to the open sunshine.

The library was the next door down. Guybrush pushed it open, fast at first but slower when he heard the sound of the hinges echoed from within.

Guybrush entered into the dim, dusty surrounds of the library.

It was empty. And very full of books. They were stacked on top of card catalogs, decked from the floor to the ceiling on shelves, and lined every available wall space. The Phatt Island libraries was one of those libraries that contained so many books within a small space that they were in serious danger of distorting the fabric of spacetime and providing gateways into L-Space. Guybrush knew, without even trying them, that he'd get hopelessly lost in the pathways, narrow arches and small alcoves strewn everywhere.

Luckily, the main desk was straight ahead, and sitting behind it was a severe woman wearing large glasses. She had grey hair tied tightly into a bun, and was making notes with studied concentration.

Before he made his way over, however, Guybrush noticed a small model on a table by the door - about the only spare space not occupied by a book. It looked like a model lighthouse, built on a scale model of Phatt harbour. Looking at it curiously, Guybrush walked over to the main desk.

"Excuse me," said Guybrush.

The librarian turned, a disapproving expression on her face. "SSSSHHHH!" she hissed, removing her glasses for emphasis. "This is a library! WHISPER!" She put her glasses on. "Now, what is it?"

"Why do you have a model lighthouse here?" whispered Guybrush.

"There's a new lighthouse being built in town," explained the librarian. "This is a scale model of what it will look like."

Guybrush looked again at the model. It was very attractive, for a lighthouse. "Why do you need a lighthouse?" he asked.

"We're tired of rebuilding the wharf every time a ship goes through it," explained the librarian. "That's why it has to be very bright. It will have one of the most powerful magnifying glasses in the Caribbean. It'd show you the model, but unfortunately the light bulb has burned out."

That was as far as Guybrush wanted to go with the conversation. "I'm looking for a book," he said.

"Do you have a library card?" asked the librarian.

"No, how do I get one?"

"I'll need some personal information." The librarian rummaged around on the desk, found a small pad, and picked up a pen. "Name?"

"Guybrush Threepwood."

"Address?"

"1060 West Addison."

"Age?"

"Ninet - uh - twenty-one."

"Occupation?"

"Consultant."

"Vices?"

"Jaywalking."

"I see." The librarian made some notes, then filled out a small rectangular card. "All right, your library card will be mailed to the address you gave me. In the meantime, please use this temporary card." She handed him the card with his personal details. "You may check books out of the library, but only four at a time."

"That's about as many titles as I can remember anyhow," said Guybrush in an attempt at humour.

The librarian peered at him. "What book are you looking for?"

"I don't know, what have you got?"

Guybrush got his second disapproving expression. "You expect me to name every book in the library?" asked the librarian. "Use the card catalog like a normal person." She pointed at a huge cabinet near the front door. Then she went back to the paperwork.

Guybrush wandered over to the card catalog. Big, and imposing, were the first two words to come to mind. The next were Big and Whoop. That was what he was after, and what he should start searching for.

Guybrush pulled open the AB drawer. At first, he didn't seem to have much luck, although the biography section was interesting - "The Time I Blew Up LeChuck" by Guybrush Threepwood, a book he certainly didn't remember writing, "Lick the Silver Spoon," by L. Phatt, "Both Heads Empty," the Fettucini Brothers story, "Both Hands Moving," the Stan story, "Both Hands Empty," the Herman Toothrot story. There was an Adult Entertainment section, containing "Zelda Carbuncle Tells All", memoirs of a woman of dubious pleasure. The Archaeology section was represented by "X never marks the spot," by an I. Jones. Finally, Guybrush found a section headed Big Whoop: See Treasure.

Guybrush shut the AB drawer and pulled open the TU drawer. The selections in here were equally curious. Underwear was represented by "Wedgies: Harmless Fun or Sadistic Torture?" Trilogies contained three books by Simon Finkleberth - "Why People Shouldn't Write Trilogies", "Why People Won't Read Trilogies", and "Why People Write Trilogies" Anyway. Eventually Guybrush found the Treasure section, and to his disappointment there was only the one book. "Big Whoop: Unclaimed Bonanza or Myth" - and he already had it.

Guybrush was momentarily at a loss for ideas. Then he remembered one of the four pirates had drowned at sea. Maybe there might be a section on Shipwrecks. He pulled open the S drawer, and was told to look under Disasters.

Guybrush pulled open the CD drawer. He pawed through the cards, but soon found he was being sidetracked by all the great books on offer. There was Cannibalism - "How to Serve Your Fellow Man" by Lemonhead. There was Circuses - "Alfredo and Bill's Excellent Adventure", and "Damn the Human Torpedo", the origin of the human cannonball trick. (Guybrush wished he'd had that tome the last time he was on Melee Island.) The Classics were there too, with "Great Expectorations", by Captain Loogie.

Finally he reached it: Disasters. The one volume listed was "Great Shipwrecks of Our Century," a book from the Lime-life series.

Guybrush memorised the title. Then he walked over to the desk, and asked the librarian if they had "Great Shipwrecks of Our Century." The librarian came out from behind the desk, and Guybrush's first thought was that she was a really short woman. Then he realised she was sitting on a revolving chair and pushing her way along the wooden floor.

The chair, making slight squeaking noises, disappeared down a narrow row. Seconds later it emerged, with the librarian holding a small blue book. She set it down on the desk, and Guybrush thanked her.

"Remember, silence is golden," said the librarian.

He returned to the card catalog and started browsing at random, hoping to find something. The PQR drawer was interesting - Philosophy, Pillaging, Quotations, Ranches, and a very large Romance section, with novels all written by a Melanie Leary and with titles like Love's Lingering Lassitude, Fascination's Final Frenzy, Passion's Persistent Presence, Sin's Sordid Swan Song, Yearning's Yellowing Yesterdays, etc etc. With one exception - there was a volume called "Next to Nothing." By E. Marley - an account of her time with Guybrush Threepwood. Guybrush had an idea what the contents would be like.

"If you can't say something nice you're not supposed to say anything at all," he muttered. "Much less write a whole book."

There were less fruitful pickings to be found in the rest of the catalog. He found such strange gems as "Opulence as a Social Art", by L. Phatt, "So You're Going to be Executed ... dozens of things to say on the chopping block", in the Gallows Humour section, "The Shirt Off My Back", by Lady Godiva, "Popular Punishments for Grave Robbers", "Hal Barwood on Monkey 2" (less is more, guys! You can't polish a turd), and a whole section on the Ghost Pirate LeChuck, apparently written by Guybrush Threepwood (he must have been asleep.) The critics seemed to agree, for each title - "Why I Blew Up LeChuck", "Where I Blew Up LeChuck", and "When I Blew Up LeChuck" - was listed as one of Guybrush's worst.

Guybrush didn't feel like checking them out, because they were probably right.

Finally he came across something of interest. History: See Scabb Island. Guybrush went to Scabb Island, and found the title "Scabb Island History." He asked the librarian about it, and was soon holding a thin tome. He skimmed through the basics, and found Scabb Island was first settled as a quarantine island for skin diseases. It later became a haven for pirates because of its distinctive lack of authority figures.

That was the extent of the usefulness of Scabb Island History. Guybrush started to leave the library - it looked like he'd have to get some more information in the field before it'd be useful.

He stopped by the model lighthouse. He bent down, and looked into the very top of the lighthouse. In it was a small lighthouse lens, apparently one of the most magnifying lenses available, according to the librarian. It looked to be a very familiar size to Guybrush.

The librarian was busy with her books. Quickly Guybrush lifted the top of the lighthouse, and took the lens. He slipped it into his pocket and walked nonchalantly outside.

He took the promenade. The lens would make a good present for Wally, who was probably still blundering around trying to see things. Guybrush's conscience hadn't exactly been troubled by his deeds of the past, but when an opportunity like that was presented, you'd be stupid not to take it.

The houses he was passing on his left were dreary, brown and red brick buildings. Nestled in between them was another, darker alleyway. Recalling the interesting experience Guybrush had had down the first alleyway, he tried the second.

It led past tall piles of boxes and into a small, drab courtyard with a huge puddle on the floor from the dripping pipes. Here there was a really big green door, with multiple padlocks and a small slot at the top, several feet above Guybrush's head.

Guybrush had no idea what on earth could go on behind such a door, so he decided to knock.

The slot above his head opened. Guybrush craned his head up, but could only see dark space. "What do you want, kid?" said a deep voice from behind the door.

"Who are you, and what are you doing behind there?" asked Guybrush.

"I'm Bruno," said Bruno, "and that's none of your business. Get lost."

Guybrush had a feeling the slot was about to be closed. "Have you ever heard the legend of the Mighty Guybrush?" he said quickly.

The slot instantly shut.

"Well, don't you want to hear it again?"

No response from Bruno. Guybrush shrugged, and walked back out to the promenade. He took in the sea view which, if you weren't looking at the buildings, wasn't that bad. The longer gaze allowed him to notice a small figure, sitting on the edge of the nearby pier.

Guybrush walked to the pier and started along it. Drawing near, he saw the figure was a rotund, greasy kid of about twelve, and he was fishing. The getup was a bit unusual, Guybrush had to admit - corncob pipe, a grey hat with fish sewn to it, and a red and white striped jumper.

"Caught anything yet?" asked Guybrush.

"Are you kidding?" asked the kid. He had a high-pitched, irritating voice, like a Sitcom Kid on TV. And he had the smart-alec attitude to go along with it. "I reached my limit hours ago!"

Guybrush didn't like this kid. "I'm Guybrush Threepwood," he said, "a mighty fisherman!"

The kid took the corncob pipe from his mouth, and looked at Guybrush with wide, white and very suspicious eyes. "Oh, you are, are you?" he asked, not believing a word.

"I'm also the man who caught the notorious LeChuck!"

The kid snorted, and looked back out to sea. "Yeah, right. If you fish as poorly as you lie, you don't even deserve to be talking to me."

"I'm the best fisherman in these isles!" continued Guybrush. The kid was starting to get his gander up.

"I beg to differ: I'm the best fisherman in these isles," said the supercilious kid.

Guybrush gaped at the kid. "You?" he blurted, managing to sound like the most astonished person in the world. "You couldn't fish your way out of a paper bag. You couldn't catch cold in a blizzard. Couldn't even catch fish at a restaurant."

"What?" said the kid. He stretched his arms wide to give an approximate indication of size. "The pike I catch make Pike's Peak look like an anthill." He looked at the sea with satisfaction. "That's why I'm known as 'The Blowfish'."

"You mean 'The BlowHARD'," retorted Guybrush, who wasn't about to let such a gimme past. "The fish you catch are so small you need tweezers to throw them back."

The kid looked at him, momentarily lost for words. There was a mean glint in his eyes. "Listen bait-for-brains," he finally snapped, "I'm the best around and that's that."

There were any number of ways to respond here, and Guybrush tried them all. "Not if your lures are as ugly as you are," said Guybrush. "Or if your hooks are as dull as your wit, or if your reel is as rusty as your imagination, or if your bait is as tiny as your brain, or if your line as weak as your lines. Not on your life, Hammerhead-face."

