Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4

The Secret of Monkey Island

Deep in the heart of the Caribbean, shrouded by tropical mists, sat Melee Island™.

It was a small, if dense, island. Though the interior was by turns mountainous and level, none of the peaks came close in height to the blunt, rocky spire which towered above the main village. On its level, truncated peak, an old man stood near a blazing fire, watching the sea. Behind him stood a small figure in a white shirt, panting slightly, his brown ponytail dirty with sweat. The climb to the top had been a bit wearing. Presently he got his breath back and looked around. The view from here was magnificent, or at least might have been if there was anything to see apart from sea, lit from above by a bright full moon. A set of steps on the far side led downward to the main village. But it was the old man who was most of interest to the young figure, who stepped over to the fire. "Hi!" he said brightly. "My name's Guybrush Threepwood, and I want to be a pirate!"

The old man flinched and turned as he spoke. "Yikes!" he exclaimed. "Don't sneak up on me like that!" He quivered a little in the breeze.

Guybrush coughed politely - the lookout was giving him a very good view of his left cheekbone, but that didn't alter the fact that he was still looking at a point ninety degrees distant from where he should be. "I'm over this way," he added helpfully.

The lookout turned a little more. "Ah! Well then, Thriftweed-"

"Threepwood," corrected Guybrush. "Guybrush Threepwood."

The lookout adjusted his lenses a little, but it didn't make what he was looking at , or at least peering at, any better. Before him stood a short youth with a ponytail, black pants and a white tucked shirt, looking, as far as the lookout could tell, eager and energetic. "I see," said the guide. "So, you want to be a pirate, eh? You look more like a flooring inspector. But if you're serious about pirating, go talk to the pirate leaders. You'll find them in the Scumm Bar."

"Gosh, thanks!" exclaimed Guybrush. "I'll do that. Bye, now. I'm off to seek my fortune!"

"Good luck," said the lookout, in a slightly uncharitable tone. Guybrush waved and trotted over to the steps leading down to the village. At the top step he paused. "Um..." He turned back to the lookout, who was back to his daily business. "Where did you say those pirate leaders were?"

"The SCUMM BAR," said the lookout, not moving.

"Right. Thanks." Guybrush thought about saying something else, thought better, and began his way down the winding staircase.

PART 1: THE THREE TRIALS

It was a long, surprisingly exhausting climb down before Guybrush found himself walking between the first houses. Part of the exhaustion stemmed from the concentration it took to walk down a stone staircase five feet wide, steep, winding, and with sheer drops to either side. Guybrush wiped some sweat from his brow, but was still in good spirits. After all, he was about to talk to the Pirate Leaders. The future seemed filled with possibilities.

The path beneath his feet had widened, and now Guybrush found himself wandering amongst the buildings of the village, lit from within by yellow candelabra light. A poster was tacked to the wall of one particularly large sea shanty, which Guybrush stopped to read. "Re-elect Governor Marley. 'When there's only one candidate, there's only one choice.'" A picture of Governor Marley was provided - she had a thick mane of red hair and looked about thirty. Guybrush liked the poster, he liked the slogan, but most of all he seemed to like the Governor. "With a face like that, how could she lose?" he asked, walking forward again. Now his shoes were clacking over the town pier. The sea beneath was shallow, and placid. Looking forward, Guybrush could see a large double story building, and hear faint shouts. He grinned.

Upon reaching the structure, he found it to be the Scumm Bar. There was a small brown door, which Guybrush opened. Inside was a scene of merriment the likes of which he'd only dreamed about.

The tables were jammed together, and jammed full. The air was at least 80 percent smoke. One pirate was swinging happily on the chandelier a couple of metres above, singing the song about Merlin the Happy Pig. Every now and then someone would thump their fist on the table, and someone else would say "Ar!" In the corners, pirates with eyepatches and skull tattoos were passed out or passing out.

No one had yet remarked on Guybrush's entrance. He looked around for someone to talk to. There were a couple lying on the floor by the door, but they were sleeping, and Guybrush didn't think it wise to wake a sleeping pirate. Eventually, Guybrush spotted a large pirate in a red overcoat, who didn't seem to be talking to or yelling at anyone in particular. Guybrush made his way over and sat down. The pirate raised his eyebrows a little at his entrance, but made no threatening moves. Guybrush felt his spirits rise further.

"Ahoy there, stranger," greeted the pirate in a deep, gruff voice. "New in town?"

Guybrush struggled for something to say. For one thing, his attention was held by the immense, dark beard the pirate had cultivated. That, and the triangular black hat with the yellow band that he wore. "My name's Guybrush Threepwood," said Guybrush. "I'm new in town."

"Guybrush Threepwood?" exclaimed the pirate incredulously. "Ha ha ha!! That's the stupidest name I've ever heard!" He beamed at Guybrush. There was the sudden soft, yet unmistakable, sound of someone vomiting quietly in a corner.

"I don't know ... I kind of like 'Guybrush,'" said Guybrush. "What's your name?"

"My name is Mancomb Seepgood," said the pirate proudly. "So what brings you to Melee Island™ anyway?" He quaffed the remaining contents of his mug.

"I want to be a pirate!" said Guybrush enthusiastically.

"Oh really?" said Mancomb. "You should go talk to the important looking pirates in the next room. They're pretty much in charge around here. They can tell you where to go and what to do."

"Thanks," said Guybrush. "Do you know where I could find the Governor?" Behind them, a large cheer went up - a winner had been found for the quaffing competition.

"Governor Marley? Her mansion is on the other side of town. But pirates aren't as welcome around her place as they used to be."

"Why not?" asked Guybrush, curious. "I'm welcome wherever I go."

Mancomb leaned forward, conspiratorial. "Well, the last time she had a pirate over for dinner, he fell in love with her." Guybrush nodded. "It's made things rather uncomfortable for everybody."

"How's that?"

"Well, there's a whole big story about what happened next. But I don't believe a word of it. Estevan there over at the other table might tell you about it. Yeah, just there. You can't miss him. He takes the whole thing seriously." Mancomb leered. "Very seriously."

"Who was the pirate?" asked Guybrush.

"It was none other than the fearsome pirate LeChuck," said Mancomb. "And it looks like my grog's going flat, so you'll have to excuse me, friend. Nice talking to you. Have fun on Melee Island™."

"Goodbye," said Guybrush, and stood up. He looked around the pub and saw behind a faded and stained pair of red curtains a dimmer room. That must be where the important pirates were.

Sitting at a table in front of the curtains was a pirate in a dark black overcoat, staring into the middle distance and looking moody. Guybrush guessed this was Estevan. He walked over, ducked a couple of inaccurate darts, and sat down at a respectful distance. The pirate looked up, annoyed.

"What are you looking at me for?" he exclaimed.

Guybrush swallowed, his tongue suddenly tied. It wasn't so much the fearsome, Western outlaw look of the man which had floored him, but a vertical scar six inches long which ran through his right eye. Or what would have been his right eye, had his right eye not been made of glass.

"I'd like to introduce myself," said Guybrush slowly. "My name's Guybrush."

"Yeah, so what?"

"Can you tell me the story about this LeChuck guy?"

Estevan's eyes widened, and his jaw dropped. "LeChuck?! He's the guy that went to the Governor's for dinner and never wanted to leave. He fell for her in a big way, but she told him to drop dead.

"So he did. Then things really got ugly."

Guybrush didn't like the sound of this LeChuck guy. "How did things get ugly?"

"He tried to impress the Governor by sailing off to find the Secret of Monkey Island™. But a mysterious storm came up and sank his ship, leaving no survivors. We thought that was the end of the fearsome pirate LeChuck. We were wrong." He took a deep chug of grog.

Monkey Island™ ... the name rang faint bells in Guybrush's mind. A mysterious, far off, deserted island, haunted by ... something he didn't remember. "What is the Secret of Monkey Island™?" he asked Estevan.

"Only LeChuck knows," said Estevan in a low voice. "He still sails the waters between here and Monkey Island™. His ghostly ship is an unholy terror upon the sea." He looked around at his drunken companions derisively. "That's why we're all in here and not out pirating."

Guybrush followed his gaze. He didn't understand Estevan - the pirates seemed to be having a pretty good time. "Where can I get a drink?" he asked.

"A drink?" Estevan considered. "You could wait for the cook to notice you, but that could take all day. Just find a mug and sneak into the kitchen. That's what we all do."

"What happened to your eye?" asked Guybrush innocently.

"Well, I was putting in my contact lenses when - hey, wait a second! That's none of your business!"

"Sorry to bother you," said Guybrush.

"Right," nodded Estevan. Guybrush looked around for a mug, but unfortunately they all seemed to be occupied by hands. He walked past Estevan and pulled the curtain back. A dog was sitting next to the curtain, with a bone in its mouth. It looked at him with a gaze which suggested he was smarter than Guybrush was.

The room behind was smaller, but much less crowded. Here there was just the single table, and a fireplace in the corner. Occupying the table were three loud, well dressed, important looking pirates who were drinking a steady supply of grog. Guybrush wandered over.

The middle pirate, a short rotund fellow with a beard and a green coat, stopped him with a fierce glance. "What be ye wantin', boy?" he bellowed, his head shaking with either some kind of muscular stutter or the advanced stages of alcoholism.

"I want to be a pirate," said Guybrush firmly.

The three pirates looked at him. The left pirate, a coarse, dirty man with a sodding big beard, looked sceptical. "So what?" he asked, his dreadlocked beard waving wildly in the smoky air.

"Why bother us?" asked the short pirate.

The pirate on the right, a taller, more manicured person who had the air of someone more highly cultivated, begged to differ. "Hey, don't forget we're short on help because of this whole LeChuck thing." His head whipped around as he spoke, like a trapped ferret.

For a group of pirates sitting down for some serious drinking, they were a surprisingly energetic bunch. Either that, or they had some kind of nervous tic virus.

"So?" said the dirty pirate.

"So," continued the aristocrat, his upheld mug shaking like a mosquito in a hurricane, "no pirates means no swag, and no swag means no grog, and we're getting dangerously low on grog."

"Hmmm," said the dirty pirate. He looked at Guybrush through a pair of jiggling eyes. "Do you have any special skills, boy?"

Guybrush puffed out his chest proudly. "I can hold my breath for ten minutes!"

"Well," said the dirty pirate slowly, "all right. But you don't become a pirate just by asking."

The aristocrat spoke up. "You'll have to go through-

"THE THREE TRIALS!!" roared the pirates in unison, heads shaking wildly. Copious quantities of grog spilled onto the table where, Guybrush observed, they started to smoke.

"Er - what three trials are these?" asked Guybrush. He hadn't been prepared for this."

"There are three trials every pirate must pass," intoned the middle pirate, his neck looking dangerously unstable.

"You must master the sword," said the dirty pirate.

"-and the art of thievery-"

"-and the quest," finished the aristocrat, whose collar was getting more soaked with every gulp of grog he tried to swallow.

"The what?" yelled the middle pirate.

"Treasure huntin', ya sea urchin!"

"Right," said the middle pirate. There was a pause as he got his head on an even keel. "You must prove yourself in each of these three areas: swordplay, thievery, and, er, treasure huntery; then return with proof that you've done it."

The dirty pirate fixed a gimlet stare on Guybrush. "And then you must return and drink grog with us!" he said emphatically.

"GROG!! GROG!! GROG!!" roared the pirates, thumping their mugs on the table. Some of it spilled on Guybrush. It felt strangely tingly.

"What's in that grog stuff anyway?" he asked, rubbing his skin.

"Grog," said the middle pirate," is a secret mixture which contains one or more of the following: kerosene, propylene glycol, artificial sweeteners, sulphuric acid, rum, acetone, red dye #2, scumm, axle grease, battery acid, and/or peperoni. As you can imagine, it's one of the most caustic, volatile substances known to man."

"The stuff eats right through these mugs," said the dirty pirate. "The cook is losing a fortune replacing them."

"HAR HAR HAR!!" roared the pirates, slapping each other on the back and thumping the table.

"You're a bunch of foul-smelling, grog-swilling pigs!" exclaimed Guybrush.

The dirty pirate looked at him pityingly. "To be a pirate ye must also be a foul-smelling grog-swilling pig."

Guybrush nodded. This seemed reasonable. He started to make for the exit, then realised he didn't know what to do. "Tell me more about mastering the sword," he said.

"First, get ye a sword," said the dirty pirate. "You must seek out and defeat the Sword Master. O'course, you'll be wanting to find someone to train you first. Someone in town can probably direct you."

"Ha!" shouted the aristocrat, his head wobbling furiously. "Imagine someone trying to take on the Sword Master without any training!"

"HAR HAR HAR!!" roared the pirates. Hair and dandruff flew into the air, disappearing into the smoke.

"Tell me about mastering the art of thievery," asked Guybrush breathlessly. Breathlessly because the smoke was getting still thicker. There must be something stuck in the chimney.

"We want you to procure a small item for us," said the middle pirate. "The Idol of Many Hands -"

"-in the Governor's mansion!" said the aristocrat.

The dirty pirate took a huge swig of grog. "The Governor," he gurgled, "keeps the Idol o' Many Hands in a display case in the mansion outside of town. You'll have to get past the guards, naturally."

"The tricky part will be getting past the dogs outside," nodded the aristocrat violently.

"They're a particularly vicious breed," agreed the dirty pirate. "You might be able to drug them or something."

"Tell me about treasure hunting!" gasped Guybrush. He really was getting short of air.

"Legend has it," said the aristocrat, "that there's a treasure buried here on the island."

"All you must do," said the middle pirate, "is find the Legendary Lost Treasure of Melee Island™ and bring it back here."

Guybrush waited for further instructions, which didn't come. "Should I have a map or something?" he prompted.

"Ye can hardly expect to find treasure without a map!" chided the dirty pirate.

The middle pirate leaned forward, a big cheesy grin on his face. "And don't forget - X marks the spot!"

"HAR HAR HAR!!" roared the pirates.

Alcohol blew into Guybrush's face. "I'll just be running along now," he said.

"Leave us to our grog," said the dirty pirate.

"Come back later and tell us how ye're doing."

Guybrush stepped back and made his way slowly to the far wall, where he paused and got some of his breath back. He looked down at his white shirt, or at least what had formerly been his white shirt. It was now a light brown smoke colour.

While he was crouched in the corner, the door to the kitchen opened a few feet away. The cook marched out and past the important pirates to the main pub room. Guybrush peered around, and saw a door leading to a small jetty outside. And the air here was clearer.

Guybrush slipped inside. Not only was the air cleaner, but also the floors and walls. You could even see the original paint, although the sickly blue colour wasn't really worth the effort. Guybrush looked around. In one corner, a large barrel with a skull painted on it was obviously the grog. Guybrush sighed - he'd forgotten his mug.