"Perhaps you'd like to make a small wager, eh, Mr. Fisherman?" suggested the kid.

Guybrush knew the right thing to do here - not show any sign of insecurity. "Sure, I'll take your bet," he said confidently.

The kid chuckled. "Let me tell you what I had in mind first." He removed the pipe from his mouth again and looked earnestly at Guybrush. "If you can catch a bigger fish than I can, I'll give you my prizewinning pole."

The pole in question rested in his left hand, and indeed looked like quite a good model. "Kiss your pole goodbye," said Guybrush.

"If I catch a bigger fish than you, you have to eat it. Raw." The kid smiled at Guybrush.

Guybrush swallowed, meanwhile doing his best to keep a confident face. "You mean, on rice with a little wasabe and soy sauce?"

"No. Plain, cold, and with the head on it." He looked intently at Guybrush. "What do you say?"

Guybrush didn't like the idea of eating raw fish. But he just couldn't wait to see the expression on this kid's face when he won. "All right, it's a bet," he said.

The kid's face lit up - he was looking forward to the denouement as well. "Great! I'm really looking forward to making you eat my catch." He looked out to sea. "What with all the sewage from Governor Phatt's mansion, the fish around here are usually pretty gross. I never eat mine, just sell them to restaurants. Best get fishing, buddy. Heh heh heh."

Guybrush tried to think of a parting insult, failed, and had to be content with turning on his heels and walking smartly away.

Soon he had reached the end of the promenade. The path continued inland here, passing through thick forest groves and over rainwashed gullies. Soon Guybrush found himself consulting Dread's map.

Phatt was an irregularly shaped island, with the main docks in the north and the Governor's mansion in the south. There was a small triangular island off the northwestern coast, separated by a narrow rip. If Mister Rogers had retired off the coast of Phatt Island, here was the only place he could have done it.

The detail wasn't great, but Guybrush at least knew his general direction. The problem would be how to get to the island.

He walked west for some time, following a reasonable sized stream, before he came to a waterfall. Water cascaded down over several stages of rocky drops, in a noisy but picturesque way.

Still, there was something odd about the splashes - a hollow echoing quality. Guybrush picked up a rock and threw it through the curtain of water at its lowest point. No sound of rock smashing against rock wall. No sound of rock landing in water pool. Nothing at all.

He might be mistaken, but Guybrush could have sworn there was a tunnel behind there. And if there was a tunnel behind there, it led in exactly the right direction to take him under the rip. But no way was he trying out his theory with all that water coming down.

Guybrush climbed back up and took the path leading to the top of the waterfall. It wound left and right for some time, before coming to a plateau by the river.

There was something strange and silver and metallic here - a pump.

Guybrush took a closer look. It had needles, and dials, and although Guybrush couldn't make head or tail of them, it seemed to be turned on. At irregular intervals a whooshing and hissing noise would come from the pump.

There was only one control Guybrush could work out. Near the bottom of the pump was a large red wheel. It was turned all the way clockwise - the fully open position. Guybrush tried to pull it shut but the wheel refused to budge. He'd need a monkey wrench before he could possibly close this rusted wheel.

Captain Dread, waiting patiently in the Jolly Rasta, saw Guybrush return twenty minutes later. Guybrush climbed aboard and sat down on the deck.

"Where do you want to go, mon?" asked Dread, holding Wally's monocle in his hand.

"Booty Island," said Guybrush. It was time he tried his luck elsewhere.

"OK, mon." Captain Dread cast off the ropes, and soon they were drifting out of the harbour and into the sea.

Maybe they would have better luck on Booty.

It was only an hour later, still fairly early in the morning, when they made it to Booty Island. Booty and Phatt were really quite close to each other, which made travel between them easy.

Booty, like Phatt, was also fairly irregular in its shape. It was, however, all in the one piece. The Governor's Mansion (Elaine's Mansion, he amended) was in the northwestern corner of the island, and on a small peninsula separated from the main island by a narrow spit.

The main township, into which Dread had docked, was slightly more alive than Phatt Island's, but not much. In contrast to Phatt, where the central item around which all the buildings crowded was the promenade, here all the dwellings and stores were situated around a bare plain in front of the pier.

The closest house was built right on the end of the pier, next to the beach. Guybrush went over and tried the door. He entered.

Even before he taken a few steps inside, he knew where he was. An antique shop, albeit one with highly unusual selections. A bright man with thick red hair, red beard and tricorner hat greeted him from behind the counter. He was more than willing to elaborate on everything Guybrush looked at.

"That's a real ship's horn just like the one used on modern ships," he said to Guybrush as he looked at a small horn hanging from the wall. He had a bookish, enthusiastic voice. Guybrush looked around, and saw a stack of pirate hats. "You'd look good in one of those," said the antique dealer encouragingly. "And they're great for parties."

"Nice shop you've got here," said Guybrush.

"Thanks. I pride myself on the quality of my merchandise. I only sell the finest of pirate memorabilia. Even the trade-ins are first class. And I always make you the best deals."

"How can you afford to do that?"

"Volume."

By the pirate hats was an anchor, "ergonomically formulated to enhance stopping power." By this was a left turn sign, "one I took from the famous Precipice View Road."

"I've never heard of it," said Guybrush.

"They call it Dead Man's Drop now."

The selection was criminally diverse. Rotting skulls - "Those are authentic scale reproductions of rotting skulls rendered in sun-bleached whalebone. There's even some loose skin to hang them from." Indy's whip™ - "That's the real thing! As seen in 'Raiders', 'Temple', 'Holy Grail', and 'The Young Chronicles'." A huge mask - "It looks like Spiffy the Pinhead."

The wide selection had piqued Guybrush's interest. Maybe there might be something of use here.

He looked down and saw a treasure chest on the floor. "It's said," said the dealer helpfully, "that the infamous Greenbeard won that from Long John Cooper in a poker game. Shame that it's empty." By it was a pegleg that looked familiar in its design. "It was handmade by a good friend of mine from another island." And a well-polished old saw. "Found that beauty at the bottom of the sea. She cleaned up real nicely though."

There were more of the authentic pirate goods. A huge bowswain's wheel nestled in an unused corner. "I got that as a gift from a man I saved a few years ago," said the dealer. "Don't have much use for a wheel, but he said one good turn deserves another." A number of mean-looking black cannons were piled nearby. "That's a Mark VII 'devastator' triple cannon emplacement," said the dealer. "If they'd only thought to leave a hole for the fuse."

But some of the items verged on the ridiculous. A parchment painting of a whale, for example. "That's the legendary white whale. Never been caught, except on canvas."

"Does it have a name?"

"Dunno. Maybe. Maybe not. Nothing says a whale must have a name."

A feather pen - "I made that from my last parrot. Got too noisy for me." Hubcaps - "I was told these are used as a form of barter in the inner cities." Elvis plates - "That collectible plate is worth a mint."

"Wow! I knew these would be valuable someday."

But there was one item here that made it all worthwhile. It was displayed prominently on the counter, right next to the antique dealer.

A map piece.

"That's part of the Big Whoop treasure map," said the dealer in hushed tones. "I don't know a lot about the piece, but there's supposed to be a book at the Phatt City library that tells all about the whole map."

"How much is the map piece?" asked Guybrush hopefully.

"The map piece is made of authentic parchment from the turn of the century," said the dealer. "Can't find things like that anymore."

"Yeah, but how much is it?"

The dealer thought. "About six million pieces of eight."

"Um... I don't think I have that much to spend."

"Well, I do have some nice fake maps for less," offered the dealer.

"No thanks," said Guybrush firmly. He wanted the map, and nothing but the map would do. "Do you take Visa?"

"Yeah, like you have one," said the dealer. "But I do accept personal checks or trade-ins."

Here was an avenue. "What kind of trade-ins do you accept?"

"I'll take most old swords, some used parrots, almost anything valuable made of bronze, and a few old ship parts."

"Would you give the map piece for any of those things?"

"No. But there's one thing I might trade for the piece."

"What?"

The dealer looked wistfully into the middle distance. "There's a certain ship that sunk and I'd really like the figurehead. I'd give you the map if you got the figurehead for me."

This sounded difficult. "What can you tell me about this ship?" asked Guybrush.

"The ship was a huge galleon named the Mad Monkey. Nobody knows where it sank or why. But, the figurehead is supposed to be the most fabulous piece of art ever. That's why I want it. I'm a collector of fine art, as I'm sure you can see."

"All right," said Guybrush. "Goodbye." He walked back out into the sunshine. He had something of a hunch.

Guybrush got back on board the Jolly Rasta and searched through his stuff until finding what he was after "Great Shipwrecks Of Our Century." He quickly searched the index, and there it was - the Mad Monkey.

Guybrush followed the reference. According to this account, the Mad Monkey sank at 38N, 88W. Guybrush checked Dread's map, and found the reference was a bare patch of ocean near Phatt Island.

However, there was a problem. When he called Dread over and pointed out where he wanted them to go, Dread shook his head. "That's the Forbidden Triangle, mon," he said. "No way are we sailing there."

Guybrush tried the patch of ocean nearby. It turned out to be the Forbidden Square. Other patches of ocean, chosen at random, were revealed to be the Forbidden Pentagon, Forbidden Circle, Forbidden Hexogram, and Forbidden Trapezoid.

When Dread said he only knew how to get to three islands, he hadn't been kidding. It seemed Guybrush might have to find some other ship to charter if he wanted to go dredging.

He put the book down and returned to shore. It was time to find Elaine, maybe she could help.

As Guybrush walked through the township, he saw two people standing outside, looking busy. The first was a small, wizened old man standing by a cannon, looking senile. The second was a tall, striking pirate woman, dressed in green and purple and wearing a very large pirate hat. She was holding a number of leaflets in her hands and waving them about, calling out "Cruises! Sunken Galleons! Last day before I leave!"

Guybrush walked up to her. "Hi," he said, introducing himself.

"I'm Captain Kate Capsize." Guybrush placed the name immediately - the woman who'd taken the last drop of the Scabb Island bartender's near-grog. "Like to charter a ship?" she continued.

This was a stroke of fortune. From the bartender's description, Kate didn't seem like the type to get all fearful at Forbidden Dodecahedrons and other geometrical figures. "I do weddings, funerals, bar mitzvahs, you name it."

"Could I have one of those leaflets?" he asked.

"Yeah, OK." Kate handed him one - it was basically a huge picture of her face. The subtext was small and hard to read. "Capsize Charters - glass-bottom boat for sightseeing or special-interest voyages."

"Are you the same Kate who bought all the near-grog at the Bloody Lip?" asked Guybrush as he read the leaflet.

"Yeah, and you can't have any of it, so don't ask," said Kate.

Guybrush decided not to. "I'm interested in chartering a ship," he said.

"Great!" said Kate enthusiastically. "Not many people want to charter a glass-bottomed boat around here. Pretty soon I'm off to Phatt Island to try my luck there, but let's talk turkey first. My fee is 6000 pieces of eight."

That was, approximately, three hundred times Dread's fee. "Don't you think 6000 pieces of eight is a bit high?" asked Guybrush.

"No, I don't."

"All I have is four hundred pieces of eight."