A large wooden table occupied the main wall, and occupying the large wooden table was a thick hunk of meat. Underneath the large wooden table were a number of shelves, boxes, and a sturdy metal pot. Next to the large wooden table, a stove burned merrily. On the stove, a thick black pot bubbled happily. The kitchen, as a whole, was rather a nice place, provided you liked red.

There was a door on the far side, which opened on a small jetty. Guybrush walked outside onto the wooden planks, and gulped in the night air. He noticed a red fish lying on the far end of the jetty, and a seagull plucking determinedly at it. An idea formed in his mind.

Guybrush kicked at the seagull, trying to scare it off. Instead, the seagull looked up and clacked its claws, succeeding in scaring him off. But Guybrush wasn't to be outdone. Noticing a faint wobble in the plank, he strode to the other end and jumped on it hard. The plank leapt up in the air. The seagull followed it, startled, and while its mind was still distracted Guybrush leapt under, picked up the fish, and ran inside. He looked at it. It was a herring.

Guybrush reached under the large wooden table, picked up the pot, put the fish in the pot, looked at the meat, thought, and put it in the pot. He picked up a lid and closed the pot. He smiled. With this, he could distract the guard dogs long enough to slip past and into the mansion.

Concealing the pot about his person Guybrush pushed back through the door, strode past the pirates, tiptoed past the general throng, and finally was out once more in the main street.

Meanwhile...
Deep beneath Monkey Island™, the ghost pirate LeChuck's ship lay anchored in a bed of lava, occupying subterranean caverns larger than any known to mortal man.

LeChuck stood to attention in the Captain's room, staring out the window into the seething red landscape. His beard waved in the nether winds. The walls, beams and floorboards around him had a strange, blue, ethereal quality - to make the point clearly, they were ghostlike.

The door behind him opened, and in walked a nervous ghost pirate with a wooden leg. He was light blue from head to toe, wore a green hat, and was draped in a chequered coat. Most people would be hard put to find his presence comfortable. But LeChuck, to his mind, was worse. Most ghost pirates were at least solid - but LeChuck was completely transparent: you could see right through his blue outline.

"Captain LeChuck ... sir ... I ..." he quavered. The heat wasn't helping affairs.

"Ah," breathed LeChuck, or, more precisely, didn't breathe. He stared out the window in satisfaction. "There's nothing like the hot winds of hell blowin' in your face."

"No sir," agreed the ghost pirate hurriedly. "Nothin' like it. Ah...sir...I..."

LeChuck turned to him and strode into the centre of the room. "It's days like this that make you glad to be dead."

"Oh yes sir ... glad to be dead..."

"Ye are glad to be dead, right?" asked LeChuck in an utterly humourless way.

"Oh yes sir," said the ghost pirate quickly and as emphatically as possible. He let just a little bitterness into his voice. "I feel so glad that you happened to capture my ship, then murdered me and everyone on board. Yes sir, lucky."

"Glad to hear it," said LeChuck, who was impervious to irony. "Now what was it you disturbed me for?"

"Ah...yes sir ... well, you see, we might have a problem on Melee Island™".

"PROBLEM??" roared LeChuck angrily. The ghost pirate's heart leapt into his mouth. Or, more precisely, failed to do so. That was one of the negatives about being a ghost - you had to go with a whole new set of axioms. "What possible problem could there be?" continued LeChuck. "I've got those sissy pirates so scared of the sea they're afraid to take a bath!"

The ghost pirate swallowed, at least mentally. "Well, there seems to be a new pirate in town. Actually, he's a pirate wannabe. Young. Inexperienced. Probably nothin' to worry 'bout. Don't know why I bothered you with it. I'll have him taken care of myself." He turned to leave.

"Wait!" said LeChuck. "I'll handle this personally. My plans are too important to be messed up by amateurs."

"Yes sir," said the ghost pirate politely, and left as quickly as possible. LeChuck turned to face the raging maelstrom once more, his face set.

Guybrush looked around, getting a feel for the air. The night was still young. He took a left, further into the town centre and away from the shore. The path wound past several houses, ran through a brief tunnel, then emerged into a busy thoroughfare. A number of pirates were milling about, but several seemed to have found their place for the night.

Guybrush came to a short balding man who was standing on the street corner, looking from left to right in a furtive manner. He had a long black overcoat and a parrot on his shoulder. The man saw Guybrush. "Excuse me, do you have a cousin named Sven?" he asked.

Eh? thought Guybrush. "No, but I once had a barber named Dominique," he answered.

"Close enough," said the man. "Let's talk business." He pulled open his overcoat revealing, apart from a large potbelly, a number of parchments taped to the inside of the coat. "You want to buy a map to the Legendary Lost Treasure of Melee Island™? Only one in existence." He removed a piece of paper from his coat and held it to Guybrush's face. "Rare. Very rare. Only one hundred pieces of eight."

Guybrush's heart sank. He didn't even have one piece of eight. "No thanks, I don't have any money."

The man shook his head in irritation. "Well then, buzz off kid, it's bad for business." Guybrush walked off, feeling slightly depressed.

On the other side of the road, three pirates were lounging around. One was sitting on a keg and rocking back and forth. The other two stood, making the height differential between them fairly plain. In front of the rocking pirate, was a small pink rat. Guybrush looked at it.

The rocking pirate didn't take this attention too well. "Hey, don't mess with my rat!" he exclaimed. Guybrush walked over. "I said don't pester the rat!" said the pirate. Guybrush looked at the rat again - he couldn't see what the fuss was about. "Hey man!!" shouted the pirate. "Frank, make him quit it!" Frank, the tallest of the pirates, looked at Guybrush but said nothing.

The rat was looking nervous - it didn't like the attention. It sniffed the air and ran.

"Aww, now look what you did!" shouted the rocking pirate.

Guybrush nodded. "Now that fearsome beast is gone, we can talk," he said.

The pirate looked at Frank angrily. "Frank, this bozo scared away my rat! Let's saute him now!"

"I think you'd best leave, boy," said Frank.

Guybrush became aware he may have made an error. "Sorry about the rat," he said to the pirates.

"Do you like rats?" asked the rocking pirate, who still looked mad.

"Yes, I love rats!" enthused Guybrush.

The rocking pirate was starting to work off a little of his anger. "They're very intelligent creatures!" The middle pirate, a short stout figure who looked like a barkeeper, started laughing sarcastically. Frank hit him on the head. "More intelligent than him," said the rocking pirate. Why, there's a story around these parts that a bunch of rats actually crewed a ship here from fabled Monkey Island™."

"No, that's not right," interjected Frank. "It was actually a group of monkeys."

"I find that hard to believe," said Guybrush. "No way could a group of stupid monkeys sail a ship!"

"Actually, they were chimps," corrected Frank. "And they weren't stupid. When they arrived, they sold the ship for a pretty penny. Only time I've ever seen anyone get the better of Stan in a business deal."

"I thought it was rats," said the rocking pirate.

Guybrush decided to reroute the conversation. "Are you guys pirates?"

The pirates looked at each other. The middle pirate started laughing. "No, we're a travelling circus troupe," said Frank.

"Only some idiot scared our trained rat away," said a bitter rocking pirate.

"Shut up!" shouted Frank, and hit the middle pirate again. "Of course we're pirates!" he said to Guybrush. "You can't buy clothes like these just off the rack!"

"Wadda ya want?" asked the rocking pirate.

Guybrush still wasn't convinced they were pirates. "How come you're on this street corner and not on a ship, looting, pillaging, sacking, that sort of thing?"

Frank spoke. "Well, pirating hasn't been panning out too well for us..."

"...there are some unnaturally talented pirates in the area right now..."

"...operating out of Monkey Island™," finished Frank.

"So, we've been pursuing alternate means of self support. We're trying to start up a circus."

"It was working out real well, until the rat scared off the elephant..."

"...and now some jerk scared off the rat!" The rocking pirate was not willing to let go of this point.

There was a pause. "Now you've depressed us," said Frank.

Guybrush pointed at the man on the corner, still surveying his surrounds alertly. "Do you know the sneaky looking man on the opposite corner?"

"Wanna buy a map, eh?" asked Frank. He opened his jacket to reveal a set of parchments, taped to the lining. "Our maps are top quality, not like the birdcage liners you get from that clown across the street." They looked at each other for a moment.

The middle pirate started laughing. "No, just kidding," said Frank. "These are actually copies of the minutes of the last meeting of the Melee Island™ PTA. Can't even give them away. Want one?" He didn't sound hopeful.

"No, but I'll take one if you give me two pieces of eight," said Guybrush.

"OK, that's fair," said Frank. He handed a piece of paper and two gold coins to Guybrush.

"I'll just be running along then," said Guybrush. He walked a little way down the street and looked at the minutes. There was nothing of note, except a lot of spelling letters. He sighed and folded the paper. Walking down the street, most of the doors and shops seemed to be shut. He came to a sign - "Ye Olde Rubber-Chicken-With-A-Pulley-In-The-Middle Shoppe ... serving your rubber-chicken-with-a-pulley-in-the-middle needs for over 50 years." Even they were shut.

Guybrush crossed the road, looking at the large clock which adorned archway ahead. It was ten o'clock. The shops here was just as deserted as those on the far side, save for a single, plain wooden door which opened at Guybrush's touch. He looked around the jamb, saw nothing, and edged into the room. He ducked his head as he passed under a pair of red robes, and now he could see the merchandise.

"A voodoo shop!" he breathed. He looked around in wonderment. There was a strange tang to the air - a scent of rotted spice. Hanging from the rafters were the dead carcases of chickens. Poor chickens, thought Guybrush. Large wicker baskets littered the floor. He thought about opening them, before realising he wasn't all that curious to find out what was inside. By one wall, a plush red leather couch reclined. It looked comfortable, in a spooky kind of way. Next to it, a shelf of voodoo miscellany. Jars of bat drippings, a box labelled "Assorted scales", a shaker full of monkey flakes, and some cat knuckles. "Cat knuckles?" wondered Guybrush aloud. "How barbaric!" A single lone trunk occupied a far corner. "Probably got a body in it," mused Guybrush darkly. On it sat a chalice, a simple crockery affair which could have been the work of a carpenter. Next to it, a pile of tiny bones from an unidentified animal. Next to these, was a chicken. Or, as Guybrush discovered when he looked closer, "a rubber chicken with a pulley in the middle. What possible use could that have?" Intrigued, he examined it closer, but could find no clues as to the purpose of the construction. Guybrush picked it up and walked deeper into the shop.

Lights suddenly flicked on, revealing a large black woman sitting in a large stone chair. In front of her, green fire coursed up from a circular hole in the ground. "What may I help you with, son?" asked the woman in an ancient, learned voice. She wore a large, bright red garment, and had a number of rings and circlets on her person. In keeping with much of the population of the town, she wasn't wearing any shoes.

Guybrush was about to open his mouth and ask how much for the chicken, but the woman spoke first. "Ah," she said knowingly, "I sense the guilt of stealing my chicken grows." She nodded. "Take it. It's yours."

"Why don't you want it?" asked Guybrush. "Is it jinxed with an ancient voodoo curse?"

"No, the pulley squeaks."

Guybrush nodded, his soul somewhat mollified. He opened his mouth to tell her his name, but she beat him again. "Wait...don't say anything. I can sense your name is... is... Guybrush. Guybrush Nosehair. No! wait... Threepwood. Guybrush Threepwood. Am I not right?"

"Wow, that was amazing! Do you know any other tricks?" he exclaimed. Lucky guess, he thought.

"I do not deal in tricks," said the woman reproachfully. "What I know is the truth."

At this point Guybrush was about to ask a question about palm readings and whether he would be rich. The voodoo woman answered before he could ask. "So, my mindreading skills tell me it is your future you are interested in. Are you certain this is something you really wish to know?"

"No!" exclaimed Guybrush, with sudden decision. "Don't tell me a thing. Life should be unexpected and exciting."

"Suit yourself," said the woman.

On the other hand, a little foresight might help if he was going to become a pirate... He was about to say so when the voodoo woman spoke. "Changed your mind, I see. I am getting a vision." She raised her arms and waved them in a complicated gesture. The green pool at Guybrush's feet rose. The room flashed blue as the pool was revealed to be seated in the skull of a giant monkey. The red eyes of the skull bored into Guybrush.

"I see you taking a voyage, a long voyage," said the voodoo woman, staring into the pool. Green liquid swirled and bubbled within. "I see you captaining a ship."

"Yeah!"

"I see..." She paused.

"What? See what?" Guybrush was getting quite interested.

The voodoo woman waved her arms once more. "I see a giant monkey."

"Yikes!"

"I see you inside the giant monkey," continued the voodoo woman.

"Gross."

"Wait!" she said sharply. "It is all becoming clear. Your journey will have many parts. You will see things better left unseen. You will hear things better left unheard. You will learn things better left unlearned."

"What kind of things?" asked Guybrush. "I hate surprises."

"NO!" shouted the voodoo woman. "The time is not right to know. When you know your purpose, come see me - I will let you know then." The monkey head sank back into the ground. Evidently the reading was over. As it clicked into place there was a sudden green flash. When it faded, the voodoo woman had vanished.

"Yikes!" said Guybrush. He walked back the way he had come and opened the door.

In the main street, he turned right, toward the giant clock. He passed under, walking through a short tunnel which emerged in another, more suburban area of the town.

The dwellings in this area looked even more precarious. Many had double or even triple storeys, and looked to have been thrown together with about the same organisation as a typical medicine cabinet. Rooms, attics, upper levels and cul de sacs had been slotted in wherever there was room. Many clung onto the town wall as a backbone. Guybrush took a turn right down one of the streets, but soon realised any navigation off the main street would get him totally lost.

He looked down a particularly narrow and dark alley, and heard a small voice whisper "Psssssst!" Guybrush looked around guiltily, but no one was watching him. He paced down the alley, between cardboard boxes and overflowing rubbish cans, and found himself in a small enclosed square, hemmed in on all sides by towering houses.

"Hello?" he called out. "Anybody in here?" He walked further into the cobbled square. "HELLO??"

There was a movement of air behind him. Guybrush turned to see a large mean looking bald man with a long cutlass. "You know," spoke the man in a nasty voice, "bad things could happen to a person in a dark, deserted alley like this one. And at this time of night, no one would be around to see it." He looked pointedly at Guybrush.

"Yeah," agreed Guybrush. "And bad things happen to people who sneak up on other people from behind."

The man moved a little closer. "So you're going to give me a little attitude, eh? I better get your name."

"I'm Guybrush Threepwood, and I'm a mighty pirate," said Guybrush proudly.

"Listen Peepwood-"

"Threepwood," corrected Guybrush. "Guybrush Threepwood."

"Whatever your name is, listen: I'm the sheriff around here. Sheriff Fester Shinetop. Take it from me - this is a bad time to be visiting Melee Island™. A very bad time. My advice to you is to find somewhere else to take your vacation. Somewhere safer." He strode off purposefully.