"I guess you'd better find some more then, huh?"

"I'm searching for the treasure of Big Whoop," explained Guybrush. Surely that would interest her.

Seemingly, it did. "Yeah?" she asked. "When I was first mate on the Limping Limpet we went in search of Big Whoop. We'd heard it was buried under a place called Blinky Island. Never found the island or the treasure. The captain eventually died of boredom while we were crossing the Sea of Beige Flotsam. Hope your luck is better."

It seemed he'd need to raise more funds before coming back to Kate. Guybrush sighed, and walked over to the old man standing by the cannon. Something about the spatial juxtaposition of these objects drew him. For one thing, Guybrush had something of a history with cannons.

He wondered if this one was loaded.

The old man, dressed brightly and cheerfully, had not noticed he had company. "Hello there," said Guybrush.

The man turned his head and saw Guybrush finally, at least as far as the prescription spectacles he was wearing allowed. He had large gold earrings and a red bandanna - this was obviously an old pirate.

He brought something up to his left ear, something golden and tubular. "Sorry son, didn't have my horn out," he said apologetically, holding the horn firmly in place. "Could you say that again?"

"I said hello there," said Guybrush, louder this time. "My name's Threepwood."

"Oh, why hello there Threepwood," said the old pirate pleasantly. His name was Augustus DeWaat.

"Whatcha lookin at?"

"I watch the sea, and when the mail boat arrives, I blow this cannon. Dang ship's three days late." Augustus was not at all put out by Guybrush's question. It was a long boring day to be spent watching for boats, and it was Mardi Gras too. Any company was welcome.

"You don't have a brother named Marty, do you?" asked Guybrush idly.

Augustus shook his head. "Boy, the only pirate I know is Marty Graw!"

"Who?"

"Mardi Gras! It's a joke, boy, a joke. You're here for Mardi Gras, aren't you?"

"Is this the right time of year for Mardi Gras?" asked Guybrush. It certainly wasn't being celebrated on any of the other islands he'd been on recently.

"Son, it's always Mardi Gras on Booty Island," said Augustus proudly. "I used to be Governor of this island. But I never had any time to come down here and enjoy the party. So I quit, and now I watch for the mail boat."

"In that case, no," said Guybrush. "I'm on a treasure hunt."

Augustus didn't quite understand. "What? They doing a treasure hunt again this year? I can't believe they'd try that again after all the mishaps last time."

"What kind of mishaps?"

Augustus looked properly sombre. "Well, some people got carried away... some graves got dug up... horrible business."

"Dang, there goes all my fun," said Guybrush.

"Well, there's always Governor Marley's party," said Augustus helpfully.

"Marley?" said Guybrush. He was still a little unsure on this point. "That's funny, I used to date a Governor Marley."

"Oh sure," said Augustus sarcastically. "And I'll bet you helped her beat LeChuck, too." He waggled his left eyebrow conspiratorially, momentarily causing his actual left eye to come into view (the right one being completely hidden by bushy white eyebrows).

"Don't laugh," said Guybrush. "I've got the proof right here, in my pock-" Suddenly, he remembered what had happened to LeChuck's beard. "Uh, oh."

Augustus smiled goodnaturedly. "Hey hey, kid, it's OK. Mardi Gras is the time for fantasy. Now run along and enjoy yourself."

Guybrush decided to take the advice and end the conversation on a friendly note. "Well, bye," he said, and started walking further inland. He was drawing close to some sort of pavilion, with a group of people standing by a small green pitch, surrounded by bright, tall banners, fluttering merrily in the breeze. But Guybrush saw something on his left which diverted his attention for a while.

It was a large shopfront, with the white paint flaking a little. What caught Guybrush's eyes was the huge sign tacked to it, with red and white lights flashing around the rim.

"Stan's Previously Owned Coffins," proclaimed the sign.

"Open," added a flashing green sign erected in the window.

Guybrush wondered if this was his old friend Stan. Maybe he should walk in and say hello.

He opened, and entered.

He didn't have much time to take in the surroundings, the stacks and piles of coffins displayed to their best advantage in the mildewy light, the Mardi Gras streamers and balloons hanging from the ceiling, the signs and posters reading SALE and 50% OFF!, because as he entered a tall man in a checked grey coat and huge white sombrero flew out from behind the counter and bounded over.

He was, as Guybrush now recognised, the one and only Stan.

Stan seemed to be in high spirits (as, very often, his customers were). "HOWDY!!" he yelled enthusiastically. "Welcome to Stan's Previously Owned Coffins!" He had now reached Guybrush and was falling smoothly into his patter. "We handle the dead for a lot less bread."

Little had changed with Stan. He still moved his hands ceaselessly when he talked, and his foot tapped the floor like a dwarf hunting for gold.

"What are you looking for, son?" he asked Guybrush, guiding him over to the main display area. "Need a bin for your next of kin? Want a family plot without spending a lot? You're in luck! Just look at this quality merchandise!" Stan looked lovingly at his trade wares. "Never before touched by a living soul. Most of it only used for a few hours - premature burial, you know. That sort of thing.

"Well, speak up. Or are you dead? Either way, you came to the right place." Stan paused, and Guybrush found he had time to fit in a sentence.

"Didn't you used to be a used-ship salesman?" he asked, a bit unsure as to why Stan didn't seem to remember him.

"Well, yeah," said Stan. "But I decided to get into a business where unsatisfied customers are less likely to come back and complain."

Given the quality of some of Stan's previous merchandise, Guybrush could only agree that this had been a good idea.

"Do you do funerals?" he asked.

"Of course we do funerals!" said Stan. "And not just those sombre, all-black, three-handkerchief affairs. We do it in a rowdy Mardi Gras style, with music and dancing and pallbearer races. I like to say we put the fun in funerals. Heh heh."

"Actually, I'm not in the market for a coffin just yet," confessed Guybrush. He would have gone further but Stan jumped in first.

"It's never too early to make funeral arrangements," said Stan sagely. "Making plot reservations now ensures you a space at our popular Scabb Island Internment Park™, as well as entitling you to discounts on park rentals."

Guybrush assumed he meant the cemetery. And his eye was caught by a large gold key hanging from a hook behind the counter. The sign above the hook read CRYPTS.

"Rentals?" he wondered aloud.

"You know - for barbecues, parties, that sort of thing."

Stan's sales technique was mesmerising. "I need to get something embalmed," asked Guybrush, merely wanting to see what verbal profundities it would provoke from Stan.

He wasn't disappointed. "Well, you came to the right place!" exclaimed Stan confidently, and suddenly his voice changed a little - got even more strident, if that was possible. "'Your loved ones deserve Stan's special preserve. You won't smell a whiff, when we're done with your stiff.'"

Guybrush scratched his head. "I never knew morticians were so clever." He looked around at Stan's gear. "I'm looking for a good used coffin." Who knew, with LeChuck on his tail maybe it wasn't premature to start worrying about his funeral.

"Amazing!" said Stan. "When you first walked in here I said, 'Now there's a guy who needs a good used coffin!' There happens to be an excellent deal right behind you."

Guybrush turned around, allowing Stan to quickly whip out a measuring tape, make a rough estimate, and conceal it quickly.

"Let's go have a look-see," said Stan, leading Guybrush over to a sturdy looking pine coffin on a white shelf. The lid was open, allowing Guybrush to see that it was quite a large coffin.

"Now this here," said Stan in reverent tones, "is the Cadillac of Coffins. Look at all that leg room! There's room in there for Long John Silver himself! Here - let me get in and show you."

Stan leapt into the air and landed sitting down in the coffin. "Yes, a man can really rest in peace and comfort with one of these. Why should a man's coffin be any smaller than his bunk at sea?"

Guybrush, who had been on one of Stan's boats and knew how large the bunks were, found this a somewhat unflattering comparison.

"I could spend a lot of time in a coffin like this," said Stan in contented tones, running a hand over the finish. He leapt back out. "Can I show you anything else?"

"How much is that coffin?" asked Guybrush.

"Well, it's complicated," said Stan. "Pricing here at Stan's works on a sliding scale - based on one's ability to pay - so as to make a decent funeral affordable to even our poorest customers."

"That's very considerate of you," said Guybrush.

"So, how much dough do you have on you?" asked Stan, giving the game away a little.

"Four hundred pieces of eight," said Guybrush.

"I think cremation might be more appropriate in this instance," said Stan after a short pause.

"I'd just like to browse," said Guybrush. It was really time he got back on the treasure trail.

"Sorry," said Stan regretfully, "Health regulations prohibit me from allowing uncertified persons free access to used internment paraphernalia."

"Aw, shucks," said Guybrush. "Well, I gotta go. See you later."

Stan reached into his pocket. "Here, take this complimentary hankie," he said, offering Guybrush a small white square. Guybrush took it - surprisingly, it was clean. "Just my way of saying, 'I care.'"

Guybrush nodded, and walked back out into the open air.

He really did have to get to the Governor's. But his path led him closer toward the pavilion, and as he drew near he started to get very curious.

The banners, now he had gotten close enough to read them, were emblazoned with the words PIRATE SPIT COMPETITION, and were adorned with green globs and pictures of pirates hocking furiously.

The playing field was smaller than Guybrush had first thought, and consisted of a narrow strip of grass on which were painted white lines at regular intervals. Standing along one side of this strip was a motley group of pirates, somewhat more pedestrian than your normal, battle-and-grog-hardened louts.. Striding up and down the strip, trying to get them involved, was an energetic pirate who reminded Guybrush a little of Stan, except this pirate had huge comical spectacles, a hunched back, and an even bigger mouth (if that were possible). He was the Spitmaster, main adjudicator for the spitting competition.

"Don't be shy! Let it fly!" he exhorted the pirates, who looked back politely, none of them particularly willing to take the step forward. "Just put your two lips together and blow! Prove to me you guys are at least as fun as a pack of llamas. Step up to the line and test your swill. Valuable prizes - first prize wins a personalised bronze plaque!"

No response. "I hear there are some scouts here from the pro spitting circuit," hinted the Spitmaster. "Don't let this grass wither up and die! Come on - it's all paid for by Booty Island Parks and Rec. Just look at this juicy crowd! Are you pirates or what? Two, four, six, eight! Come on, let's expectorate! This may be your last chance at popularity and success! Thousands will spit - hundreds will win! Even a child can do it. In fact, they do it pretty well! Turn a disgusting habit into a prestige winning skill! You think spitting is gross?" He made a look of disgust. "I'll tell you what's gross - swallowing that stuff is gross."

The Spitmaster showed no sign of slowing. "It's a great day for spitting!" He cocked an ear. "What's that - did I hear somebody swallow? What a waste! Well, who's going to be next? I know you want to volunteer - it's on the tip of your tongue!"

It might have been how the sun at that moment shone through the clouds, lighting the grass and the banners and the distant sea, or maybe it was Guybrush's susceptibility to the spiel. But somehow, this spitting competition was starting to sound better and better.

Guybrush stepped up to the line. "I'll give it a try," he said nonchalantly.

The Spitmaster turned. "A volunteer!" he cried. Some of the pirates in the crowd applauded politely. The Spitmaster ran forward. "All right, settle down, folks," he said. "This kid looks like a serious contender."