Guybrush watched his exit, relieved. "Boy, I feel much safer knowing there's an officer of the law around," he said. Guybrush looked around the square, a fairly desolate place in all, and saw a poster tacked to the wall. "SEE YOU AT THE CIRCUS," proclaimed the poster. "Oh boy, a circus!" exclaimed Guybrush. "I love a circus." He looked at the address given - it was to be held on the west coast of Melee Island™.

He followed Fester Shinetop, who had disappeared elsewhere, back out to the main street. Here he saw a large shop by the tunnel entrance, which moreover appeared to be open. Guybrush wandered over and went inside.

The room within was capacious, stacked, and deserted. Above him and on the left wall, a second storey housed sails, a safe, and numerous boxes. By the stairs leading up, another shelf of merchandise held a long sharp sword. The owner's desk had a sign on it - "Ring bell for service."

Guybrush looked at the sign, and looked at the sword. Fundamentally, he was a honest person. But employment opportunities seemed a little thin on the ground at the moment. And when needs must...

He reached out a hand to grip the sword. It felt nice and weighty in his grip. The label identified the sword as the "Slashmaster™ - When you want a sword as sharp as your wit." He didn't yet know where to find the Sword Master, but this looked like just the equipment to tackle him with.

Holding the sword in his left hand, Guybrush climbed stealthily up the stairs to the landing, where he saw a shovel propped up in the corner, just the thing for a good ol' treasure hunt. The label: "Digmaster™ - The only shovel for serious treasure huntin' enthusiasts." He picked it up and ducked quietly down the stairs. He tiptoed quietly over to the door and had just made the handle when a voice cried out "Ah-ha!" behind him.

Guybrush turned, stricken with guilt. The owner, an old guy with a white beard and a cane, had appeared from the back room. "Caught you, you little thief!" He wandered behind the counter, followed by a contrite Guybrush. "Maybe you'd like to pay for these?" He put the sign under the counter.

Guybrush looked at his sword - it really would be a shame to lose it. "About this sword..."

"What about it?"

"I want it."

"That'll be one hundred pieces of eight," said the owner evenly. "Take it or leave it."

"I don't have enough money," said Guybrush sadly.

"Figures."

Guybrush put the sword back. He thought about asking about the shovel, then put it back too. "How else do you want to waste my time?" asked the owner politely.

Guybrush thought. "Er ... I'm looking for the Sword Master of Melee Island™."

The owner peered suspiciously at him. "The Sword Master of Melee Island™? Hmmm... I don't know... Nobody knows the whereabouts of her secret hideout - nobody except me. I'll have to go and ask her if its okay to show you the way." He rubbed his chin. "Hmmm... I guess I could hike all the way over there ... once." He put the sign back on the desk. "Be right back."

Guybrush watched him walk out, surprisingly brisk for someone relying on a twisted cane. At the doorway the owner paused. "AND DON'T TOUCH ANYTHING!!"

The door closed.

Guybrush waited. It occurred to him that, as brisk as the owner was, he still wasn't that fast. That it would probably take quite a while to 'hike all the way over there' and back. And who was to say the Sword Master wanted to see him? Decided, Guybrush opened the door, saw the old man just coming out of the tunnel, and began following him stealthily.

It was indeed a long hike. The owner led him under the tunnel, past the three pirates, past Scumm Bar, up the long and winding staircase, past the lookout who was looking out and paid them no attention, and into Melee Island™ proper.

Melee Island™ was a large island, if you wanted to explore it fully. From above, it looked like a lower case 'c', with the main town on the outer side. The principal route of transport on Melee Island™ ran the length of the c, from the upper right hand corner to the upper left hand corner. Tracks branched off from it, leading either to the coast or further inland. The old man took the coast road, before turning inward and coming to a fork in the road. There was a sign here, but Guybrush had no time to read it because the old man suddenly left the road and walked into the dark underbrush. Guybrush followed.

Here the moon was nearly shielded from view by the cover of trees above. The illumination they had came from large swarms of fireflies, which darted in amongst garish yellow and red flowers. The old man made left and right turns with complete confidence, although Guybrush couldn't even see his feet. They passed small gurgling streams, where crickets chirped loudly, and thin ravines. Occasionally the cover would break open, and Guybrush would catch a welcome glimpse of the starry night sky above. These grew less as they wormed their way deeper into the forest. The crickets were left behind. The fireflies were thinning. The trees suddenly seemed closer, crowding together. And it was deathly quiet.

Finally the old man reached a ravine. There was a small stake in the ground, which the old man pushed forward. Twin halves of a log, hung on opposite sides of the ravine, swung up and joined in the middle, creating a makeshift bridge. The old man nimbly walked over.

Guybrush swallowed, and followed him with his eyes half shut.

Here the forest was at last thinning. The old man was headed toward a small hill, where a house had been erected. Lights shone from the window. In front of the house, a tall colourful figure was standing and looking restless. The old man crossed a tiny stream, and made his way up the hill. Guybrush decided to hang back and eavesdrop.

"Hello again, Carla," greeted the old man. Guybrush suddenly realised the Sword Master was a woman. For no easily divinable reason, this made him nervous.

"I thought I told you to get lost," said Carla in a loud voice that indicated a rather large lung capacity. She had her hands on her hips.

"Actually, I'm here on business. This kid came into my store, see..."

"Face it, you crusty old letch, you'd make any excuse just to come out here and bother me."

"Yeah, I guess so," said the old man in a voice which clearly indicated he wasn't going to pursue the argument.

"Well, cut it out. I'm sick of it." Carla had long, wavy brown/black hair and wore earrings. With her chocolate complexion, she could have been a distant relative of the voodoo woman. Probably she was. "Take a hike and don't come up here again. Someone might follow you, and then I'd become another Melee Island™ tourist attraction."

"Hey, it's your loss, baby," said the old man.

"Yeah, right," said Carla. "Now scram."

The old man hung his head, then wandered off past the house. Guybrush stood up from behind the bush he had been crouched under, and took a deep breath. It was now or nether. Plucking all the courage he could, he walked over the bridge, up to the house to challenge the Sword Master.

She watched his approach with disdain. "How dare you approach the Sword Master without permission ... which I surely didn't give you." She looked him up and down, and the expression on her face was an eloquent enough summary of her reaction.

"I beg your pardon, I must talk to you," said Guybrush as forcefully as he could.

"I doubt that," said the Sword Master. "Everyone who comes here is prepared to fight. Let's be honest: you're here to prove yourself to the Pirate Leaders, in hopes of one day being as immoral as they are."

Guybrush found himself nodding. "Yep, nailed it on the head ... gee, you're smart."

"But as you have no sword," pointed out the Sword Master, "I doubt you're really serious." She dismissed him and wandered inside, the door closing in an emphatic manner.

"Darn," said Guybrush. Things hadn't gone as well as he'd hoped. He wandered off to the right, in the direction the old man had gone, and found that only a few minutes walk separated the Sword Master's house from a narrow path leading north. Guybrush followed it, finally emerging at the main path. Guybrush started the long hike back.

Some minutes later he found himself back at the fork. Now that he wasn't chasing somebody, he had time to read the sign. Turning right would take him to Stan's Used Shipyard. Turning left would take him to the-

"Fettucini Brothers Circus!" exclaimed Guybrush. He immediately took the left road. A circus felt like just the thing to take his mind off his troubles.

The path was short, flat and straight, and soon Guybrush found he was at the edge of a large clearing. Parked in the clearing were several wagons. Towering over them completely was a bright red and yellow circus tent. Golden light spilled out through the flaps.

Guybrush walked down, slightly awed, and slowly peeked inside. Unfortunately, the tent seemed to be virtually deserted. Most of the equipment had been packed away, save for a cannon, a box filled with hay, and several stands. Guybrush looked up, and saw the trapeze wires hanging high above, strung tight. He took a deep breath and smelled the oiled sawdust.

Two brightly dressed moustachioed gentlemen were standing by the audience seating. They seemed to be arguing about something.

"I'd get in the cannon," said the one in the purple jumpsuit and blue underwear, looking a little like a colour blind Italian Superman, "but the gunpowder makes me sneeze."

"Well I can't do it," said the one in the green jumpsuit, also with blue underwear worn over it but clean shaven, "I hurt my hand taming the lions last week."

"I hardly think that little scratch compares to my chronic allergy. You get in the cannon."

"You don't have any allergies, you faker. You get in the cannon."

"No, you get in the cannon!"

"Slacker!"

"Loser!"

"Ruffian!"

"Fop!"

The two circus men, who by the similarities in their voices seemed to be brothers, continued arguing at a heated pitch. Guybrush raised a hand. "Excuse me.."

The two brothers spotted him, and ran over with surprising speed, flanking Guybrush on both sides. "Say there, son," said the purple brother in a slick voice," how'd you like a chance-"

"-a once in a lifetime chance-"

"-To perform an amazing feat-"

"-a death defying feat!-"

"-well, not so death defying, really-"

Guybrush's head revolved as the conversation spun from brother to brother, like a spectator at a tennis match.

"-a dangerous feat-" corrected the green brother.

"-no, not so dangerous at all-"

"-an easy feat!"

"-but exciting!-" enthused Purple.

"-With the Amazing-"

"-Adventurous, Acrobatic-"

"-And Exceedingly Well Known-"

"-Fabulous, Flying-"

"-Fettucini Brothers!" finished Green.

"That's us," said Purple.

"My brother Alfredo-," indicated Green.

"-and my brother Bill," said Alfredo.

"Sound good?" asked Bill

"Good," agreed Alfredo.

"It's very simple, really-"

"-see that cannon over there?" Guybrush looked at it - it was long, black and had a bore the size of the average person's shoulders. Guybrush nodded. "All you have to do-"

"-is get in the cannon-"

"-and we'll shoot you out of it-"

"-across the room-"

"-quite safe, actually-"

"-so, what do you say?"

Guybrush looked across the room, where the box of hay had been stacked next to the main tent pole. He wasn't so sure. "How much will you pay me?" he asked.

"How about 478 pieces of eight?" asked Alfredo.

Guybrush liked the sound of the payment. "OK, sounds good," he said.

"Have you got a helmet?" asked Alfredo.

"Er..."

"You've got to have a helmet," said Alfredo.

"-can't do the cannon trick without a helmet-"

"-nosiree!"

Guybrush thought desperately. He couldn't stand the prospect of those 478 pieces of eight slipping from grasp.

He got an idea. "Of course I have a helmet. What sort of idiot do you take me for?"

"Well, let's have it."

"We want to be sure-"

"-that it's safe-"

"-wouldn't want you hurt-"

"-nosiree!"

Guybrush pulled out the pot and showed it to them. "Ah, that will work as a helmet!" said Bill.

"Now we can do the trick!"

"Step right over here, son."

Guybrush followed Bill to the mouth of the cannon.

"Now, put on your helmet-"

"-and get in the cannon-"

"-and we'll take care of the rest!"

There was a small step stool at the mouth of the cannon. Guybrush mounted it and looked down the barrel. He breathed into it, and a small puff of dust was blown out.

Guybrush took one final look at the circus tent, then removed the pot lid, and nearly fell off the stool as he saw and remembered the meat. He raised the pot slowly to his head, grimacing.

Actually, once the initial squishiness of his hair in the blood was out of the way, it was a fairly comfortable fit. Guybrush ducked his head and crawled into the cannon.

Instantly the cannon exploded. Guybrush was hurled out the barrel in a cloud of smoke and fire. He tumbled through the air, watched by the Fettucini brothers below.

The aim, if they had been aiming for the tent pole, was impeccable. Guybrush hit it about two thirds the way up, his body upside down. It hung there for a moment, then gravity remembered him and he slid down to the bottom. Here his helmet might have been useful, but somehow it had fallen off midflight, so his head was left to take the blow. He didn't fall over, but somehow his head wedged in the sawdust so firmly that he remained upright, legs sticking into the air.

"It works!" shouted Alfredo.

"I'm so relieved!"

They ran over to Guybrush to congratulate him. Alfredo noticed something might be wrong.

"Hey..."

"Are you okay?"

"Where's my helmet?" asked Guybrush in a feeble voice, kicking his legs.

"He's all right!" cried a triumphant Alfredo.

"Hooray! We are spared an embarrassing and financially debilitating lawsuit!"

"Here's your money, sir," said Alfredo, pulling out a small bag. He looked at Guybrush, and stuffed it into one of his pockets.

"Just recompense for aiding us."

There was a pause. Guybrush kicked his legs further, trying to wriggle himself out of the ground.

"We just need to change the aim a bit."

"I'll try it next!"

"No, I'll do it next."

"No, me!"

"No, ME!"

"Slacker!"

"Loser!"

"Ruffian!"

"Fop!"

After several minutes of argument from above, Guybrush was finally able to get himself out of the ground. He looked around the tent floor, and finally found the pot nestled against the tent wall. The Fettucini brothers were still arguing, so Guybrush left and walked quickly back to the path.

He was bruised, but happy. He had 480 pieces of eight - and you could do quite a lot with that money. For one thing, buy a sword.

All the same, his joints were aching a bit, and the walk back wasn't helping.

At the fork in the road, Guybrush stopped, and rubbed his back. He looked into the forest, and could see a clump of bright yellow flowers. Guybrush had a hint of an idea about those flowers. He left the path, wandered over to the flower bush, and picked a few petals. He sniffed them. They smelt sweet, somehow aromatic. Guybrush picked a few, and rubbed them on the skin where the pain was worse. He picked a few more and stuffed them in his pockets. Then he rejoined the path back to the main town.

Soon he felt his muscles loosen, and the pain deaden. The journey back went considerably faster. Guybrush fairly sped through the town, except for a moment while he stopped at the Elaine Marley poster. There was something strange about her picture which held his attention. He could see how LeChuck had fallen for her so quickly. Finally he came to the pirate store again. He walked inside.

The owner looked at him irately. "Hey, where'd you go? I hike halfway across the island to try and get you a reservation with the Sword Master - who, by the way, says you can go jump in the lake - and when I come back, you're gone! See if I ever do you a favour again!"

Guybrush walked in and picked up the sword. "How much for this sword?"

"I already told you, it's a hundred pieces of eight! Did you bring enough money this time?"

"I'll take it!" said Guybrush.

"Great!" said the owner as Guybrush handed over the cash. "Best hundred pieces of eight you ever spent. Anything else?"

Guybrush noticed a roll of breath mints on the desk. After the fairly horrendous meat experience in the circus tent, he could use a little freshener. "I could really use a breath mint."

"You're telling me!" said the owner. "Here take one, please. Take a whole roll! One piece of eight." Guybrush handed over the coin. "Anything else?"

"I think I'd just like to browse," said Guybrush, slowly swishing the sword through the air.

"Be my guest, fancy pants. Wake me up if you need anything."

Guybrush looked around at a few items, for the owner's sake, then left.