There was a moment of silence as everyone looked at Guybrush. "What's your name, boy?" asked the Spitmaster.

"I am, of course, Captain Loogie," said Guybrush, remembering a name from the library.

The Spitmaster liked the moniker. "The Loogster!" he cried. The audience applauded. "Loog-o-rama! Hockin' the big ones for fame and fortune!" He ran to the far side of the grass strip. "Spit away!"

A silence fell amongst them, a silence not penetrated by the occasional cry of encouragement from a male or female pirate. Guybrush hocked up till his mouth was full, then started to swish the saliva around, giving it fluidity. He puckered his lips and let fly, jerking his head forward.

The green runnels of saliva struck his lips, stuck there, and dripped impotently to the ground.

"Misfire! Misfire!" cried the Spitmaster. "Everybody run!" Setting the example, he ran back over to Guybrush. "Gee, that's too bad, Captain. Let's give him a big hand anyway, folks."

The pirates applauded. "At least he tried," continued the Spitmaster as Guybrush stepped away from the line. "Now how about you?"

Guybrush walked past the spitting competition, and the voice of the Spitmaster grew fainter as he exhorted the crowd. Guybrush knew he hadn't shown his best form. In fact, he'd always fancied himself as a good spitter. And now he'd failed.

Guybrush was depressed for a little while, but got over it once he was far from the main dock and wandering through thick forest. Captain Dread's map was sketchy, but it was enough to show the Governor's mansion at the northwestern corner. Guybrush hoped it was low tide, because the spit connecting the mansion to the mainland looked pretty thin.

So he passed through the island, and before long had come to the opening of the spit, the seawater calm on either side. A small hut had been erected here, with a wooden bar blocking the way forward. Standing in front of the hut was a large, fat, ghost-blue pirate with a mean glint in his eyes and a huge black beard.

The pirate held out its hand, and suddenly Guybrush recognised him.

He jumped five feet in the air. "THE GHOST PIRATE LECHUCK!!!"

The pirate looked puzzled, reached its thick hands up to its head, and pulled it off. Inside was a blonde woman who looked similar to Kate. "Get a grip," she said. "Don't you know a Mardi Gras costume when you see one?"

Guybrush exhaled, inhaled, and exhaled, until his heart had gotten down from three hundred beats a second.

"Is there something I can help you with?" asked the woman.

"Nice costume," said Guybrush. "Almost scared me to death."

"Thanks."

"What are you guarding here?" he continued. Guybrush hadn't expected any problems in getting to the mansion. He'd had some on Melee Island, but that was different. They knew each other now.

"I'm guarding Governor Marley's mansion," said the woman.

"Elaine Marley? From Melee Island?" Guybrush thought he better make sure about this.

"Yup," agreed the woman. "The same heroic Elaine Marley who killed the Ghost Pirate LeChuck."

Guybrush hadn't heard this story. "But, I killed LeChuck!" he said.

"Why would Governor Marley lie?" asked the woman.

Who knew? Guybrush didn't. "Jealousy? Revenge? Fame and fortune? Revenge?"

"In your dreams," said the woman in a dismissive tone.

Guybrush had a sudden idea why the mansion was being guarded. It might be because of the party. Guybrush had heard talk about a Mardi Gras Fish Fry. But no-one had mentioned invitations.

"I'm here for the Governor's party," he said to the guard.

"You mean Governor Marley's Mardi Gras Fish Fry?" she amended. "It's invitation only and costumes are required."

This was not what Guybrush wanted to hear. "This is my costume," he said, indicating his swashbuckling blue coat, mud brown boots and belt buckle.

The guard was not fooled. "Nobody would willingly wear such a dopey costume."

She wasn't a stupid guard, and there didn't seem to be any gainsaying her. "I gotta go," said Guybrush. "Keep up the good work." He walked back into the jungle as purposefully as possible.

Twenty five minutes later he was back on the deck of the Jolly Rasta.

"Mon?" asked Captain Dread as he climbed on.

"Scabb Island," said Guybrush. Seeing a light in Captain Dread's eyes, he added, "We're making a round journey."

No way were they giving up now. They were just getting started.

There was the matter, for example, of getting to the island off the coast of Phatt. Guybrush needed a monkey wrench, and he thought the woodsmith might have one. He also thought of the Bloody Lip, and added Getting A Drink to his list of priorities.

The Jolly Rasta coasted on a gentle breeze, reaching Scabb Island just as noon passed. Captain Dread weighed anchor a small distance from Woodtick (it was a town without a dock), leaving Guybrush to find his way to the bridge leading across.

It might have been noon, but it would be hard to tell here in the damp, dim light. Scabb Island was subject to some unusual weather patterns, among them mist that accumulated by day and evaporated by night. It always felt like ten p.m. here.

He walked over and to the woodsmith's hut. As he saw him hard at work, he remembered that here was someone he hadn't informed about Largo's disappearance yet. He thought the woodsmith might be glad to learn the news.

"Largo LaGrande will never bother you again!" Guybrush announced as he stepped inside.

The woodsmith nodded. "Yeah, I heard Marty stuck a bunch of pins in his underwear or something. Drove him right out of town."

"No, it was me!" cried Guybrush. He was sick of others taking the fortune and glory that was rightfully his.

"You?" said the woodsmith dubiously. "What were you doing with Largo's underwear?"

"Um, well..." Guybrush suddenly wasn't as anxious to tell the story as before. "Oh, never mind." He looked around the hut. "Do you have a monkey wrench?"

"What's this look like, an ironmongers? No I don't."

Guybrush couldn't believe it. But rather than pointlessly remonstrate, he stepped back outside.

It was all looking very black as far as finding Big Whoop went. Not even a single map piece found (well, one found, but not taken). Guybrush looked at the Bloody Lip. Here was another meeting he'd been dreading, but he might as well get it over with.

Guybrush walked to the hatchway, opened it, and walked into the warm, dark depths of the Bloody Lip. He tried to cross unobserved to the kitchen door, but the bartender caught him. "You're supposed to be cooking," he said.

"The knives needed sharpening," offered Guybrush as an excuse.

The bartender didn't take it. "Nice try, but not good enough. You're fired." He started polishing a different mug.

That was certainly more painless than Guybrush had expected. For one, he still had his four hundred pieces of eight.

There was a strange, discordant noise coming from a disused corner. Guybrush couldn't place it for a moment, then he turned and saw a monkey sitting down at the piano and belting out some old honkytonk. This, perhaps, was Jojo.

Jojo jumped up and down, using his long fingers to good effect. He didn't, however, have much sense of tempo, and the metronome clicking time wasn't helping much.

Guybrush sat down at the bar. "Grog, please," he said to the bartender.

"I'll need to see some ID for that," said the bartender.

Here was where the library finally came in handy. "Would a temporary library card do?" asked Guybrush, proffering his to the bartender.

"Let me see it." He studied the card. "Is Guybrush a French name?" he asked.

"No, actually it's a fictional name."

"Oh. All right, can I get you that drink now?"

It had worked. "Yeah, I could really use it," said Guybrush, not kidding at all.

"Name yer poison."

"Whadda ya got?" asked Guybrush. He didn't really feel in the mood for a straight grog.

"Well, we have some speciality drinks here at the Bloody Lip," said the bartender. "Like: Yellow Beard's Baby, Bloody Stump, and Blue Whale."

"Give me a Bloody Stump," said Guybrush.

"Can't. Chain saw's out of gas!" The bartender laughed heartily.

"Hilarious," agreed Guybrush, deadpan.

"Yeah, I crack myself up. That'll be one piece of eight."

"OK." Guybrush handed over the coin, and the bartender did something complicated with bottles and a mug. Seconds later Guybrush had a Bloody Stump in front of him, a drink with a colour that fitted the name.

"And here's a complimentary crazy straw," said the bartender, fitting it to the mug. "We give them to all new customers at the Bloody Lip."

Guybrush started to raise the drink to his lips, but paused. Those other drinks sounded tempting too, and he didn't want to miss out on anything.

"I'll have Yellow Beard's Baby," he said to the bartender, putting down his Bloody Stump.

The bartender leered. "Well, you can try, but I don't think nature's on your side. Ha ha ha!"

"Just give me the drink, please," said Guybrush impatiently.

"Hey, I have to crack jokes," said the bartender apologetically. "It's a union thing. That'll be one piece of eight."

Guybrush handed over the metal - in return he was given a glass filled with an anaemic yellow liquid.

"And mix me up a Blue Whale while you're at it," he said.

"Sorry. Blender's not big enough!" The bartender guffawed merrily. "But seriously, that'll be one piece of eight."

Consistent pricing. Moments later Guybrush had three drinks, lined up in a row.

Using the crazy straw, Guybrush first had a taste of Yellow Beard's Baby. "Yuck," was his initial reaction.

"It's an acquired taste," said the bartender.

Guybrush shifted the straw to the Blue Whale. Apart from being a bit more viscous and gluggy, nothing much improved. He tried the Bloody Stump, and gagged on the coppery taste.

Guybrush tried a little mixing and matching, to see if it would improve the taste. He poured some of the Blue Whale into the Bloody Stump, but that just made things worse. He poured the rest into Yellow Beard's Baby.

The taste was nothing to write about. But this drink had the curious effect of making his spit incredibly thick. And it was an appropriately cack green colour.

Guybrush remembered Largo coming down here, drinking his usual, then managing to spit clear across to the other side of the room.

And suddenly Guybrush had an idea for the spitting competition.

He asked the bartender for a lid, and fitted it to the glass. It also had a hole for the crazy straw, which Guybrush took advantage of. He pocketed the glass.

Guybrush looked at Jojo again, watching the monkey pound the piano with gusto, if imprecise gusto. "I should have listened to my mother - I should have practised," he said softly. He watched the swing of the metronome left and right, heard the click of the tempo.

He was starting to get a very silly idea. But as he watched Jojo's iron fingers, it got steadily more respectable.

After all, if you needed a monkey wrench, you needed a monkey wrench.

Guybrush stood up and walked over to the piano. Jojo ignored him - his focus was totally on the white and black keys. But that was okay, as Guybrush had an ace up his sleeve.

A yellow ace, in particular. Guybrush took out the banana and waggled it near Jojo's face.

Jojo turned to look at the banana, but kept playing steadily. The bartender was less impressed. "Hey! Don't bug the monkey!"

Guybrush removed the banana from view. Then he had another idea. In one quick motion he impaled the banana on the metronome.

Jojo instantly stopped playing and looked keenly at Guybrush. The room was filled with a dramatic quiet, leavened only slightly by the ticking of the metronome.

The bartender didn't like it. "Hey, what'd you do to my piano player?"

Guybrush took Jojo by the warm, leathery hand. Jojo came willingly as Guybrush led him from the piano and to the stairs.

"Go ahead and take my entertainment," said the bartender bitterly. "Thanks for nothing, buddy."

Guybrush led Jojo up the stairs (he negotiated them easily), and back through Woodtick to Dread's ship. Jojo was an agreeable companion. He seemed to hold Guybrush as his new lord and master, and did anything Guybrush wanted him to.

Soon they had made the Jolly Rasta. "Phatt Island," said Guybrush. Captain Dread looked curiously at his new companion, but wisely held his tongue.

One and a half hours later they had reached Phatt Island, driven by a fast breeze. Jojo was an immensely curious monkey, and wormed his way through every possible alcove, passage and vantage point on the boat. Captain Dread was not impressed at first, but soon grew to like the little feller too.

At the Phatt City docks, Guybrush took Jojo with him. They walked along the promenade, and as Guybrush looked into the gambling alley he was surprised to see the man dressed in green was still there.

Guybrush crept into the alley and hid behind a large stack of boxes. Jojo followed him, Guybrush motioning him to be quiet. Jojo nodded.

"OK, here we go," said the dealer. Guybrush heard the rapid clacking of pegs, before they slowed and finally stopped. "29 red."

"All right!" said the man.

"You win again!" congratulated the dealer. "Today is your lucky day, all right!"

How could he have won again? thought Guybrush. And it had been a few hours since he was here last. How many other times had he won?

"Would you like money again?" asked the dealer.

"Yeah." There was a rattle, and then Guybrush heard the man coming back out. He ducked down further.

The man passed without noticing them. Quickly Guybrush stood and followed him out, taking care to keep his distance.

The man took a left, walking past the library and several other buildings before coming to the next alleyway, which he entered.

He walked to the huge, bolted green door, and knocked. Guybrush and Jojo hid behind another stack of boxes, a position from which they could see the slot open.

"Gimme the next number," said the gambler to the open slot.

"First give me the password," said Bruno. A huge, hairy palm was extended through the slot, all five fingers extended. "If this is one," said Bruno, before rearranging his hand so only two fingers appeared, "what's this?"

"Five," said the gambler instantly.

"Right," said Bruno, drawing back his hand. The slot itself was something like nine feet above ground, so how high was Bruno. Guybrush didn't want to know. "The winning number will be seven red," said Bruno.

"Thanks," said the gambler, turning and walking back out of the alley.

Guybrush indicated to Jojo to stay put, and walked to the door. He knocked.

The slot opened. "What do you want, kid?" asked Bruno impatiently.

"What's the next winning number going to be?"

"First give me the password," said Bruno. "You have to get it right three times." His hand emerged from the door, with two fingers in the V sign. "If this is five," he said, bringing two more fingers into view, "what's this?"

You are a very strange person, did you know that? thought Guybrush. But he recognised this might not be a time for wisecracks, so he gave the answer instead. "Two." The system wasn't hard. All you needed to do was pay attention to the first number of fingers he displayed.

"OK, that's one right. Two more. If this is two" - still four fingers were displayed - "what's this?" The four fingers collapsed into a fist.

The attempt to confuse Guybrush was not working. "Four."

"That's two. One more. If this is four" - one finger raised - "what's this?" An extra finger was raised.

"One." Guybrush hated number games, and this was a really stupid password system, but the guessing was easy.

Bruno withdrew his hand. "OK, you must be a member of the Gambler's Guild," he conceded. "But I don't recognise you." He sounded a little suspicious.

Guybrush made up a story on the spot. "No, I was transferred here today. New orders."

"What?" said Bruno, even more suspiciously.

Guybrush scratched his head. "Um... sorry. Had a flashback there. What I meant was that I just joined today."

"Oh. OK," said Bruno. "The winning number will be 22 black." The slot shut.

Guybrush grinned. It had gone perfectly. He called Jojo from the shadows and together they walked back to the promenade.

The dealer was a little surprised to see a monkey by Guybrush's side, but kept his silence. He kept his silence because the guy in the green clothes was making a bet, and there was an etiquette to these things.

The dealer spun the wheel. It stopped, mere seconds later, on the number 29 red.

"All right!" said the guy.

"Another win!" agreed the dealer. "Money again?"

"Money."

The dealer handed another satchel of money to the guy, who stuffed it down his voluminous trousers. "I think that's enough for me today," he said.

"OK, Ralphie," said the dealer. "See you again tomorrow."

Ralphie walked away with a spring and a swagger. This was just making Guybrush more confused. How on earth did the casino make money?

"Why does that other guy keep winning so much?" he asked once Ralphie had disappeared.

"Oh, maybe he's got some... inside help," said the dealer, winking. "Know what I mean?"

Guybrush knew about that. "How can you make a profit if that guy keeps winning?" he asked.

The dealer shrugged his shoulders. "Hey, I only work here. It's the owners who are losing money."

Guybrush wondered about the owners. What casino boss would willingly run at a loss? As far as he could tell, a perfect one.

"I'd like to place another bet," he said to the dealer. "Jojo, stop that." He gave him one piece of eight (the dealer, not Jojo).

"OK, kid. Which number ya want?"

With utter certainty in his voice, Guybrush said, "22 black."

"OK, here we go." The dealer gave the wheel another spin. Guybrush wondered how the system was fixed. Maybe there was some kind of motor in the wall.

The motion of the wheel gave him no clues. It span, slowed, and finally came to a halt on 22 black.

"22 black!" shouted the dealer. "You're a winner, kid! Which of our FABulous PRIzes do you want? Take your pick! You can have sixty pieces of eight... or... an invitation to Governor Marley's Mardi Gras party... or... you can have a free pass to see the Linguini Brothers circus! Well? Which will it be?"

"I'd love to have the invitation!" enthused Guybrush

"He wants the invitation!" The dealer reached into his jacket, and withdrew a small, off-white rectangle of parchment. It was given to Guybrush. "Congratulations!"

"Thanks," said Guybrush, pocketing the valuable paper. "Come on, Jojo." They left the alleyway and started walking lazily down the promenade.

The fishing boy was still here. "Caught anything yet?" called Guybrush derisively as he passed.

"Yeah, but nothing gross enough to make you eat it!" rejoined the fishing boy. He looked with narrow eyes at Guybrush and Jojo, and his face held an expression that suggested there were plenty of jokes to be made about the situation, ones he just couldn't be bothered thinking of right now.

They walked on past and to the inland path. Fifteen minutes later, their progress a little slowed by Jojo's tendency to swing on every branch he saw, Guybrush finally made it to the waterfall.

They climbed up to the top, where the pump was in full flow. This was where Jojo would really come in handy.

Guybrush took Jojo's hand, and bent the fingers into a rough circle. He fitted the circle around the wheel, made some further adjustments, and soon had them fitting snugly around the rim.

With the monkey wrench properly configured, Guybrush now picked Jojo up and started rotating him anticlockwise, pulling the wheel to its closed position. After several turns, the sound of the water nearby grew fainter. Guybrush kept on with the rotations until the only sound was a faint drip.

Guybrush put Jojo back on the ground, allowing the monkey to get its breath back (it had been a little surprised at Guybrush's ingenuity). Then they walked back to the foot of the waterfall.

Waterfall no longer. The bare rock behind was fully exposed. And something else as well.

A tunnel leading straight under the hill, sloping slightly downward.

Guybrush walked past the lip of rocks, and found that the tunnel was lit by electric light, bright white light spilling from a fixture in the ceiling. The walls, floor and ceiling were straight, grey metal plates. Pipes ran along the walls and under the ceiling.

Guybrush led Jojo along the tunnel, through numerous doorways and passages. The path led straight on, never deviating left or right. Eventually, they began to rise again.

Light at the far end of the tunnel grew, casting the walls in stark relief. Sounds came to them - the call of gulls and the gentle crash of waves.

They came out on a beach. In spite of the high sun it was still a little shady here, mainly because of the rocky outcrop looming above them. There was a hole in the bluff halfway up, but completely unreachable because Guybrush was too short.

If he wanted to get up the bluff, there was a path leading around the rocky outcrop. And as they took this path, Guybrush saw a small wooden shack at the top off the bluff, sheltered by tall palm trees but with a perfect sea view.

If Mister Rogers had ever had a holiday home, surely this was it. The silence here was complete - perhaps this was the only inhabitant of the isle.

It didn't look so good up close. The windows were either shuttered, or boarded over. Boxes and bits of metal were laid against one wall. The roof tiles were stained and cracked.

It didn't look like anyone had lived here for a long time.

There was a grotesque statue lying in what was probably the front lawn. Jojo was dangling from one of its arms. It was somehow appropriate - the statue was a rough approximation of a monkey, hideously exaggerated. It looked like something stolen from the prow of a ship.

There was a plaque near the bottom. Guybrush read the inscription. "When I see far, you are near."

It sounded like a riddle. How could you make an inanimate statue of a monkey see anything?

Guybrush thought about it, came up with nothing resembling an answer, and decided to try the door. If this place really was deserted, it'd at least give him plenty of privacy in which to search.

"Wait here," he said to Jojo, who nodded. Guybrush didn't want the monkey along, in case someone lived here after all.

Guybrush noticed two things when he opened the door. Firstly, he saw that whoever lived here must have enjoyed grog a lot. Secondly, he saw the present occupant of the house, a fat grizzled pirate with white hair and a red nose, glaring balefully at him.

The pirate waddled over. "Yes? What do you want?" he asked.

"I was wondering if I could come in for a minute," said Guybrush politely.

"What do you really want?"

Guybrush realised deception would not be of much use with this suspicious character. "I heard about this guy who used to live here," he began.

The pirate shook his head wearily. "I knew it. Look, kid: I'm sick of you would-be treasure hunters comin' over here. I just inherited this house two months ago. And every single day, all I've heard is people knockin on my door and saying 'Do you have a treasure here?' Why can't you people just go away and leave a retired pirate in peace?"

"I'm Guybrush Threepwood," said Guybrush. "Prepare to die." He wasn't about to let some fat lazy pirate get in his way.

"So... you want to sword fight, do you?" asked the pirate disdainfully. "Sword fighting is for wimps, weenies and sissies."

"Giving up so easily?" taunted Guybrush.

"I have a better way to solve a dispute," answered the pirate. "Real pirates solve their differences with a drinking competition."

"Drinking contest?" He only knew a little about Mister Rogers and his homemade brew, and this was an area of pirating he had less experience in.

"Come on in," said the pirate. He walked back inside, leading Guybrush to a small table with two wooden stools. "I'll get us set up." He wandered off to the kitchen, giving Guybrush more time to observe the place.

There was not much in the way of amenity, or convenience, or plain comfort. The floor was bare timber, rotted and dirty. The light was dim and brown, mostly cut off by the boarded up windows, and that which did come in only served to give definition to thick dust beams. Apart from the table, there was absolutely no other furniture in the place. The only items of decoration were the black and twisted stump of a tree, rooted in a barrel, and a mirror frame hanging from the wall. The mirror itself had long since cracked and vanished.

What filled the place were the bottles. There were bottles everywhere. Stacked in crates by the door, in barrels near the porous roof, on shelves and rickety benches, even above the door frame.

The pirate had vanished into the kitchen area, but his voice carried back to Guybrush as he poured the drinks. "This is my special grog," he said. "It's just for contests."

He emerged from the kitchen door, holding a large ceramic mug. "I hate having to waste it," he said, placing it on the table. "Here's your drink." He returned to the kitchen. "From what I'm told," he continued, preparing the second drink, "nobody can drink the special contest grog without feeling faint. But I've been practising."