He stood in the open air, watching the citizens scurry about on their business, and decided it was time to visit the Governor's mansion. It was on the far side of town, relative to the Scumm Bar, so Guybrush took a right along the main street, passing a large church with bright stained glass windows. Next to it was a grimmer looking building with bars over the windows. Guybrush wandered over to the door, curious as to what this place was.

Inside, he could fairly quickly tell it was a prison, if a surprisingly lit one. Two cells were immediately adjacent to the door. One contained a rat. The other, a short scruffy pirate wearing a purple bandanna.

Guybrush walked over to introduce himself. The prisoner leaned forward, gripping the bars. "You've got to get me out of here!" he whispered. "I'm a victim of society."

Guybrush was blown back by the gust of bad breath. "Not to mention halitosis," he said. "Yuck!"

"Hey," said the prisoner, "it's hard to keep my breath minty-fresh when there's nothing to eat in here but rats."

Guybrush reached into his pocket. "Here, have a breath mint."

The prisoner took it gratefully. "Oooh! Grog-o-mint! How refreshing! Thanks!" He put it in his mouth and gradually the foul stench subsided. "So, have you come to release me?"

"Who are you?" asked Guybrush.

"My name is Otis," said the prisoner. "At least, I think it is. I've been in here so long I can hardly remember. You've got to get me out of here before I lose my mind completely! Can't you see I'm innocent?"

"You don't look innocent to me," said Guybrush uncertainly.

"You wouldn't either if you'd been in here as long as I have."

"What did you do to wind up in there?"

Otis rattled the bars furiously. "I didn't do anything. Especially not to those dumb flowers."

Guybrush's mental antennae pricked up a little at the mention of flowers. "Flowers? What flowers?" he asked, not quite yet nervous but in a voice suggesting he might soon be.

"The yellow Caniche Endormi flowers in the forest - it's against the law to pick them." He was not willing to elaborate any further.

"So who framed you?" asked Guybrush. The flowers in his pocket seemed to be screaming out to any local constabulary who might be around.

"I don't know," admitted Otis. "I think it was a conspiracy. And if there's one type of piracy I don't like, it's a conspiracy."

Otis was strangely interesting companionship. "I've never talked to a prisoner before," said Guybrush. "How's the food in there?"

"Oh, you know, the usual..." He made seesawing motions with his hand. "Slop, grog, gruel ... rats, bugs and body lice if I can catch them. I have a carrot cake my Aunt Tillie made, even though she knows I detest carrot cake. Actually, the cook at the bar is an old friend of mine, and sometimes he sneaks me food. Like pork trimmings - mostly feet and lips - but once in a while ... he brings this really odd rump roast."

"What was so odd about the rump roast?" asked Guybrush.

"Well, it's the only rump roast I've ever seen with a prehensile tail."

Otis lapsed into silence. Guybrush decided to show he was on his side. "That Sheriff Shinetop sure is a jerk, isn't he?" he asked.

"No kidding," agreed Otis. "Fester Shinetop is the meanest man on Melee Island™. Luckily, the Governor keeps him in check most of the time." Otis looked up, remembering. "We used to have a fair, decent man for a Sheriff - but he recently died under mysterious circumstances. If you ask me, I think the new Sheriff had something to do with it."

"I think you've said enough, Otis!" said a gruff, sharp voice from the door. Guybrush turned to see Fester Shinetop blocking the exit. Simultaneously, the temperature in the room dropped a few degrees.

"Whoops," said Otis, and drew back into the shadows of his cell. Fester Shinetop strode into the prison. He looked like the kind of person who strode, or marched, everywhere.

"I hope you haven't been taking this vagrant too seriously," he said to Guybrush, who had put his hands in his pockets. "He'd say anything to avoid paying his debt to society."

"He IS filthy," conceded Guybrush, not wishing to get on Fester's mean side. "And he smells bad, too."

Otis returned to the front of the cell, hands on hips. "Hey, thanks a lot!"

Fester Shinetop wasn't much impressed either. "You've got a lot of nerve coming into this town and passing judgement on the locals. If there's something you don't like about the way we smell, you're welcome to leave anytime."

"Sorry," said Guybrush. He looked at Otis. "Sorry." He turned back to Fester, who was starting to get on his nerves a little. "Do you mind? We were having a private conversation."

"Don't take that tone with me, monkeyboy," said Fester nastily, "or I'll gladly lock you up in there with Otis - then you'd have plenty of time for private conversation." He spat the last two words out contemptuously.

"He seems innocent to me," said Guybrush, indicating Otis. "Why don't you let him out?"

"Maybe you should mind your own business, stranger," suggested Fester. "I'll decide who's innocent and who's guilty around here." He looked meaningfully at Guybrush, his moustache drawn up in a mirthless sneer.

"Sorry," said Guybrush.

"Look, I don't know what you're up to, but whatever it is, it's probably illegal. So forget it." He strode to the door, whereat he turned once more to face them. "Wherever you go on Melee™, I'll be watching." It sounded more like a threat than a promise of vigilant law enforcement to Guybrush. "And if you try any monkey business, you'll end up in here for good." He left.

"Man, is he a pill or what?" said Otis. "You see what I have to put up with? You'd better go before you get us both into trouble."

Guybrush walked outside. He looked both ways for Fester, then drew out the yellow petals. He turned them over in the moonlight, and sniffed them again, deeper. They did seem to have an effect - somewhat ... soporific. Guybrush returned them to his pockets and walked further along the road, boots tapping on the cobblestones.

The prison was nearly the last building before you came to a giant stone archway, rearing several storeys high. The archway was cut from the town wall, a thick construction once used to defend the city, now used to support further apartments. Guybrush walked under, and found the road turn into a winding path leading along the coast. After several turns, suddenly the Mansion came into view.

It was two storeys high, and seated very close to the edge of a cliff. Drawing nearer, Guybrush found himself walking on a thick growth of manicured grass. Now, where were these guard dogs?

He saw them as he neared the front entrance. There was a peg jammed in the ground about a foot from the cliff. To it about five leashes had been attached. Attached to the leashes were five small but homicidally maniacal dogs, which looked like crosses between poodles and bull terriers. They snapped eager jaws at Guybrush, who was careful to stay out of reach. The leashes had been well chosen - exactly the right length so that there was no room to slip past and reach the door.

Guybrush took out the pot. This was the plan. He would reach in, throw the meat to the dogs, they would be distracted, and he'd slip past. Easy. Guybrush looked at the meat, or meatlike substance, still with a few hairs jammed in, and pulled it out. It came in half as he did so.

Guybrush looked at the dogs. Hefting the half of meat in his right hand, he left fly right into the middle of the pack.

It is said that a pack of piranhas can reduce a cow to a skeleton in two minutes. These dogs must have been distant ancestors, because two seconds later not a single shred of meat could be seen. The dogs were jumping up and down and slobbering again, worse this time because now they'd gotten the scent of blood.

"That didn't go too well," said Guybrush. He retrieved the other half of meat and looked at it - it was even smaller. No way would he be able to slip past in time - the dogs were too quick.

But if he could slow them down a little...

Guybrush pulled out the yellow petals and sniffed them again. He looked at them, at the meat, and at the petals again. He nodded.

Guybrush mashed the petals into the meat, and lobbed it to the dogs. They tore in with ferocious appetite. The meat was demolished, and now the dogs started looking a little woozy. They stumbled around, fell over on their sides, and were still.

IMPORTANT NOTICE
These dogs are not dead,
they are only sleeping.
NO ANIMALS WERE HARMED
DURING THE PRODUCTION OF
MONKEY ISLAND™

Guybrush tiptoed around the fallen dogs and was finally clear. He took a deep breath, and knocked on the door. No response.

He tried the knob, and found it was unlocked. This was strange - usually an unlocked door meant someone was home. Guybrush opened the door and entered.

He beheld a room of stunning opulence. Velvet red curtains draped the walls. Portraits were hung. Greco-Roman columns supported the roof. The floor was timbered with fine mahogany, and covered in exotic woven rugs. Guybrush walked through the lobby and to the main downstairs room. A long, wide, curving staircase covered in red carpet led to the upper levels. Guybrush took it. Here there were several doors, each inset with a grille window, but all the handles were locked. Guybrush returned downstairs. The place was too grand to be going around knocking doors down.

He looked around in wonderment. A small bookshelf under the staircase, containing many large and colourful volumes. Plush red couches. Pedestals supporting examples of the fine arts. One particular item, near the entrance, was a priceless Ming vase. Guybrush picked it up, thinking that if he couldn't find the Idol of Many Hands this should interest the Pirate Leaders.

There were a pair of doors by the vase, which, Guybrush found, were unlocked. He opened it, and disappeared from the view of Fester Shinetop, who was watching from the shadows with an evil smile on his face. He strode out purposefully into the light, saying "This looks like a job for Fester Shinetop." He opened the door, and entered after Guybrush.

Guybrush turned, and Fester hit him on the head. "Ouch!" cried Guybrush, nearly dropping the vase. He ducked the next blow, and ran back to the doors. He slipped back into the lobby, and returned the vase. "Better leave this here." He returned to the room, which had suddenly become a scene of utter chaos.

Guybrush hypnotised the quarrelsome rhinos. He dodged the attention of Fester's fist, which struck the wall behind. "Ow!" screamed Fester. Guybrush ran to the security console, and raised a stabbing finger. "No!" cried Fester. "Not the red button!"

Guybrush pushed the red button.

There was a large Kaboom. Plaster rained down from the ceiling. The console imploded. The windows exploded. Several shards hit Fester, who screamed and dived at Guybrush. They rolled down a steep incline, exchanging blows. They struck bottom, and Guybrush found himself looking at a tremendous yak. It was a big, ugly, hairy yak with some ugly wax lips, and it was preventing them from getting up. While Fester tried to throttle Guybrush, he tried pushing the yak. He couldn't move it. Pulling it gave a similar effect.

Guybrush ran an arm around the ground, his face going purple. His fingers grasped a staple remover. He brought it up and struck Fester in a roundhouse motion, knocking him off. Guybrush quickly stood up and used the staple remover on the yak. The staples came out, and at the same time Fester walloped him from behind. Guybrush was thrown forward, through the tremendous dangerous-looking yak, through the somewhat fragile wall, and into the lobby of the mansion, near the stairs. He landed on the portrait, which had been knocked over and now formed a ramp up to the small hole in the wall. Quickly Guybrush rose, dusted himself off, and dashed over to the bookshelf. He picked up the Manual of Style and quickly browsed the contents. It had a number of helpful illustrations.

He returned to the hole in the wall. "I must be nuts!" he exclaimed, then executed a tight commando roll up the portrait, through the hole in the wall, and right into Fester, who collapsed to the ground. Guybrush picked up the wax lips, which were yak sized and covered in slobber.

Fester got up, and threw a saucepan at Guybrush. It missed, striking a hidden lever in the wall. Suddenly there was a munching sound and brown hairy animals started running across the floor. "Accck!" screamed Guybrush. "Gophers!" He picked up the gopher repellent and took out a gopher. He shook it and took out another. A gopher horde was descending on them, so Guybrush took it out too. He ran up the stone steps, leaving Fester to deal with the remnants of the rabid throng.

There was a funny little man at the top of the stairs, but Guybrush was not in the mood for nonsense and used the gopher repellent on him. Here at last, was the fabulous idol. "It's beautiful!" he gasped. And sighed, because it was secured with a heavy duty padlock. Behind him, Fester was roaring up the stairs, still shaking off gophers. "Uh, oh!" said Guybrush as he approached. He picked up a heavy chair and threw it at the Sheriff. The Sheriff fell to his knees. Guybrush ran to the door on the far side of the room, slipped through, and locked it.

He was at the top of the plush red stairs. "That should hold him for a while!" he said. "If only I had a file, I could get the idol!" He skipped down the stairs and back out into the night air.

Guybrush ran down the path, to the town, back to the only person who might possibly have a file. On the way down, he looked at the gopher repellent and saw you were supposed to use it on yourself, not on the gophers.

He walked into the prison. "Hey, Otis, would you happen to have a file?"

"You think I'd be in here if I did?" asked Otis. "All I have is this carrot cake my Aunt Tillie made me. You can have some of it if you bring me something to get rid of these rats. I can't stand carrot cake."

Guybrush handed over the gopher repellent - it wasn't like he'd be needing it anymore. "Hey, this might work on the rats!" said Otis. "Thanks! Here's the cake." He handed over a small, hard square to Guybrush. It was surprisingly heavy, and Guybrush couldn't blame Otis for not eating it - appetising was apparently not in Aunt Tillie's repertoire. Guybrush walked outside and threw it on the cobbles.

It clinked. Guybrush looked at the cake - cakes didn't usually do that. He walked over and picked it up. Guybrush gently prised apart the two halves of the cake, to reveal a small thin file. It seemed 'pragmatic' was certainly in Aunt Tillie's repertoire. Guybrush looked to the prison, but there was no time. Even now Fester might be loose. He ran back to the mansion.

Inside, he walked briskly into the interior. He had the file, so...

Guybrush did another commando roll up the portrait, through the hole in the wall, and this time was caught in the teeth by a blow from Fester, who looked a little upset. Guybrush fell to the ground, scissoring his legs as he did so. Fester tripped backward. Guybrush darted up, ran to the shredder and shredded the manual of style. Only now did he notice the heavily armed clown standing nearby. Guybrush picked up the shredded manual, now more like stylish confetti, and gave it to the clown, who threw it in the air shouting gaily, and started to shoot at it. Guybrush dodged Fester's charging attack, causing Fester to run into the clown. They hit the wall and started fighting.

Guybrush threw the wax lips on the fire. Red flames roared to the ceiling. Under cover of the distraction Guybrush ran up the stairs to the idol. A hypnotised but still slightly quarrelsome rhino was blocking the way, so Guybrush used the files on its toenails. The rhino bellowed and charged down the stairs. As Guybrush used the file on the padlock a massive wail rose up from below, followed by a short burst of gunfire and a meaty thud. Guybrush opened the door and took the idol, quickly secreting it in his shirt.

Fester had reached the top of the stairs. He swung at Guybrush, who feinted left and right, dodging each blow, and ducking back toward the doors. Fester clicked his teeth, irritated and with a massive right hander caught Guybrush on the chin.

Guybrush became airborne, smashing through the window inset into the left door, thumping down the stairs, and coming to a rest on the ground floor. Luckily the stairs were carpeted. He rose quickly, and wiped sweat from his forehead. "Phew! That was a close one! At least I got the idol."

The doors above opened. A very mad Fester appeared. "But I'm not done with you yet!" he yelled. He strode down the stairs like the onset of doom.

"Uh oh," said Guybrush.

"Thought you could get away from here with the Idol of Many Hands, did you?" said Fester as he approached.

"Look, I can explain," said Guybrush reasonably.

"So can I," said Fester evilly. "You poisoned the Governor's pet poodles-"

"They're just sleeping!"