Guybrush looked in the clear substance in the mug. He took in several deep breaths, and wished he'd eaten more for lunch.

"But I've been practising," said the pirate confidently. There was a pause. "You know," he continued, "most of the treasure hunters just leave when I ask them to. But you. You're persistent. It'll get you places in life, my boy. But it won't get you into my house."

Finally he reappeared holding his mug. "You sure you don't want to back out?" he asked.

Guybrush sat down. "No, thank you," he said firmly.

The pirate sat down. "You drink first."

Guybrush took the mug in his hand, and raised it to his mouth. Strange smells drifted to his nose, but before he could decipher them Guybrush rammed the mug against his lips and chugged the contents.

He put the mug down and looked at the pirate, his hand resting confidently on the table.

It gave way and Guybrush crashed headfirst into the timber.

He raised his head again, and started screaming like a train whistle. His skull felt like it was being inflated with nitro-glycerine. His throat was a flaming expressway. His heart was that of an epileptic rabbit on amphetamines. Guybrush's eyes boggled as his head flailed left and right. His ponytail was raised straight upright.

His body was literally thrown out of his chair by the convulsions. It fell onto the floor, where Guybrush thrashed momentarily, and then was still, eyes shut.

The pirate looked down at him. "Just what I expected."

How long Guybrush lost consciousness he couldn't really say. The next thing he knew, his arm was being shaken by something furry.

Guybrush opened his eyes, winced at the steel daggers of light, and shut them again. He had a pounding headache.

He could also hear the sound of the sea, and could feel sand below. He must be on the beach.

Guybrush decided to risk opening his eyes again. Slower this time, he gently raised the heavy eyelids, and was soon staring into the face of a worried Jojo. Guybrush swivelled his head left, slowly, and eventually saw the sea. He did the same thing to the right, and saw the rocky bluff rising above.

"Oooh," he moaned, and tried to raise his head. As he did so, it felt like an iron bar suddenly solidified in his skull, but he continued until his head was raised enough to allow him to sit up. Guybrush paused in this position, like a heavyweight weightlifter halfway through the snatch-and-jerk, then stood up.

A second bolt of pain went through his overloaded head, and his vision drained by degrees until he couldn't see anything. For a moment he thought he might faint, then gradually sight returned.

Guybrush swayed, and put a hand to his forehead. "Oh, my head," he groaned. What did the pirate put in his grog? DDT? No way was Guybrush trying that trick again.

Jojo still looked a bit worried at Guybrush's condition. Guybrush waved at him, trying to reassure him that he wasn't that bad. Jojo wasn't convinced.

Slowly, as if not yet in command of all his muscles, Guybrush made for the tunnel to the mainland.

The trip back to Captain Dread's took a while, almost three quarters of an hour, but at the end of it Guybrush began to regain some of his former vigour. The sickening pules had gone from his head, leaving only a dreadful memory and the admonition to never try that stunt again.

Guybrush told Captain Dread to head for Booty Island. Moments later they pulled out of Phatt harbour and were once more on the high seas (as high as the seas got around here, at any rate). The wind was shifting around, and it helped them again on their journey.

When they docked, Guybrush left the ship with Jojo, who was becoming something of a firm friend. They paused in the main township - Ville de la Booty. Guybrush got out the invitation, because he had the feeling he'd forgotten something.

"'You are cordially invited to Governor Marley's Mardi Gras blowout,'" he read to Jojo. "'Don't forget to bring this invitation when you pick up your complimentary costume! Please present invitation at door and wear your costume.'" That was what he'd forgotten - he needed his costume. The woman at the guardhouse had said something about costumes, too.

Happily for Guybrush, the solution was at hand. Amongst the buildings crowded around the pier was an unassuming building labelled COSTUME SHOP.

Guybrush and Jojo pushed open the door and wandered in.

Their eyes were greeted by an incredible display of colour and variety in the costumes, masks and foam toys that comprised the shop's stock. Lizards. Meese. Elephants. Coats and pants in every colour and every possible combination of stripes and dots. Jojo screeched with delight and jumped up, grasping hold of the right arm of Bowling Boy™. He pulled himself level with the upper shelf and started running along the top, occasionally pausing and scratching the mask or costume nearby in a thoughtful manner.

Guybrush felt a similar curiosity - many of these toys were ones he'd loved as a kid, and even owned. But he had business here, and so he instead walked over to a short, balding man who looked like he ran the store.

The man indeed ran the store - had done so for many decades. The work had left its mark on him - he had small, beady eyes, a large belly, and a strange backward lean to his upper body. Combined with the arms that just hung straight down, lifelessly (unless they were measuring something), the overall impression was that he sleepwalked everywhere.

Guybrush got his attention and handed him the invitation. "Ah, you have a costume on reserve!" exclaimed the shopkeeper. Behind him, Jojo was trying on the mask of Cannibal Ted™ for size. "Let's see, I think you're costume is right over here." He started toward the back of the store. "Walk this way, please."

"If I could walk that way I wouldn't need the talcum powder," said Guybrush under his breath, and followed the storekeeper out back.

In a small corner, defined by large purple curtains on either side, was a small alcove resembling a wardrobe. The only item of clothing hanging in the wardrobe was a purple cocktail dress. The sleeves came halfway down the upper arms, the hem came up to just above the knees, and the cut of the neck was enough for people to get a good look at his collarbones.

Guybrush was glad he wasn't any taller, or it could have been really embarrassing.

"Well, here it is," said the shopkeeper. "Last costume on reserve. Of course, all the good ones went a few hours ago." Seeing Guybrush's expression, he added, "Not to worry. You'll surely be the talk of the party in this."

That's what Guybrush was mostly worried about.

"Well, have fun and enjoy your costume," said the shopkeeper, leaving. Guybrush removed the dress from its coathook, gently folded it up, and put it in his coat. It certainly was a beautiful dress, what with its frills and lace and ribbons, it just had the wrong owner.

Guybrush walked back into the store. "Come on, Jojo," he said to Jojo, now having fun swinging from the roof timbers. "Down from there."

They walked out into the sunshine, and went off in search of a party.

"Is there something I can help you with?" asked the guard, talking to Guybrush but looking curiously at Jojo.

Guybrush was not nearly scared to death this time, partly because the guard had kept her mask off. Guybrush couldn't blame her, it must have gotten really stuffy in there.

"You could let me into the party," hinted Guybrush.

"I think I said it's invitation only," said the guard impatiently.

"I've got my invitation right here," said Guybrush, showing her the small card.

She looked surprised. "Well, what do you know? You do have an invitation. Do you have a costume?"

Guybrush nodded. "I've got my costume right here," he said, patting his coat.

"Better put it on," advised the guard.

"Well, if you insist," said Guybrush. "But you'll have to try to restrain yourself." He started to remove his shirt.

"No, no, not here!" said the guard quickly. "Go in the bushes or something."

Guybrush followed her advice before his face got any redder. "Geeze," muttered the guard. Jojo nodded his head sympathetically. "What are you?" asked the guard. "His escort?"

In a few minutes Guybrush returned, a little hesitantly. Every item of clothing he wore had gone, except for his boots and certain concealed undergarments. In their place he wore the cocktail dress, now looking more like lilac in the intense sun. It had a very lowcut back - Guybrush hoped he didn't have to wear this for too long, or else he'd end up with a really bad case of sunburn.

"Oh, that is nice," said the guard appreciatively. "And the boots are a nice touch. Ok, I guess you can go through. But I'm not sure about him-" and here she looked at Jojo.

"Ah," said Guybrush. "He's my, uh, chaperone." Jojo looked at Guybrush with wide eyes.

"Chaperone," said the guard.

"Yes," said Guybrush. "It's just not safe leaving me alone at a party." He passed the guard, pushed up the bar, and soon he and Jojo were crossing the spit to Governor Marley's mansion.

Guybrush was carrying his old clothes on his arm. These would have to be ditched before he reached the mansion. So it was that when they finally made it to solid land, Guybrush found a hiding place for his clothes, not too far from the main path. Satisfied, Guybrush and Jojo walked on.

The path wound up, down and around. Every now and then, the way was marked with a lamppost. Soon they came to a small stream, crossed by the fallen arch of a massive trunk. Guybrush and Jojo crossed, and finally saw the mansion.

There was no seaview this time, like at Phatt. Neither was there particularly outstanding architecture, or finely manicured gardens. What the Booty Island mansion had in its favour was its sheer size. As far as Guybrush could see, the land around was tilled lawn, carefully tended rainforest, or even orchid fields. In the middle of this sat the mansion, a massive three storey conglomerate of turrets, staircases, chimneys, arches and balustrades.

There was a large brown dog napping by the front door, and a gardener working away with a rake nearby. It all looked rather sleepy, and Guybrush couldn't as yet hear any party sounds.

He and Jojo walked slowly along the front path, with its cobbles brushed clean. Around them birds chirped from the trees, and a warm breeze blew from the east.

They reached the front door. Guybrush took a deep breath, and opened it.

The music blasted out, mingled with innumerable voices and exclamations. With it came the smells, warm and inviting, of fried fish and grog. And pouring on top of this sensory overload came the sights, of a million people in costumes and masks unlimited in their variety and imagination.

Well, maybe not a million, Guybrush amended. But certainly a lot. What looked like Governor Marley's living room was nearly packed full of revellers, all congregated in groups and having merry conversation.

Guybrush and Jojo walked in slowly. No one had noticed their presence. Guybrush looked around for somebody he recognised, but no luck. In these costumes, he'd probably even miss Elaine.

Jojo had vanished into the crowd. Guybrush came to a table, where two short pirates were toasting everything in sight. The skeleton of a fish on a silver platter told Guybrush he was too late for the hors d'oeuvres.

"To Elaine Marley!" toasted a pirate in green goggles, red beard and suspenders.

"To Elaine!" responded the pirate nearby, who was even shorter and wearing a saucepan on his head. They drank.

"To this great party!"

"To the party!" More drinking. Guybrush tried to make conversation, but these pirates weren't interested.

"And let's have one for the Jolly Roger!"

"Yeah! For Roger!"

"To Santa Claus!"

"Santa!"

"To the love of a good parrot!"

"Aye! A pirate's best friend!"

"To that captain we strung up three years ago!"

"Swab this! That's what I say to him!"

Guybrush left these merry pirates to their business, and walked over to the window, where a skeleton was talking to a moose.

"I'm going to sweat off twenty pounds in this stupid costume," the moose moaned. It smelt like he was well on the way, thought Guybrush.

"No kidding," agreed the skeleton. "I forgot to put airholes in mine."

"Why do we put up with this stuff?"

"I dunno." The skeleton was philosophical. "I guess to prove we're a couple of fun-loving guys?" Guybrush had just noticed that these two conversationalists also had glasses of grog in their hand. In fact, everyone seemed to have a glass of grog. Guybrush wished he had a glass of grog.

"You check out the spitting contest?" asked the moose.

"Yeah. Got second place."

"Not bad!" congratulated the moose.

"Yeah, well, you know," said the skeleton sheepishly. "The wind was with me." Guybrush made a mental note that, if he ever tried the spitting competition again, to wait for a friendly gust of air.

"Some party, eh?" asked Guybrush.

"Yep," said the skeleton. "Try the fish?" he continued, not talking to Guybrush but to the moose.

"Yeah. Almost choked on a bone. Hey, hear the one about the Polar Bear with the harelip?"

"Yeah. Last week."

"Yeah, well, you know," said the moose. This indeed was one of the problems of living on an island on permanent Mardi Gras - everyone knew all the jokes. Sometimes, it made things difficult.

"Yeah."

"How's work?" asked the moose.

The skeleton made so-so motions with his hand. "Same old, same old."

"Like the music?"

"It's alright," conceded the skeleton, taking a sip of grog.

"Where'd you get the costume?"

"Wore it last year, of course. Can I get you a refill."

"Nyah. I'm fine."

Guybrush tried again to wedge himself into the conversation, but was ignored. "Pretty good turn out," said the skeleton.

"Yep."

"Heard any new jokes?"

The moose shook his overlarge head. "Not in months." He looked at the dining table. "Gotta get the recipe for that fish."

"Oh, yeah."

Guybrush walked away, brushing his way through the crowd until he managed to find a spare spot by the mantelpiece. Here, another two pirates were conversing. One was an otherwise short man wearing a huge cannibal mask, possibly two feet in diameter. Standing near him was a woman in a purple shirt and blue dress. Her only concession to costume requirements was a small white face mask, a la Phantom of the Opera. Guybrush wasn't sure, but he thought this could be Elaine.

"Nice mask," the cannibal was saying.

"Thanks," agreed the woman. The sound of her voice wasn't a lot like Elaine's, but Guybrush kept on listening just in case.

"More subtle than most."

"Yes, thanks," said the woman.

"Not your usual, larger-than-life, Mardi Gras head," continued the cannibal.

"Nope," agreed the woman, a little curtly.

"Probably saved a lot on materials, huh?" said the cannibal.

"I'm sure I don't know," said the woman haughtily.

The cannibal didn't notice her tone. "Not that paper mache is very expensive," he conceded.

"Do you mean, 'Papier Mâché?'" asked the woman.

"Yeah, whatever."

"No, I don't imagine that it's very expensive at all," said the woman in a tone that suggested that if it was in any way expensive, no-one around here would be wearing it.

"Still, you must have saved a bundle," said the cannibal.

This last comment was too much for the woman. "I never scrimp when it comes to the holidays," she said severely.

The cannibal finally realised he'd gone too far. "Well, I didn't mean you were cheap-"

"Parties and balls are my life," said the woman. She sounded upset.

"I just meant-"

"Making gay is the only purpose I can find in my wretched, well-to-do life."

"I'm sure it must be hard-"

"But you say my costume looks cheap," said the woman in hurt tones.

"No, no. It looks great!" said the cannibal enthusiastically.

"That's not what you said before."

"I just said it looked... subtle."

"Can't we just drop the subject?" asked the woman.

"Yeah. OK. Fine." The cannibal and the woman took long sips of grog.

Guybrush had come to the final conclusion that this wasn't Elaine. As he left them and walked through the crowd again, he couldn't hear her anywhere. Maybe she wasn't even here, perhaps she was somewhere else in the mansion.

There were only two ways out of this room. There was the front door, which wouldn't be of much use. And there was a staircase, leading up to the first floor landing.

Unfortunately for Guybrush, the foot of the staircase was blocked. Two pirates with huge masks stood there. One of them had the biggest mask Guybrush had yet seen, a gigantic clown's head four feet wide. It wobbled as he spoke. He also had a green and gold speckled tie and purple pants, and was not about to win any fashion awards. His partner was more tough looking, due to the mean ugly pig's head he was wearing and the leather coat he wore with it.

They didn't actually block the staircase proper, no this task was taken up by two revellers, one male, one female, who were getting fully into the Mardi Gras spirit.

"OK, party's over, time to go home," said Guybrush to the couple. They paid him no attention. "Can I see both your ID's, please? Haven't you ever heard of mono? Can I just squeeze by? Step aside, please. Get a room."

No response. As far as Guybrush knew, they couldn't even hear him.

Nearby, the clown sounded similarly dissatisfied with proceedings. "So, where are all the chicks?" he asked.

"Yeah, I thought there'd be some here," agreed the pig.

"Then again, in these costumes, who can tell?"

"That's true. There might be some babes here."

"But what can we do about it?" asked the clown.

"Well... we just ask," said the pig slowly.

The clown didn't like this idea much. "Ask? What are you, nuts?"

"Yeah. I guess you're right," said the pig.

The clown sighed.

"Mardi Gras sure is tough on us swingers," agreed the pig.

"I'll drink to that," said the clown. He did.

Guybrush looked around the room. He wasn't looking for women, just one woman. And she wasn't here.

But at that moment something completely unexpected happened.

Guybrush was looking at the mantelpiece, near the cannibal. There was a large frame above the mantelpiece. And, nestled in one corner of the frame, was what looked like a piece from a map.

For a moment, Guybrush was completely motionless. Then he dived forward, forcing his way through the throng. It couldn't be, could it? She wouldn't leave it lying around in plain view, would she?

But as Guybrush finally emerged on the other side of the crowd, he saw that yes, this was part of the map to Big Whoop. Quickly Guybrush reached up and took the scrap of parchment, slipping it into his dress. "All right! I got the first map piece!" he said, as loudly as he dared.

Wasting no more time, Guybrush pushed back to the front door and walked into the afternoon sun.

As he did so, he remembered Jojo. But before he could return to the party and retrieve him, Guybrush noticed the dog by the door was staring at him funny. Its small, black nose was twitching suspiciously.

"What's the matter, boy?" asked Guybrush. "Smell something?"

The dog suddenly raised its head and started barking furiously. The noise alerted the gardener, who came over to investigate.

"Uh... nice doggie..." said Guybrush.

The gardener, looking slightly Asian in his straw hat, reached his hand down to the dog. "What's the matter, Guybrush?" he asked.

So many things were the matter. LeChuck was after him and he was on the lam. This crazy mutt was trying to kill him. And somehow this gardener, whom he'd never seen before, knew his name. But Guybrush was an optimist. "Nothing a big hug wouldn't cure," he suggested to the gardener.

The gardener looked strangely at Guybrush. "I was talking to the dog. Who are you?"

Guybrush was flummoxed. "She named her dog Guybrush?"

"Yeah, I don't get it either," said the similarly mystified gardener. "It's not much of a name if you ask me. She says its because he's dumb and helpless and keeps getting in the way. But he sure can sniff out the Governor's possessions. Maybe you should empty your pockets."

"Try and catch me, old man!" challenged Guybrush. He turned and started running.

The gardener threw his rake. It landed in the grass in front of Guybrush, at exactly the right place for Guybrush to step right on it, smacking his face with the handle. For a moment Guybrush stood upright, frozen still, then he fell backward onto the soil.

"Oh, look out for that rake," called out the gardener, redundantly.

Governor Marley's Mardi Gras Fish Fry was contained to the bottom floor of the mansion. Here, on the first floor, there was relative quiet.

Elaine Marley could just hear faint strains of music as she stood in one of her sitting rooms, looking moodily out the western window. She'd left the revellers hours ago.

The gardener came in from the first floor passageway, crossing the purple rug laid smoothly on the wooden floor. "Governor, I caught one of your party guests making off with your grandfather's map," he said.

Elaine turned, and took the piece proffered by the gardener. She secreted it in her right jacket pocket. "Another would-be treasure hunter, eh?" she said. "Bring him in."

The gardener returned to the passageway. "In here, Guybrush!" he called.

Elaine whirled sharply at the name. "Guybrush? Guybrush Threepwood?!"

In his purple dress, Guybrush appeared at the doorway. "The one and only, sugarbear!" he cried to the one and only love of his life.

Elaine Marley turned in disgust. "Of all the parties in all the houses in all the islands of the Caribbean - he had to crash mine!"

"It's destiny, honeycakes!" said Guybrush.

"Don't talk to me," said Elaine, flatly. She moved away.

Guybrush followed her. "Snugglepuss!"

"Get lost."

"Punkydoodle!"

"I'm warning you..."

"Pooper-dooper!"

The gardener, whose name was Filbert, was getting increasingly uncomfortable with the direction this conversation was going in. He sensed that maybe Governor Marley wanted to be left alone. "Maybe I should go rake the back forty," he said, walking away down the passageway.

Leaving Guybrush and Elaine, alone. "Look at us, together again," said Guybrush, trying to sum up the mood. "Boy. We haven't been like this, since, well..." He faltered, not quite sure how to sum up the eventual end of their relationship.

Elaine did. "Since I quit my job and moved away without leaving a forwarding address?" she suggested, finally turning to look at Guybrush.

"Was that what happened? Gee, I thought..."

Elaine sighed. "Guybrush! Can't you take a hint? We were a mistake! I thought we had an agreement."

Guybrush looked at Elaine, long and hard. She stood before him, wearing perhaps the same clothes she'd worn that night long ago on Melee, when their paths had first crossed. Her auburn hair was as marvellously unkempt now as then, and her use of purple as bold as before. She looked as young and intense as she always had. But yes, something had changed. Maybe it was her voice, slightly harsher and less melodic. Maybe it was this new house, not a patch on her old dwelling. But maybe it was simply the fact that, having now known Elaine for months, Guybrush could no longer look at her through rose-coloured eyes. Maybe, for them, there would be no more 'together again'."

Guybrush didn't know what to say. It would be simply untactful to ask about the map now. And, if as he was now beginning to suspect, they were over as a couple, what more did they have to talk about?

"I like what you've done with your hair," he said finally.

Elaine didn't smile. "Same old Guybrush."

Her coolness seemed to ignite Guybrush. Fair enough, she'd initiated the breakup. But Guybrush didn't think this gave her the right to treat him this way. Did he mean nothing to her?

Guybrush decided he might reciprocate. "Still ignoring fashion, eh? Good for you."

"So much for a pleasant attitude," said Elaine.

"I should warn you - I cancelled the boat insurance," said Guybrush.

"Yeah, right."

It was ending, all right, not with a bang but with a whimper. They were over. "Gosh you're cute when you're pretending to be mad," said Guybrush. "Come on - let me buy you a grog."

"Maybe you'd better leave," suggested Elaine.

"Is that a new blouse?" asked Guybrush.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah."

Guybrush pointed to the door. "That's some party downstairs," he said.

"Give me a break," said Elaine.

"Do you have my red sweater?" asked Guybrush. "I can't find it anywhere."

"Spare me."

"Great to see you again. Is there any food in this dump?"

Elaine drew in breath sharply. "Oooh - it's going to be that way, is it?"

It suddenly occurred to Guybrush that maybe, even if Elaine no longer cared for him, he shouldn't just abandon her. After all, he still needed a lot of help. "I've decided to let you come back to me," he said, switching gear quickly.

Elaine was not fooled. "This is beneath even you, Guybrush.

Guybrush continued on regardless. "LeChuck's alive, and I need your help to fight him," he said, trying to explain his sudden appearance here, now.

"Go tell it to your momma," said Elaine.