"Broke into her house-"

"The door was unlocked!"

"-and stole one of her most valuable pieces of art!" Fester raised a thick fist.

Guybrush raised a conciliatory palm. "No, you've got it all wrong!"

Fester paused, and sneered. "Oh really? Well let's hear your explanation."

Guybrush gulped. "It belongs in a museum!" he cried.

"Ha!" said Fester. The fist rose a little higher.

Suddenly, a female voice interjected from above. "What's going on here?" Fester and Guybrush turned to see Governor Elaine Marley standing at the top of the stairs. She started walking down.

"I caught this hoodlum making off with your idol, Governor," said Fester, his fists lowered. "He says it belongs in a museum!"

Elaine had reached them. She wore a fairly typical pirate outfit - purple shirt, a white necklace, brown jacket, boots, and black pants, although most pirates would be hard pressed to have thick red hair down to their shoulders. Amazingly, she was supporting Guybrush. "That's right. It does."

"What?" said Fester.

"You heard me, Fester," said Elaine in a young, intelligent voice. "The real question is, how did he get in here while you were on guard?"

"I... Uh..."

Elaine waved a hand, giving Guybrush time to notice the discreetly painted fingernails. "Just go away, Fester. I can handle this."

"Hmpf!" said Fester. He turned and strode out. "I'll deal with you later," he said to Guybrush as he passed.

Elaine watched him go, then turned to Guybrush. "Sorry about him," she said apologetically. "He's new. I'm Governor Marley.

"Governor Elaine Marley."

Guybrush was rooted to the spot by the sounds of those sweet syllables breathing over him. He smelled faint aromas, delicious and enticing.

"So, my idol belongs in a museum, eh?" She looked at him with her head on one side.

"Well..." said Guybrush, sure his face was going red.

"Relax, Mr Threepwood," said Elaine. "I know why you're here." She shook her head, laughing faintly. "Believe me, you're not the first who's tried. Although, I have to admit, not as many get as far as you have."

"Golly," said Guybrush in a cheerfully inane voice. His throat was getting tight.

"My lookout told me of your arrival. I've wanted to meet you ever since I first heard your fascinating name. Tell me, Guybrush, why do you want to be a pirate? You don't look like one. Your face is too ... sweet." She smiled at him.

Guybrush became aware how close she was standing. "Grlpyt," he gasped.

Elaine frowned. "I see. Well, you're obviously not in the mood for idle chitchat, are you? I suppose you've got many more exciting things to do. I won't take up any more of your time, Mr Threepwood." She walked past and started up the stairs.

A distressed Guybrush watched her exit. "Bgglw!" he called out to her desperately. "Mfrnkf? Dmnkly..." He sighed deeply as she disappeared from view. "I really wish I knew how to talk to women," he lamented. He could feel the weight of the idol in his pocket, but it no longer cheered him. He turned, inconsolable, and trudged over to the exit door.

It opened in front of him, revealing a leering Fester Shinetop. "Where do you think you're going, Thrubwald?"

Guybrush just felt tired. "Excuse me, Mr Shinetop, but you're blocking the doorway. I'm going to put this idol in my safe deposit box."

"Oh really? I know a really safe locker you could put it in - Davy Jones' Locker!" Fester roared with laughter like someone who thinks they've just cracked a great joke.

"You know, it's not too late for us to make up and be friends."

"Yeah, and it's also not too late for me to kill you and still make it to the bar for happy hour. Hand over your sword."

"Uh oh."

If his past life had been of any particular length, it would have been flashing past his eyes at this point.

Under the moon, which was nearly at the top of the sky, Guybrush was standing on the pier, chained to the idol. The idol was perched at the edge of the pier, ready to be knocked over at a moment's notice into the placid sea. Fester stood nearby, reading him the last rites. "This is the end of the road, my little pantalooned pal. Your troublemaking days on Melee Island™ are over." He turned and stared moodily over the ocean. "My plans for the Governor are far too important, and much too near completion, to risk letting a would-be pirate like yourself getting in the way. So long, Mr Spicecake, or Droopface, or whatever the hell your name is."

He kicked the idol over the edge. Guybrush was dragged into the sea, clutching at the air. Fester watched the bubbles rise for a few seconds. He straightened, satisfied. "Hmmm... this might actually turn out to be a pretty good day." He strode off.

There was one vital piece of intelligence which Fester had neglected to collect - Guybrush could indeed hold his breath for ten minutes under water. He stood on the ocean floor, waited for Fester to lose interest, then surveyed his surroundings.

The water here was green/blue, but fairly clear, and with very little seaweed. The bed by the pier seemed to be something of a pirate junkyard, with hacksaws, meatcleavers and rusty knives all here in abundance. Unfortunately, the short length of rope Guybrush was allowed stopped him from reaching the tools. Clouds of sand were being kicked up by his movements and he stopped to let them settle.

Fish swam by in shoals. Looking at the fabulous idol under the harsher, murky sea light, it more resembled a fabulous doorstop. Walking gingerly Guybrush tried to pick it up, and was able to carry the weight, although he wouldn't be able to swim to the surface. Fortunately, a ladder came down from the pier to the ocean floor, a few dozen metres away. Guybrush pushed along the ocean floor as quickly as he could, feeling the air running low. Near the ladder, he saw a reasonably uncrusted sword lying in the sand. He'd need another one, so he picked it up.

There was movement on the pier above. "Hey Nick, I just committed a felony!" shouted a gruff voice above. Guybrush froze.

"Does it involve that big knife you've got there?" asked another voice.

"Yeah! What should I do with it?"

"Get rid of it!"

"I know! I'll throw it in the water!" Guybrush grimaced, and ducked under the pier.

"No! Don't do that!"

"Why not! I have to ditch it!"

"It might wash up somewhere!"

Please finish the conversation, thought Guybrush as he stood by the ladder with a dwindling oxygen supply.

"What do I care! My prints won't be on it!" There was a pause. "Naaah, I might need it. See you."

"See you."

There was more movement, then silence. Guybrush started climbing.

At the top he gulped in air for a few minutes, then shook himself as dry as possible. "Well, that wasn't so hard," he said as he shook his head. "Now all I have to do is show this stupid idol to the pirate leaders and-"

"You're alive!" shouted a voice behind him. Guybrush turned to see Elaine standing at the other end of the pier.

"Governor!" he cried, startled.

"Hey, you can talk! Who'd have known?"

"What are you doing here?" asked Guybrush, bitterly. "Come to finish the job?"

"No, I came down here to save your life," said Elaine simply. "Fester wasn't acting on my orders when he threw you in there."

"You came down here to rescue me?" said Guybrush, disbelievingly. "I didn't even think you liked me."

"Well, our first meeting was a little awkward," admitted Elaine. "You seemed to have trouble forming complete sentences. But, then again, so do most of my citizens."

"But I'm not one of your citizens," moaned Guybrush, suddenly ashamed. She was just too beautiful for him. He turned his head and stared at the pier, sick to his heart with love. "I'm just a drifter," he continued sadly. "A nobody, a would-be pirate." He turned and faced her. "Who would have known, or even cared, if you'd let me drown?"

"I would have, Guybrush," said Elaine softly.

Guybrush's heart suddenly swelled with a joy so intense it might break him. "Oh, Governor..." he breathed.

Elaine walked closer. "Oh, Threepwood..."

"Oh, Elaine!" In the world of Guybrush and Elaine, music had started playing and birds were chirping gaily. They moved closer.

"Oh, Guybrush!"

"Love muffin!"

"Sugar boots!"

"Honey pumpkin!"

"Plunder bunny!"

They were separated by mere inches of air. "Kiss me!" cried Guybrush.

Elaine turned her head quickly. "No! We mustn't!"

The music stopped jarringly. Guybrush's eyes cleared somewhat. "What?" This wasn't in the script.

Elaine looked at him. "Not here, where everyone can see."

"Why? Are you ashamed of me?"

"No, no," said Elaine quickly, "it's not that at all. It's just that many of these pirates have made advances toward me. And to avoid hurting their feelings, I've always told them that my father made me promise never to fall in love with a pirate. If they see us together, they'll know I was lying."

"Okay then, let's go to your place," suggested Guybrush.

"Okay," agreed Elaine. "But finish your trials first. I don't want you to be ... preoccupied."

Guybrush swallowed as Elaine walked back to the mansion. "But..." he called after her. He looked at the pier again. "I feel this sudden urge to complete the trials ... quickly." He looked at the idol, remembered he'd already completed one, and trotted off to the Scumm Bar.

Inside, things hadn't cooled off any. Guybrush guided himself around the prone bodies to the far room, where he slammed the fabulous idol on the table in front of the epileptic pirate leaders. "I'm the sneakiest footpad in these isles!" he announced.

The short pirate looked at him. "Oh, if it isn't the young boy who wants to be a pirate."

The dirty pirate had seen the idol. "Ah, the idol of Many Hands! Ye're a brave lad! And thank ye for stealin' it for us." He took the idol and concealed it in his overcoat.

Guybrush left quickly. There wasn't much time to lose. He had a sword, he had a time limit, so it was time to visit the Sword Master.

A short hike later, he was outside the Sword Master's house, ready for anything.

Unfortunately, so was the Sword Master.

"How dare you approach the Sword Master without permission-" she began as he approached, then she realised his identity. "Oh, it's you." She scowled.

"My name is Guybrush Threepwood," said Guybrush. "I've come to kill you."

"Nothing like being honest," said the Sword Master. "What was your final grade in Captain Smirk's sword fighting class?"

"Uh..." The name meant nothing to Guybrush. "Grade? Class?"

"You mean," said the Sword Master in unbelieving tones, "you came here to take on the Sword Master of Melee Island™ - possibly the greatest sword fighter in the entire Caribbean - without a single lesson in the art of fencing?"

"Yep," said Guybrush.

"How did you expect to defend yourself?"

"Gee... I dunno."

"I see. Obviously not with your razor-sharp wit. I'd advise you to seek out Captain Smirk's and get some real training. It would hardly be ethical, sporting, or even interesting to fight someone as unskilled as yourself. So beat it."

"Where is Captain Smirk?" asked Guybrush.

The Sword Master sighed, and told him.

As it turned out, on the other side of the island. Guybrush had been trekking for quite a while when he found himself at a small bridge. Blocking the way over the bridge was an ugly green troll with a large wooden club. "STOP!!" it roared as he approached. "You must pay a toll!"

"Oh please, can't I pass?" pleaded Guybrush.

"Boy, do you sound like a wimp," said the troll contemptuously. "I hate wimps."

Guybrush decided to correct his misconception. "Stand aside, troll!" he yelled in his most fearsome voice. "I'm a mighty pirate!"

The troll looked uninterested. "You're no pirate! Why, the town drunk could out-insult you on his back! (and probably would.)"

"Oh yeah?" rejoined Guybrush.

"Yeah! You know, you could stand a lesson or two if that's the best you can do."

Guybrush took a deep breath. "I can out-insult anyone, you brainless clay doppelganger!"

The troll was not impressed. "I once owned a dog that was smarter than you. Take that and stick it in your repertoire!"

Guybrush didn't like the way the conversation was going. Most likely, this troll would be wanting a fair portion of his money as the toll. "How much is the toll?" he enquired politely.

"Well, what have you got?"

Guybrush did a mock search of his pockets. "Oh, nothing of importance."

"I want something that will attract attention, but have no real importance." The troll looked at him expectantly. Guybrush thought - that sounded a little like a riddle.

"A rubber chicken with a pulley in the middle?" he suggested.

"That's pretty useless," conceded the troll, "but it's not what I want. I want something that will divert attention from things that are really important."

That sounded even more like a riddle. Guybrush did a quick inventory of the items he was carrying and checked if they fit. He remembered he had a herring in his pot...

Guybrush quickly turned his back, got out the fish, and checked the colour. Red.

Perfect.

Guybrush turned back and handed the red herring to the troll. A cheerful expression broke out on the troll's face as he took the gift. "Ah! A red herring!" He drew to one side. "Pass."

Guybrush walked past.

Soon his attention was caught by a bright set of lights on his left. Presently he saw a collection of boats anchored at a jetty. A large sign hung above the entrance greeted the visitor - Stan's Previously Owned Vessels.

Guybrush walked across the pavement, past bargain basement rowing boats and canoes, to a small office by the jetty. There was a note on the door.

"STAN'S PREVIOUSLY OWNED VESSELS. I'm off searching the globe right now for the finest in previously owned marine transportation. Have a look round, I'll be right back - Stan."

There was a grog machine by the office. Grog, Diet Grog, Cherry Grog, Grog Classic, Caffeine Free Grog, and Root Beer. Guybrush tried it, but it was out of order. He left and rejoined the path, and not five minutes later was standing at a stone sign in front of a small flat house.

He had reached the lower outer peninsula of Melee Island™, and here the land was less sheltered from crosswinds. A chill breeze was blowing as he walked toward the door, where, if the sign was accurate, he could find Captain Smirk's Big Body Pirate Gym. The prices were 30 pieces of eight for Sword Fighting training, 160 pieces of eight for Cannonball Firing, and 130 pieces of eight for Grappling Hook.

The front door, Guybrush found, was a double reinforced wooden affair six feet wide. He decided to knock - it was only polite.

The door opened, and Guybrush drew back to allow room for Captain Smirk. This man, should it seem possible, was larger and more muscular than Fester Shinetop. His muscles had muscles. He had a nasty army crewcut, was smoking an evil looking cigar, had an eyepatch over one eye, and tattoos on both arms. Guybrush was impressed. This looked like just the chap.

"What do you want, you wimpy little spineless maggot?" he bellowed down at Guybrush, in what was no doubt his normal speaking voice.

"Can we step inside?" asked Guybrush. "It's a bit chilly out here."

"What did you say?" roared Captain Smirk

"I said it's a little chilly out here!" said Guybrush, louder.

Captain Smirk considered this. He looked at the night sky. "Hmmm - you're right. I could catch a cold." He ducked inside and shut the door.

Guybrush stood still for several seconds before coming to the realisation that Captain Smirk was not re-emerging. He knocked again.

Captain Smirk reappeared. "What do you want?"

"Could you train me to be better than the Sword Master?" asked Guybrush.

Captain Smirk squinted his good eye at Guybrush. "Better than the Sword Master? You?? Ha ha ha!!" He bit down on his cigar. Smoke blew into Guybrush's face. "You could never be half the sword fighter Carla is. Even with hours of hard work and sweatin' blood." The cigar rolled around in his mouth. "I remember fightin' side by side with Carla at Port Royal. The local constabulary had us cornered! It looked like we were done for, but then she said... but I digress. You just don't have what it takes."

"I do so have what it takes!" shouted back Guybrush.

"You do not!"

"I do so!"

"You do not!"

"I do so!"

Captain Smirk smiled. "I like your spirit. I'll do what I can. Of course, it'll cost ya. What do you got?"

"I've got thirty pieces of eight," said Guybrush.

Captain Smirk held up a meaty palm. "Say no more, say no more. Let's see your sword."

"Okay, check it out." Guybrush held out his recently retrieved weapon.

"Yes, this is a nice one," agreed Captain Smirk. "Let's get to it." He led the way indoors.

Indoors...

Guybrush was expecting rooms and passages, but instead found himself inside a large gym, standing on a blue mat. Posters of various fighting poses lined the walls. A far corner held numerous pieces of workout equipment.

Captain Smirk was addressing him. "OK, ya maggot, why don't you whip out that sword and let's see what you can do with it." He watched as Guybrush slowly brandished his sword, and started stabbing the air like a butterfly catcher on cocaine. "Boy!" said Captain Smirk sharply. "You fight like a dairy farmer! I don't usually waste my time with vermin like yourself. But seeing as this LeChuck thing has put a cramp on business, I've got no choice. I need the money." Guybrush demonstrated some further moves, a bit on the back foot after the first appraisal. "Yes, I can see this is going to take some special measures. Just want you to know - I don't do this with everyone. It's only because I feel that special student / mentor / pieces of eight bonding that I'm going to these lengths. I'm going to put you up against... THE MACHINE." He walked off, leaving an uncertain Guybrush, sword still stuck in the air, to ponder this development.

"Machine?" he called out after Captain Smirk. "Is this going to hurt?"

Captain Smirk reappeared. Or rather, he failed to reappear because he was concealed by the massive construction he was wheeling toward Guybrush. It had swords. It had boxing gloves. It had intricate machinery. It had a monkey on the top. The overall impression was that of a combine harvester with a slightly different purpose.

"Yikes!" said Guybrush, startled.

Captain Smirk stood behind the machine, his hands on the controls. "Come at me. Don't be afraid, you won't hurt me." He started operating levers. The machine's sword started swinging. Guybrush raised his sword and parried it.

Captain Smirk called out more advice as Guybrush gained in confidence. "Advance, Thrust, Recover, Parry, Riposte." Occasionally the fist would punch forward, requiring Guybrush to dodge.

"No! Beat first, then lunge!

"Distance, distance!"

Hours pass...
"You're starting to get the hang of it."

More hours pass...

"Not bad. You've got good form." Captain Smirk released the machine and looked Guybrush in the eye. "Now I'm gonna let you in on the real secret of sword fighting. Sword fighting is kinda like making love. It's not always what you do, but what you say. Any fool pirate can swing a piece of metal and hope to cut something, but the pros, they know just when to cut their opponent with an insult - one that catches 'em off guard. You see, kid, your wit's got to be twice as sharp as your sword. Let's try a couple of insults out, eh?"

Guybrush held his sword in the parry position as Captain Smirk thought. "Okay, imagine this: We're fighting up a storm, just like Carla and I did up at Port Royal. There's a break in the fighting, and I say to you: 'you fight like a dairy farmer!' You respond with?"

"You must be thinking of someone else," said Guybrush, "I am not a farmer."

Captain Smirk sighed. "I can see we've got a lot of work to do here. You should have responded with something like 'How appropriate. You fight like a cow.'" Guybrush blinked - that was a good one. He stored it away in memory for further use. "You see, it's razor sharp wit like that wins fights. Let's try another. Imagine this: you're trapped up against a wall. My sword just slashed two cuts in your face. I say: 'Soon you'll be wearing my sword like a shish-kabob!' You respond with?"

"So's your mother," said Guybrush defiantly.

"I can sense we're in deep trouble here," said Captain Smirk. "A correct response to 'Soon you'll be wearing my sword like a shish-kabob!' would be 'First you better stop waving it like a feather duster!' See? Razor-sharp! Now, I suggest you go out there and learn some insults."

A short while later Guybrush stood outside Captain's Smirk Gym, with decidedly mixed feelings about the worth of his help. It looked like he'd have to put in a lot more work.

Guybrush walked back toward the busier parts of Melee Island™. As was usual for most pirate islands, Melee Island™ did not go to sleep at night. Soon Guybrush found he was passing a pirate every other minute. Many of them carried swords.

At the fork Guybrush decided to wait and practice against the first pirate that appeared. Soon a blonde pirate in green pants appeared. Guybrush stood firmly in his way. "Ay, this better be importan'," said the pirate.

"My name is Guybrush Threepwood," said Guybrush in a hollow voice. "Prepare to die!"

The two pirates whipped out their swords.

Being the attacker, Guybrush decided to offer the first gambit. "I once owned a dog that was smarter than you," he said triumphantly.

The pirate looked stricken - he didn't know the correct reply. "I'm shaking, I'm shaking," was the best he could offer. Suddenly Guybrush was pressing forward, pushing the pirate back with each blow he parried. There was a second pause as Guybrush held the sword centimetres from his belly. "Soon you'll be wearing my sword like a shish-kabob!"

"Oh yeah?" said the pirate, again forced on the back foot. Guybrush carried the fight forward, elated. These insults really did work! "You fight like a dairy farmer," he added as the fighting lapsed.

"I am rubber, you are glue."

A blow from Guybrush's sword sent the pirate's sword flying. The pirate gasped at him. "I give up! You win!"

Guybrush grinned, sat down by the fork, and waited for more.

He soon found most fights to be a lot harder. The pirates all seemed to know the answers to his insults, and when they knew the answer they were able to deflect his attacks and press the advantage.

"Nobody's ever drawn blood from me and no-one ever will!"

"You run that fast?"

"You have the manner of a beggar."

"I wanted to make sure you'd be comfortable with me."

"I once owned a dog that was smarter than you."

"He must have taught you everything you know."
Soon Guybrush found himself being insulted in unfamiliar ways, and losing fights.

"Have you stopped wearing diapers yet?"

"Why, did you want to borrow one?"

"There are no words for how disgusting you are!"

"Yes there are. You just never learned them."

"I've spoken with apes more polite than you!"

"I'm glad to hear you attended your family reunion."
However, slowly but surely, he came to learn the new insults.

"This is the END for you, you gutter-crawling cur!"

"And I've got a little TIP for you. Get the POINT?"

"I'm not going to take your insolence sitting down!"

"Haemorrhoids flaring up again, eh?"

"I got this scar on my face during a mighty struggle!"

"I hope now you've learned to stop picking your nose."
Each pirate had their own favourite, but they all used the same ones. It helped a lot.

"You make me want to puke."

"You make me think someone already did."

"I've heard you're a contemptible sneak."

"Too bad no-one's heard of you at all."

"People fall at my feet when they see me coming!"

"Even before they smell your breath?"
Over countless battles, he honed his skill.

"My handkerchief will wipe up your blood!"

"So you got that job as janitor, after all."

"You're no match for my brains, you poor fool!"

"I'd be in real trouble if you ever used them."
Soon, Guybrush knew everything. He fought with a demon skill. He insulted with a demon wit. Finally, one of his vanquished opponents remarked "You're good enough to take on the Sword Master!"

Guybrush decided to take his advice. He hiked to the secluded house, grinning because this time he was prepared.

The Sword Master was not, of course, pleased to see him. "You again," she scowled as he approached.

"My name is Guybrush Threepwood. I've come to kill you." Guybrush smirked.

"Nothing like being honest," said Carla. "I can tell by the sarcastic expression on your face that you've been fully trained by Captain Smirk. Let's get this over with."

They drew swords. Carla spoke first. "Every word you say to me is stupid."

The unfamiliar insult flummoxed Guybrush. "I am rubber, you are glue," he threw up as a makeshift shield, backpedaling under Carla's fierce sword slashes.

"No one will catch me fighting as badly as you do!" she said arrogantly.

Guybrush brightened. "You run that fast?"

Carla's smile disappeared. Guybrush pushed back, recovering lost ground. "My last fight ended with my hands covered in blood," she snarled.

"I hope now you've learned to stop picking your nose," said Guybrush mildly. He picked up on her trick. Carla merely used reworded versions of traditional insults.

"Only once have I met such a coward!"

"He must have taught you everything you know."

Carla was on the back foot. Guybrush hung back, letting her make the insults because he knew he'd have the appropriate retort.

"Now I know what filth and stupidity really are!"

"I'm glad to hear you attended your family reunion."

"My sword is famous all over the Caribbean!"

"Too bad no-one's ever heard of you at all."

Guybrush had her on the back foot. She darted back, not willing to concede the fight. A windmill of sword blades whirled.

"My wisest enemies run away at the first sight of me!"

"Even before they smell your breath?"

"I hope you've got a boat ready for a quick escape!"

"Why, did you want to borrow one?"

The Sword Master held her sword up for a moment, then dropped it into the earth. "All right. You win. Well, I hope you're happy. You can go back and brag to all your friends about how you beat the Sword Master. You'll need proof - this should convince them."

She walked inside, leaving Guybrush holding a one hundred percent cotton T-shirt, emblazoned with the words "I beat the Sword Master." Guybrush pulled it over his head and made his way back to the Scumm Bar.

The pirate leaders were most impressed. "Well, defeated the Sword Master, did ye?" asked the dirty pirate. "Ye're a strong fellow! Ye may keep the stylish T-shirt. We have enough."

They resumed their quaffing. Guybrush walked back out, mindful there was only one more task - to find the Legendary Lost Treasure of Melee Island™. And he didn't know where to begin looking. Perhaps that shady looking man with the maps might be of assistance. Guybrush found him still standing at the same place, looking up and down the street as if waiting for someone.

"Oh, it's you again," said the man. "Come back for the map to the Legendary Lost Treasure of Melee Island™, eh? I hope you brought enough money this time."

"I'll take it. It'll make a swell gift."

Guybrush handed over the money. In a smooth motion the man passed him the map. "There ya go. You've made a wise decision. Now get lost."

Guybrush walked past, under the tunnel, to the pirate store. Now he needed a shovel. The old man inside wasn't inclined to be particularly hospitable. "I got my eye on you, boy," he declared as Guybrush climbed the stairs to the place he'd found the shovel. "Steal anything and I break your legs."

Guybrush returned with the shovel. "About this shovel..."

"What about it?"

"I want it."

"Great. It'll pay for itself, believe me. You'll dig up 75 pieces of eight in no time. But hey, save some treasure for the rest of us, would ya? Ha ha ha!" The transaction was done, and moments later Guybrush was out in the night sky, with a shovel in his hand and a map in the other. He opened the map. Instead of the picture of Melee Island™ he was expecting, however, the reality was a little different.

"I think I've been had!" he exclaimed. "This is no map. This looks like... dancing lessons!"

DO THE MONKEY!

Back! Two-Three-Four!
Left! Two-Three-Four!
Right! Two-Three-Four!
Left! Two-Three-Four!
Right! Two-Three-Four!
Back! Two-Three-Four!
Right! Two-Three-Four!
Left! Two-Three-Four!
Back! Two-Three-Four!

Guybrush read them quickly, growing more aware that Fester Shinetop might appear at any moment. He reread, and started to get an idea about the dancing steps. Usually, most treasure maps had a picture of the island the treasure was on, and a dotted line pointing to the X. But when they didn't, a second option was to give directions of the form 'five steps to the spotted palm, turn 270 degrees, seven long strides to the dead pig, turn left, five hops to the body of my Math Tutor', etc.

Still, he couldn't hang around here thinking about it. Guybrush turned back, walking briskly through the main town, past the Scumm Bar, and into the interior of Melee Island™.

At the lookout Guybrush stopped to get his breath. The lookout guy was peering out to see, paying him no attention, so Guybrush went over the directions again. Now they did look more like directions. A compass, printed beside the text, gave the direction of 'back' as north, 'front' as south, 'left' as west and 'right' as east. The question was, where to start...

Guybrush didn't have any immediate ideas, so he walked over to the lookout. "Do you ever wonder if we're all just characters in a novel?" he asked.

The lookout jumped a foot into the air and spun round. "Yikes! You almost scared me to death," something he didn't look far from at the best of times. "I thought you were a- never mind"

The lookout still hadn't perfected the art of turning around - he was staring at Guybrush's ear, or where Guybrush's ear would have been had his head been four feet wide.

"Er... I'm over here," reminded Guybrush gently. The lookout turned a bit more and finally got a fix on him.

"What did you say your name was again?" asked the lookout.

"Call me Squinky," said Guybrush.

"Ok, Squinky."

"Actually, my name is Guybrush Threepwood," said Guybrush, who didn't like to keep anyone labouring under a misconception for long. "I came to Melee Island™ because I want to be a pirate."

"Well, you picked the right place for it," said the lookout. "Though perhaps the wrong time. Not to mention the wrong name." He looked at Guybrush firmly, if slightly pityingly. "You have the silliest name I've heard in a long time. It's the only one I've heard that was more ridiculous than 'Squinky'."

The criticism annoyed Guybrush: he got it often. "What the heck is wrong with Guybrush Threepwood?"

"Nothing, if you want to sell shoes," said the lookout. "You want to be a pirate, boy, take my advice: Change your name. Try something like 'Dreadbeard', or 'Six-Fingered Pete'."

Guybrush wasn't sure he should take the advice of a geriatric short-sighted lookout using flight goggles for glasses. "Well, who are you?" he countered.

"I'm the lookout of Melee Island™, explained the lookout patiently. "I watch the ocean for approaching storms and ships, and report them directly to the Governor. She doesn't like unexpected visitors... especially not now."

"Why doesn't the Governor like unexpected visitors?" asked Guybrush, curious. This was new.

"Actually," confessed the lookout, "it's the expected visitors we're worried about. One pirate captain in particular. A dead one, but that doesn't make him any less dangerous..." Guybrush stored away the information for later use. This LeChuck fellow sounded like a rotten egg.

"How did you get to be the lookout," asked Guybrush finally, "when you're obviously as blind as a bat?"

"Watch your tongue," said the lookout sharply. "I was hand-picked by Sheriff Shinetop!" This was not reassuring news to Guybrush. The Sheriff was also something of a bad apple in the barrel.

Guybrush pointed over his shoulder. "I'll just be off to seek my fortune now. See you." He turned and took the interior path.

After a few minutes of aimless walking, Guybrush came once more to the fork in the road. There were no dwellings or any signs of habitation here, but if there were, that's what the place would be called: The Fork in the Road.

To his left, the firefly lights winked through the boughs of the forest.

A particularly bright one buzzed above his head, and suddenly Guybrush found he had an idea. Why not here? The forest was, after all, just the kind of place where you could get lost without a map or a guide to help you through. The only question was where to start from. Guybrush looked into the forest, and saw the bright yellow flowers in a clump near the road. It was the reference point he'd used last time, so why not?

Guybrush hopped over to the flowers, got out the directions, and read them once more. Back, Left, Right,... Each time taking four steps. Except, four steps didn't really seem like enough distance to get very far into the forest. Guybrush decided to multiply by ten. He got his feet set, and started pacing forward. At ten he turned left, and started forward again.