He hadn't been expecting that. For a moment the insult stung, but it was quickly suppressed. They were over. He didn't care any more. Nobody cared any more.

Guybrush winked at her. "So tell me... you and the gardener? Eh?"

"I see you're as charming as ever," said Elaine icily.

"Real scorcher outside, eh?" said Guybrush. "And still not afraid to use a lot of perfume, I see."

"Now that wasn't very pleasant," said Elaine in a voice that suggested she wouldn't tolerate him for much longer.

"Don't you like my new beard?" he asked.

"Give it up, Brush," said Elaine dismissively.

"Have you been forwarding all my mail?"

"You know, I do have work to do," said Elaine.

"I'm not sure, but don't you owe me some money?" mused Guybrush.

"OK, you're really pushing it now, buddy," said Elaine.

"Your lonely nights are over, baby," announced Guybrush. "I have returned."

"Sorry, Threep. I don't play those games anymore."

"You're the Governor of my heart, baby," continued Guybrush. He looked around. "You know, I kind of liked your old house better."

"Uh-huh."

Guybrush had given up any pretence of conversation - now he was just paying her out. "Where your sister - the really good looking one?" he inquired.

"I can't believe I actually thought I missed you," said Elaine.

Guybrush was too far into his stride to pay attention to that last sentence. "Why don't you slip into something more comfortable?" he asked, trying to control the leer.

"I'm warning you - you're getting on my nerves."

"Is it my imagination," he continued, "or have you gained weight?"

"And here I thought you were becoming a decent guy," said Elaine. She looked to be barely controlling her anger - some emotion, anyway.

"What I could really use now is a grade-A footrub," sighed Guybrush.

"Can't you take a hint?"

"Those other women meant nothing to me!" exclaimed Guybrush.

"Guybrush - you're really treading on thin ice here. Get out."

"So, who's the father?"

Something in Elaine snapped. "That's it!" she shouted. "I've had enough! Get your mangy hide outta my house!" She pointed at the door behind Guybrush, her face red and furious.

Guybrush took the hint, walking back out the door and away down the passage. There would never be a return.

The passage led past several doors, before coming to the head of the stairs leading back down to the party. At these stairs Guybrush paused.

He'd gotten a fair few insults off in the last few minutes, but he didn't feel well. Something Elaine had said, somewhere around the middle, was still echoing in his mind.

"I can't believe I actually thought I missed you," she had said. Guybrush had ignored it at the time, but he could no longer. The implications were just starting to drive home for him.

Elaine had missed him.

In the lonely months following their separation, Guybrush had assumed his pain was unique. Elaine was the social king, Governor no less, with hundreds of pirates willing to take on the role of boyfriend. Guybrush was a nobody, a once-was pirate who, despite having killed LeChuck, found life had been made no easier, perhaps even harder.

He had never expected to hear Elaine missed him.

And now other details of their conversation, ignored at the time, were bubbling up. That raw expression on her face - Guybrush had assumed it was anger. But anger didn't make your eyes red and watery.

"Oh, Elaine!" moaned Guybrush. Yes, he missed her too. He knew that now. What a stupid fool he had been!

He could only pray there was still time.

Elaine turned as he re-entered the room. "Maybe I wasn't clear enough the first time," she said.

Guybrush, looking into her eyes, confirmed his hunch. But how could he ever return to her good books?

"You were right," he said slowly, choosing his words carefully. "I was a buffoon. And a weenie."

"I guess that's supposed to make up for everything?" said Elaine sceptically.

"I realise now what a fool I've been," he said, in a voice humble and pleading.

"Pathetic," said Elaine. But her face told a different story.

"Life without you is an endless nightmare."

"Do you really expect me to fall for that?" asked Elaine.

Guybrush looked at her. "Elaine, save me from this whirlpool of misery," he said simply.

"If I can't be with you, I don't want to live," he continued.

"You're getting warmer," said Elaine. She sounded like she was too.

"Won't you at least give me a second chance?"

"Well, that's not the most stupid thing you've ever said," said Elaine.

"My life's been meaningless without you."

"That's a little better," said Elaine, obviously glad she was no longer being insulted left right and centre.

"Elaine, take me back," implored Guybrush. "I can't live without you."

"Oh, Guybrush," sighed Elaine. For a moment she turned her head, then she looked back at him, straight in the eye. "I know I shouldn't have anything to do with you, but there's something about your weakness and ineptitude that I find infectious." She moved closer to him.

"Does that mean you're going to let me have the map?" blurted Guybrush in more normal tones, truly a Freudian slip of immense proportions.

Elaine's jaw dropped. "The map! Is that what this is all about? I should have known better!" She strode angrily over to the window, and threw it open. The glass panes rattled. "If the map's all you care about..." She reached in her pocket, withdrew the scrap of parchment, and threw it as far as she could.

She turned one last time to Guybrush. "You better go out and get it," she said. Her tone was not angry, or regretful, or hectic. Neither was her expression - what might once have been rage, or sorrow, was there no longer. Instead, her face was completely unreadable. There were depths there Guybrush didn't want to speculate on, for fear of losing himself in the black gulfs.

Looking at her face, all Guybrush knew was that he had burned his bridges. Irrevocably.

He started to say something, then stopped. He could say nothing without compounding his error. Instead, he simply looked back at her, and left.

As he climbed down the stairs to the party, Guybrush began to feel better. And suddenly he turned and ran back to the sitting room. But it was too late - Elaine was gone. He really must have made her mad this time.

Guybrush looked around the sitting room. On the left, a coat rack and a changing screen. A green coat was hanging here, Guybrush guessing it was Elaine's - she had shoulder pads in everything. Beside the screen was a full length mirror. Guybrush looked at himself for a moment. Zonker Harris in a dress? The thought cheered him up a bit.

Elsewhere in the sitting room, a stone bust was prominently displayed. Guybrush had heard some guys talking about Elaine's bust, and this must be it. It wasn't nearly as impressive as they made out. Also occupying prime position on a dressing table was a large wooden chest. Guybrush averted his eyes - it was impolite to stare at a woman's chest, he had heard.

There was a divan by the window which Elaine had so emphatically threw open. A divan is half bed, half couch, and this particular one looked extremely comfortable, with its sheets and pillows. Hanging above the divan was an oar. It seemed a little out of place, so Guybrush looked closer.

"Central Caribbean School For Governors - Crew '67," it was marked. Evidently a memento of her schooling days. Guybrush reached up to take it from the wall. The wood was well polished, and it felt good and hefty in his hand. With an oar like this, how could she lose?

Still holding onto the oar, Guybrush looked out the window. He could see the map fluttering about in the front yard. It was time to get down there before anything else complicated affairs.

Guybrush looked at the oar. He looked at the place on the wall where the oar would normally go. His eyes switched back and forth a few times. "Well, maybe she won't miss this old thing," he finally decided. Guybrush felt this item would come in very handy over the next few days. It was probably the closest thing he had to a weapon, for instance.

Guybrush, holding the oar close to his body, walked briskly down the stairs trying to look nonchalant. He saw Jojo perched on the rim of the punch bowl and gave a shrill whistle.

Jojo's head jerked up. He chittered, clapped his hands, and bounded over to the doorway, while Guybrush pushed his way through the crowd. They rejoined at the threshold, and walked out into the afternoon sun.

The dog, still sleeping patiently by the door, opened a suspicious eye as Guybrush passed. He sniffed, and started barking loudly. Jojo drew back, hissing.

Guybrush stood his ground. "Ha!" he said. "Bark all you want! Filbert's out raking the back forty."

The dog considered these words. He stopped barking and put his head back down on the ground.

"Good dog," said Guybrush. He walked past and into the front yard. Several feet away, the map was fluttering on the ground. Guybrush went to pick it up. But as he did so, the wind began to pick up alarmingly. The map piece looked like it was about to blow away.

Guybrush got within a foot of the piece, enough to reach down and grab it, when a zephyr of wind sent it out of reach again. "What the..." said Guybrush. He followed the map piece, but it kept moving. "Hey..." Now Guybrush could feel the breeze ruffling his dress - it was warm, humid, and slightly scented - it held the promise of thunderstorms.

"Dang wind," said Guybrush, now walking faster to keep up with the map piece. He almost got it, but fresh breezes came. "Come back here! Help me out here, Jojo!"

Jojo bounded forward, running across the grass with a loping four-limbed gait, but as he drew near, suddenly the wind gusted. The map rose into the air. Higher and higher it rose, rising on newly created thermals. And as it rose, it gained velocity, rolling further and further from the mansion.

Jojo screeched, and immediately climbed up the tallest of the nearest trees. He followed the path of the map with eagle eyes, a hand shielding them from the sun. Back on the ground, Guybrush could do nothing but sigh with frustration as the map vanished to the southeast. "Well, shoot," he said.

Jojo remained in the tree for several minutes, then scurried back down the branches. On the ground, he managed to convey to Guybrush via a series of complicated hand gestures that the map piece had come to earth near the southern tip of the island. Guybrush nodded, and for a moment was motionless as he thought.

He clicked his fingers. Governor Marley's Mardi Gras Fish Fry - he could get a huge fish here and win his bet with the fisherboy. Sure, it might not have much application in solving his current problem, but Guybrush didn't think he'd ever be back, and he really could not wait to see the expression on the brat's face.

Before Guybrush returned to the mansion, however, he hid in a grove of trees and changed out of his stupid costume. This might require a bit of running, and Guybrush wanted his legs to be as free as possible.

Guybrush left the dress on the ground, told Jojo to wait by it, and walked back to the mansion.

Its windows, reflecting the harsh sun, seemed to glare at him. Guybrush glared back, his hands at the ready. He shuffled closer.

The mansion was circled by a path. Rather than taking the front door in, Guybrush took this path, heading left. It passed by the left side of the house, running under overhanging trees and ferns, and before too long Guybrush was at the back of the house.

This was the less impressive side of the mansion. It had the stock standard empty wooden boxes, and a beat up garbage bin by the back door. Some of the stone work was clearly rushed here, and there were weeds taking root in the cracks.

Guybrush was more interested in the bin, which had several fish skeletons in it. Above the bin was a sign: "Dear Booty Island Waste Disposal Service: Ssshhh! Please don't bang garbage cans. Governor sleeping upstairs."

If this bin had fish skeletons in it, then maybe the back door led into the kitchen. And if Guybrush could find his way into the kitchen, maybe he could also finagle a fish out of there. It was worth a shot.

Guybrush pulled the door. It scraped stubbornly against the stone floor, and Guybrush pulled harder. Finally, there was a crack large enough to fit through.

Guybrush peered around the door. This was, as he had thought, the kitchen. It was an industrial strength kitchen, moreover. A huge fire blazed away in a brick oven, almost a kiln, and Guybrush could feel the radiant heat from here. Huge sacks of flour and sugar lined the walls, along with several disquieting blood stains. A huge barrel in the corner was lined under a water pump, and full to the brim with water.

Along with the heat, the smell immediately hit Guybrush. A smell of butter, oil, and frying fish. It smelt good. And in the centre of the kitchen, standing on a large wooden bench, was a metal bucket full of fish.

Unfortunately, as he saw the fish, he also sa