The woodland around him was surprisingly accommodating to his directional requirements. Although being quite dense, no trees sprang forth to block his movement. The deep gullies and sandbanks were all passed on either side. There was a sticky moment when he thought he'd lost count, but soon remembered he was at five. In short, things were going smoothly.

Guybrush counted out the last ten paces, and looked around.

Directly in front was a small clear patch. On its own that might not have been enough to distinguish it, but Guybrush's mind was considerably eased to see a heavy stone marker and a large wooden sign erected at the edge of the small clearing. There was a logo embossed on the dirt - something that looked like a large plus sign, the meaning of which eluded Guybrush for the moment.

Guybrush walked over slowly, cautious, and read the sign.

The Legendary Lost Treasure of Melee Island™.
This carefully reproduced piece of Melee Island™. history
has delighted thousands of would-be pirates and their
families for generations. Remember, there are other
pirates on the island, so go easy on the treasure. Leave
some for the next person.

The stone marker had a similar plaque on it.

Here lies treasure of such unimaginable wealth... well, you'll
just have to dig it up to believe it.
(Paid for by the Melee Island™ Chamber of Commerce)

Content he'd arrived at the right place, Guybrush took out his shovel and started digging into the cross.

Hours pass...

Guybrush had steadily worked into the loose soil, and was now up to his shoulders in the newly created hole. Speckled blue dirt was heaped around the hole in loosely thrown bundles.

There was a distinct clang as the shovel hit something. Guybrush brushed away the dirt intently. The lid of a chest was revealed, which Guybrush opened. He looked at the contents.

"Oh boy!" he exclaimed. "I think it's a T-shirt!" He pulled it out and looked at it critically. It was a plain white cotton T-shirt, with black letters spelling out 'I found the Legendary Lost Treasure of Melee Island™ and all I got was this lousy T-shirt!' Not too bad at all. "Not my size, but a nice one nonetheless." He folded the T-shirt up.

Guybrush looked left and right, as if looking for something. Strange, that. "Well," he finally said, "I guess I should put all this dirt back now."

The work went quicker - only an hour passed before the final pats of soil were back in place. Strangely, the plus sign had reformed - the chances of such an event surely a million to one.

Guybrush wasted no time in making his return to the village. Those pirates in the Scumm Bar were going to be bowled over when he showed them his latest acquisition. But strangely, the roads seemed quieter and less crowded. When he came to the lookout post, the lookout had vanished. Guybrush thought about this while making his way down the stairs to the pier, before realising he didn't have a clue what was going on.

At the pier, Guybrush glanced out to sea and saw the faint, ghostly outline of a ship. As he watched, it sailed further from view, glowing dimmer and smaller until finally disappearing.

"What was that?" exclaimed Guybrush. He turned to the Scumm Bar. "I'm so confused," he said sorrowfully.

The lookout, who had managed to successfully creep up being Guybrush, chose that moment to speak up. "Hey!" he berated. "What are you doing just standing around? The Governor's been kidnapped!"

Shock registered 9.2 on Guybrush's face. "What?" he cried, jumping toward the lookout. "By whom?"

"LeChuck's got her on that ship that just sailed off," said the lookout, clearly struggling with his emotions. He looked forebodingly out to sea. "I'm afraid ... we've seen the last of her."

Guybrush had not gotten over the shock. Several hours might not suffice to get over the shock. How could this happen? He looked at the lookout accusingly. "So where were you this whole time? Sleeping?"

The lookout glanced at him sharply. "Hey, I'm a lookout, not a bodyguard."

"Why don't you think we'll see her again?" said Guybrush.

"LeChuck's taken the Governor back to his hideout on Monkey Island™," said the lookout, mysteriously clued into the ghost pirate's schedule. "I'm afraid that no pirate on this island is brave enough to follow him there." He turned to the sea again. "But hey, good luck." He started to leave.

Before he actually left, however, he turned once more. "Oh yeah," he remembered, "I almost forgot - they left this note." He handed over a small piece of handwriting. "You can have it, but I don't think you'll like what it says." The lookout started back up the stairs. Guybrush, still shaking his head, read the note.

Attention, pirates of Melee:
Your Governor is alive and well and by my side as
she was always meant to be. If you try to find us you
will only meet with horrifying disaster.
Yours truly, Captain LeChuck.

Guybrush shook his head again. He couldn't believe there were no pirates brave enough to set off on a rescue mission. Why, the Scumm Bar was packed to the rafters with roughnecks and scoundrels. Guybrush started for the Bar, hoping the pirate leaders would know what to do. And if no one else was willing to set forth, why, he might just get his own ship and crew together and go rescue her.

Guybrush set his teeth and started striding over the pier. The impressive motion gradually slowed as he drew near to the Scumm Bar and realised he couldn't hear anything. At the door, a cautious push revealed that the bar was entirely deserted. Several empty mugs still sat on the tables. The scene would have been rendered even more Marie Celeste-esque except for the fact that the full mugs tended to disintegrated under the pressure of their load after awhile, and thus were no longer in attendance.

There was a loud wailing coming from the next room. A cautious Guybrush tiptoed in and found the pirate leaders had gone. In their place, the cook was sitting at the table, head flat on the table, wailing to the heavens. Tears spurted out from the crooks of his elbows, considerably wetting the tabletop.

Guybrush was taken aback by the public show of grief, and wasn't sure he'd be able to console the cook any. But, he thought he might as well try. "What's wrong, old sot?" he asked the back of the cook's head.

The cook rose, blinked at Guybrush, and started waving his arms about feverishly. "The Governor is gone!" he wailed in a heavy, foghorn like voice. "LeChuck's spectral crew came and got her! They spirited her away!" He was far too miserable to notice the equally miserable pun. "She was so good to me, always conveniently losing those Health Board reports, for a small consideration, of course." The tears started to fly afresh. "What will become of my business?" he wailed forlornly. "Oh, woe is me!"

The cook buried his head in his arms and returned face down to the tabletop with a heavy thud. Salt water flew in all directions, spattering on Guybrush's pants. The attempted cheering up had not been successful. Still, Guybrush persevered. "What can I do to save her?" he asked.

The cook looked at him again, managing to blink away the tears. "You must get a ship and go after her!" he cried in a voice that virtually commanded. "The ghost pirate's lair is on Monkey Island™, everyone knows that. (Don't ask me how). All you need to do is find a way there."

Guybrush was having second thoughts. The sight of an empty bar, an empty bar on a pirate island, moreover, had temporarily unmanned him. "Why should I do that?" he asked the cook.

"Why, for love, my boy!" boomed the cook. "Don't deny it, it's written all over your face." Guybrush hadn't looked in a mirror lately, so maybe this was true.

The cook was right. He did love her. And he'd go the length of the universe to get her back. Then and there, Guybrush decided he was going to take up the hunt. "Where can I get a ship?" he asked in a calmer, more rational voice.

"Why, at Smilin' Stan's Used Shipyard, same as everyone else! Tell him I sent you, we're old friends."

That left a crew to get together. "Will you join me?"

A look of very sincere regret crossed the cook's face. "Er ... alas, I cannot go to sea. An old war injury, bit of shrapnel in the old leg, I'm sure you understand."

Guybrush did. "Right!" he proclaimed. "I'm off!"

"Good luck!" cried the cook. He started waving his arms again, more in a random thresher pattern than any particular farewell gesture. "Be sure and wear your mittens. And your galoshes." He couldn't hold the tears back any longer. "And don't forget to write!" he wailed before returning again to the tabletop.

Guybrush made his stern way outside.

Outside the bar, his mood faltered. Words were all very well, but how was he going to afford a ship? And where could he get a crew together? He needed some external guidance, quickly.

Guybrush wandered into the town centre, more out of nervous habit than anything else, and when he saw the door to the voodoo woman's shop he suddenly remembered. There was a woman who saw the future. He finally knew his purpose, so it was time to pay her a return visit.

The shop was just as still as he'd left it. Guybrush made his way to the hole of green fire. The chair set behind it was empty.

"Hello?" spoke Guybrush to the thin air. "I'm back and I'm ready to learn about the future!"

There was a brilliant green flash, which concluded with the voodoo woman sitting before him, one leg crossed above the other, feet still bare.

"Yikes!" said Guybrush.

"So, you have returned to learn future," said the voodoo woman, phrasing it such a way that it wasn't a question. "You must first find others to help in your cause." She raised her arms into the air. At this command, the pool of green fire rose as before, brilliant flashes of blue light searing road maps into the back of Guybrush's retina.

"I really hate that flashing, it makes me see spots," said a blinking Guybrush.

"Quiet!" commanded the voodoo woman. She stared into the seething mass of radioactive gumbo. "I am getting another vision. "You must..." She paused.

"Must what?" asked Guybrush impatiently.

"You must go to Monkey Island™. Once there, you will search for the Ghost Pirate LeChuck. He hides deep - deep beneath Monkey Island™. There is only one thing powerful enough to destroy LeChuck."

"What?"

"It's an ancient root," revealed the voodoo woman. "Once prepared, the root can destroy a ghost with a single touch."

"Yeah!"

The pupils of the voodoo woman dilated further. Green fire danced in her eyes. "I am getting more - more vision." She looked at Guybrush, as if deciding to reveal her latest discovery.

"Spill it!"

"I see the Cannibals that live on the island," said the voodoo woman. "They are helping you ... or eating you ... I can't tell, the vision isn't coming in clear anymore."

"Great," said Guybrush wearily.

"Now go find the one that loves you," commanded the voodoo woman. "But be warned..."

"Don't worry," reassured Guybrush, "I'll watch out for LeChuck."

The voodoo woman shook her head. "Not of LeChuck. Of yourself - and what you will find. What you will find out about yourself, and your world." Her eyes stared at him like gimlets. "It will terrify you."

A green flash, and she was gone.

Guybrush got his breath back outside. Now that he thought about it, the vision hadn't really been that useful. Where was he going to get the money from? And who would join his crew?

He looked across the street at the three pirates, still lounging around. Maybe they'd like to help. He wandered over.

"Did you know the Governor's been kidnapped?" he asked them. The three pirates looked at each other.

"Er..." began the rocking pirate in an uncertain voice.

"Well, yes, we knew about that," said Frank more convincingly.

"Why are you just standing around instead of doing something about it?" asked Guybrush.

The pirates exchanged even shiftier glances.

"Well..."

"Uh..."

Guybrush realised he wasn't going to get anywhere appealing to a pirate's better interest, because usually, (and especially for these lot), he didn't have any. He changed tack, and timbre. Maybe a spiel would get them in.

"Can I interest you in a dream vacation to Monkey Island™?" he asked in perfect salesman lingo. "Because of this sudden change in local government, I'm prepared to offer you a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity on a cruise to that scenic wonderland - Monkey Island™! And the amazing thing about this offer is the price: Absolutely Free!! All you have to do is help me crew the ship, and island paradise can be yours - Free!!! (And we might rescue the Governor while we're at it.)" He took a deep breath and looked at them "What say?"

It hadn't convinced the pirates. The rocking pirate, from his position on the keg, was apathetical. "The Governor can probably take care of herself..."

"...and we are sort of busy here..." said Frank, slightly guiltily.

"Yeah," muttered the rocking pirate under his breath.

"...and we've got the circus to think of..."

"...we've got to find the elephant..."

"...and the rat..."

The rocking pirate pointed angrily at the spot their beloved rat had once occupied. "Yeah!"

"...and get rid of these minutes. I'm sorry, we simply cannot go at this time."

Guybrush walked away despondently. But immediately he had an idea. The Sword Master! And she owed him a favour, too.

The walk to the Sword Master's had been uneventful. Not a single pirate was on the road. Everyone had gone to earth.

The Sword Master was the first soul he'd seen since passing the lookout, and she wasn't pleased to see him. "You've already got the T-shirt," she said sourly. "What do you want now?"

Two can play that game, thought Guybrush. "I want to beat you at swordfighting again," he said.

"Ha!" dismissed the Sword Master. "I only let you win because I was sick of you coming around. I thought you'd stay away, but I guess I was wrong."

Guybrush regretted the comment. They had no time for this - the Governor was in deadly peril as they spoke. "I want us to make up and be friends," said Guybrush, apprentice bridge builder.

"I want you to go away and leave me alone," said the Sword Master. She looked dangerously close to going indoors, leaving him to find another crew member. Guybrush whipped out the note.

"The Governor's been kidnapped!" he cried.

"What? That's ridiculous."

Guybrush showed her the note. Carla read it solemnly. "Oh no," she said upon finally reaching the bottom. "This looks bad. Very bad."

"I'm getting a ship and a crew together to go rescue her," said Guybrush.

"Hmmm," said the Sword Master, deep in thought. "I have a feeling I'm going to regret this, but count me in. I'll meet you at the dock." She wandered inside, presumably to get ready.

Guybrush returned to the deserted pathways. It was time to meet Smilin' Stan and arrange a ship.

Meanwhile...

We return once more to the hellish caverns concealed deep within Monkey Island™. Having once returned from Melee Island™, LeChuck and his crew found their old hiding place in the underground rivers on Monkey Island™ and dropped anchor.

In the captain's room, a swarthy figure stood to attention, staring out the hell-lit windows. There was a timid knock at the door, and in came the nervous ghost pirate. "Captain... sir..." it quavered, "I just stopped by to congratulate you on your successful kidnapping mission."

The figure turned and strode into the centre of the room. "Captain?" stammered the ghost pirate. It was immediately obvious that this wasn't LeChuck. For one thing, its skin was solid, fleshy, and disturbingly pink. This figure had a moustache, but no beard and a bald skull. It was Fester Shinetop.

Fester's head began to bulge alarmingly, his eyes popping open.

"Captain? Are you all right?"

The bulging motion grew more violent, his arms waving helplessly, when finally the top of his head split open. The outer shell of flesh fell away like a snake shedding its skin.

The Ghost Pirate LeChuck rid himself of the last vestiges of his disguise and turned to the nervous subordinate. "NEVER FELT BETTER!" he roared. He strode over - the leg movements were almost identical. "And how fares our prisoner?"

"Ah yes, the prisoner. We had a little trouble-"

"TROUBLE?" yelled LeChuck in an unsettling manner.

The ghost pirate drew back slightly. "Nothing to worry about, sir, everything's under control. She escaped a few times, but we've got her locked up in the brig. No one's getting in or out of there."

"For your sake I hope not," said LeChuck in a low menacing voice. He turned to the windows - he never grew tired of this invigorating view. "With years of planning almost destroyed by death, I'm not taking any chances now."

"You took care of Mr Threepwood then?" asked the ghost pirate.

LeChuck made a low throaty sound - it might have been a chuckle. "Guybrush Threepwood will not be a problem. At this very moment, he's twenty feet under water, probably bloated up like a fattened pig. His eyes being eaten out by crabs. Fish pecking at his fingers." LeChuck looked at the ceiling, musing. "Kinda makes you wish you were there to watch."

The ghost pirate swallowed. (Or, more precisely, didn't. We've been over this before). "Ah... yessir... sure does at that."

"Now go check on the root," commanded LeChuck. "Make sure it's locked up tight."

"Aye aye, Captain."

So here was Guybrush again, entering the brightly light plaza that was variously Stan's Used Ship Emporium, Stan's Previously Owned Vessels, Smilin' Stan's Used Shipyard, or whatever other moniker was convenient for taxation and revenue purposes.

His entrance was immediately noted by a tall figure by the Grog machine, which waved a hand and bounded over. "Howdy!" it exclaimed. "I'm Stan of Stan's Previously Owned Vessels!"

Stan was a hyperactive personality who punctuated every exclamation with dramatic hand movements and a staccato tapping of his foot. He was wearing a blue and purple checked overcoat, red pants, and a large white sombrero. In all, the appearance was something of a cross between Steve Forbes and Doctor Who.

"I'll stand on my head to make you a deal!" said Stan brightly. Guybrush stood politely. "What sort of craft are you looking for? Big? Little? Fast? Slow? You want it, I got it. And if I don't got it, I'll get it. I want to make you a deal that you're happy with! Because if you're not happy, I'm not happy!" Stan certainly sounded happy at the moment. "But I know you're going to leave here happy today. How do I know? Just look at all these ships!"

He turned, and a broad sweep of his arm covered the various vessels docked and waiting. "I've got something for everyone! Come take a look around!" He led Guybrush over to the pier. "So tell me - what are you interested in looking at today?

Guybrush looked around the dock at the vessels. "Let me see the best ship you've got."

"Hey, it's nice to meet a man who appreciated quality," said Stan. "I've got just the boat for you. Walk this way." He led Guybrush to a large red vessel only a few feet away. He pointed to the ship grandly. "Now this," he began in reverent tones, "This is a ship fit for a King! I mean, we're talking fifteen staterooms - a fireplace in every one. We're talking two pools - one indoor, one outdoor. We're talking rotating ballroom. We're talking heated crow's nest. We're talking two hundred feet of ocean-going decadence. And all for one low price! Speaking of price, let's talk about money. Your money."

"Money is no object!" said Guybrush.

"Well, it is with me. How much you got?"

"Oh... no more than 172 pieces of eight," said Guybrush casually.

"I think we must be talking about completely different ships here," said Stan. "You've obviously been out of the ship market for quite some time. I doubt you're carrying enough cash on you for this transaction. You wouldn't have any other means of finance, would you?"

"All I have is this rubber chicken," said Guybrush.

"Is it one of those rubber chickens with a pulley in the middle? I already got one of those."

Guybrush had an idea. "Actually, I was hoping to get one on credit."

Stan shook his head. "Sorry, kid. Neither a borrower nor a lender be, that's just old Stan's philosophy. If you've got a job, the storekeeper in town might extend you some credit. Then we'd have something to talk about."

The ship was looking a little too expensive for Guybrush. "On second thought, this may not be the ship for me," he said to Stan.

"Okay, but I tell you, I got a feeling you're going to leave here today with a new previously-owned vessel! So what else can I show you?"

Guybrush went over his fund again. "Something not too expensive, but built to last."

"Affordable quality?" asked Stan. "Hey, that's my motto! I've got just the boat for you! Walk this way." He jogged out along the pier to a sturdy looking Viking vessel. "Now I can see you're a no-frills kind of guy. But I can also tell that quality means a lot to you. I mean, just look at the way you dress! Rugged. Like this baby. She comes from a land far to the North, where the sea is as unforgiving as the men are tough and - hey, you wouldn't happen to be from around there, would you? You just seem to have a sort of Nordic quality about you. Anyway, we're talking about a real value here... how much were you looking to spend?"

"172 pieces of eight?" asked Guybrush hopefully.

"I'm glad this ship doesn't have ears, my friend," Stan said. As a matter of fact it did have ears, small wooden ones carved onto the dragon's head at the front of the craft. "Because if she did, she'd slap your face. I don't think you've got the cash for this transaction either."

"On second thought, this may not be the ship for me either." Guybrush looked around again - surely some of these ships would be in his price range. "I really don't have that much to spend."

"Have no fear!" reassured Stan. "Every ship I sell is a bargain! But if you're looking for a real steal, I've got just the boat for you. Follow me." He skipped to the end of the pier, where a large, doleful boat was docked. There was a definite listing to one side as it struggled to stay afloat.

"This here is the famous Sea Monkey. The only ship ever to make it to Monkey Island™, and come back with anyone aboard left alive. Or, should I say, anything. You see, the owners of this ship were two adventurous pirates. They set off, like many before, to find the legendary Secret of Monkey Island™. And, like many before, they disappeared forever. Their fate - a mystery. Almost as mysterious as how this ship returned to Melee Island™ without a single human occupant. Some claim it was sailed back by a group of chimps."

"Chimps?" interjected Guybrush. "There aren't any chimps in the Caribbean!"

"Oh, shut up," said Stan irritably. "It makes a good story. Anyway, this baby's mine now. That is, until someone makes me an offer. Just how much were you looking to spend today?"

"172 pieces of eight," reminded Guybrush.

"Look," said Stan in a clenched-teeth manner. He was getting a little tired of running up and down the dock. Still, true salesman professionalism prevailed. "This is a very reasonably priced ship, but not that reasonable. You do have some other means of payment, don't you?"

"Actually, this probably isn't the ship for me," said Guybrush. None of them were, given what he could afford. "I'd like to go think it over some more."

"Sure sure, think it over," said Stan quickly, or at least quicker than usual. "I don't want you to feel pressured or anything. Bye now."

Guybrush started down the pier. Before he could leave the plaza, however, Stan had reappeared in front of him. "I forgot to give you my card!" he said cheerfully, handing Guybrush a small paper rectangle. "And here's something else to remember me by."

Guybrush looked at the object in his hand. "A compass?"

"An extra strong magnetic compass," corrected Stan.

"With your picture on it," said Guybrush slowly, thinking aloud.

"That's right! It always points directly back here, so if you're looking for a good deal, you know where to go! I'll be right here when you get back, but I can't guarantee that any of these ships will!"

"Right," said Guybrush. He left.

Stan watched his departure. "They're moving fast today!" he called out. "Yessirree - can't hardly keep anything in stock." Guybrush disappeared around a corner. "He'll be back," said Stan confidently.

Guybrush made his way back to the village. He was going to see the storekeeper. After all, he had a job, didn't he? He was a foul-smelling, grog-swilling pirate!

Inside the store, he paused for several minutes to get his breath back, and wondered why all he seemed to do on Melee Island™ was wander around. The storekeeper looked at him unsympathetically. "I've got my eye on you, boy," he warned. "Steal anything and I break your legs." Guybrush wandered over. "Wadda ya want?"

"I'm interested in procuring a note of credit," said Guybrush.

"You are, are you? Got a job?"

"Yes, of course I do," said Guybrush in a polite voice.

It was enough for the storekeeper. "All right. I'll get one of my notes and we'll fill it out. He brushed past Guybrush, made his way up the stairs, and stopped at the safe door. Guybrush watched as he pulled the lever left once, right twice, left once, right once. The door opened.

The storekeeper reached inside, withdrew a slip of paper, and made his way down the stairs again. "What did you say your job was again?"

"I'm a foul-smelling, grog-swilling pirate!" said Guybrush proudly.

The storekeeper was sceptical. "Foul smelling, yes. Grog swilling, maybe. But a pirate? Don't make me laugh. Come back when you've got some tattoos or a pegleg or at least an eyepatch, for crying out loud."

He returned the note to the safe. "Anything else?"

Guybrush wasn't done yet. If the storekeeper wouldn't give him credit, why then, he'd just have to take it. It seemed like the right piratey thing to do. "I'm looking for the Sword Master of Melee Island™," he told the storekeeper.

"Look, I told you, she doesn't want to see you."

"Maybe if you asked her again?"

The storekeeper thought. "Hmmm. I suppose I could hike walk the way over there - again. Be right back." He walked to the door, and was soon lost to the Melee Island™ night.

Guybrush looked cautiously around, then climbed the staircase to the safe. Recalling the correct procedure, he pulled the lever once, pushed twice, pulled once, and pushed once.

The safe door glided open smoothly.

"Hmmm... there's nothing in here except this note." He took the note. It read:

I, the good and honourable storekeeper, do hereby take liability for

the debts of bearer of this note for any amount up to 5000 pieces of eight.

Guybrush gasped at the figure - he'd never owned even a thousand pieces of eight. Suddenly, he felt very rich. Hastily he shut the safe door, dashed down the stairs, and made a quick return to Stan's Shipyard.

Stan was overjoyed to see his return. "Howdy! I knew you'd come back. Everyone does! You know why they come back? Just look at these ships! I've got something for everyone! Come take a look!"

They stopped at the pier. "So what else can I show you?" asked Stan.

Guybrush looked longingly at the red beauty behind him. "Can I see that red one again?"

"I knew it! I knew it!" said Stan triumphantly, as if finally proving the binomial theorem. "Just can't get her out of your mind, can you?" They walked over and again regarded the sleek and sturdy lines of the timber. "Now here's a ship that's definitely worth a second look. How much would you like to spend?"

"I got credit from the storekeeper. Will you take it?" asked a hopeful Guybrush.

"I'd love to," said Stan, but he sounded oddly regretful. "I really would. I usually do. But not for the amount this baby's going to cost you. Maybe one of the other ships would be in your price range. What else can I show you?"

Guybrush considered. "Can I see that Viking one again?"

"Sure, sure," said Stan. "You're obviously an educated guy who wants to make an educated decision. Walk this way." They wandered over. "Can't keep your eyes off her, can you? Let's talk about money - your money."

"Will you take credit from the storekeeper for this ship?" asked Guybrush.

"Sadly, no," said Stan. "This baby's going to run you for just a little too much."

There weren't many ships left in his price range. Guybrush sighed - it looked like he was going to leave with a lemon. "Uh... could I see that cheap one again?"

"Sure! No problemo!" exclaimed Stan, slightly shrill. "After all, I've got nothing better to do than haul my butt up and down this dock showing guys like you the same ships over and over again all day long!" They trudged over.

Upon reaching the ship, Stan regained some of his good humour. "Hard to stay away from a good mystery, isn't it? Let's talk cash."

Guybrush proffered the note. "Credit from the storekeeper?"

"Hey, of course!" exclaimed Stan. Guybrush brightened. "Your credit's always good at Stan's! It doesn't matter if you've had credit problems in the past - divorce, injury, chronic gambling mishaps - I mean, who am I to judge, right? If the storekeeper trusts you enough to give you a note of credit, then you must be an honest man with a steady income, right?"

"Uh... right!"

"Let's get down to brass tacks, shall we?" said Stan. He could smell a sale already. "I know you want it; you know you want it; and I know that you know that I want to sell it, so..."

"Well, what do you think it's worth?" asked Guybrush. He wasn't sure he was an expert at this haggling business.

"You could sail this puppy away today, for just ten thousand pieces of eight! How does that sound to you?"

Too much. "Let's talk extras," said Guybrush, with the express purpose of getting rid of them.

"Extras? You want to talk extras? Great! This baby's loaded with extras! For instance... did I tell you about the porthole defoggers?"

"I think I can live without that particular piece of junk," said Guybrush.

"Okay, but don't blame me if you run into an iceberg or something," said Stan. He ran through the list of extras, and to each one Guybrush gave a firm shake of the head. Near the bottom, Stan was shaking his head in amazement. "Wow, does your wife know you're such a cheapskate?"

That was the lot. "Well, what do you think it's worth?" asked Guybrush, hoping for a big decrease in price.

"You could sail this baby away today for just seven thousand three hundred pieces of eight," said Stan. "How does that sound?"

Guybrush nodded. Nearly there. "I'd like to make you an offer."

"Great! How much?"

"I'd like to pay two thousand pieces of eight."

"Sure, I guess we can start out at the bottom. I got all day. I'm going to be getting a whole new shipment next week, so you got me over a barrel. I've got to sell this baby, even if it means losing my shirt."

"Well, how does three thousand pieces of eight sound?"

"That's a little bit more like it, but not much. I know you can try harder than that. Just tell me, what would it take to get you to sail this ship away - today?"

"Okay, okay! Four thousand."

"That's better, but it's still not enough. Buddy, you can tell me the truth. It's the little woman, isn't it? You're afraid of what she'll say when you come home with a new ship. Don't be such a wimp! Stand up to her! She'll respect you for it. And when she sees this ship, she'll love you for it. Trust me."

The bargaining was not going well. Soon Guybrush would be flush out of funds. "All right! Five thousand! But that's my final offer!"

"Five thousand pieces of eight?" exclaimed Stan. He paused. An internal struggle seemed to be taking place. "Okay! Okay!" he finally shouted. Guybrush breathed a sigh of relief. "It's killing me, but okay! And I thought I was going to give my children Christmas presents this year. Just take it out of here. I'm glad to get rid of it." He brushed past Guybrush, but stopped halfway back. "Oh yeah, do you still have that note from the storekeeper on you?" Guybrush joined him and handed it over. "Thanks. I've got to run these numbers by the boss... he'll think I'm nuts, but I'll talk him into it. You meet me at the dock with your crew. I'll bring the ship and the papers." He shook Guybrush's hand. "You know, I just want to say that I really feel like we got to know each other today. I mean, I really felt some bonding here. And I don't just say that to everybody! It's been great doing business with you. Really. See you at the dock, and don't forget to bring your crew. All three of them."

Stan entered the office, whispering "Sucker," under his breath as he did so. The door shut firmly. Guybrush wandered over and looked at the door, to which a piece of paper had been stuck. Guybrush read it.

I sold a ship! Can you believe it?I'm off on a long vacation spending some

poor sucker's money! Arrivederci, baby!

Something about the note made Guybrush uneasy. Plus there was still the problem of finding two more crew members.

After spending several hours searching the roads, the problem seemed a little larger. There wasn't a soul about. Guybrush had combed the island from foot to head and found nothing.

There was something, however, at the far end of the island, past the Sword Master's. The path came to a rocky shore, and at the far end of a thin strait of water, a tiny island was located. Pointing to this island was a set of gaudy yet cheerful signposts, lit by flashing yellow lightbulbs. The visitor was exhorted to 'Visit Fabulous Hook Island', where they could find such wonders as 'Restrooms' and 'Souvenirs'. Connecting the two islands was a thin cable, strung between two poles.

Guybrush climbed the first pole to the landing, and looked at the cable. It was strong enough to support his weight, maybe, but how was he going to get from one side to the other? The flying fox attachment had been removed.

Guybrush looked through his inventory for anything that could be of use. His eyes caught the rubber chicken with the pulley in the middle - what possible use could it have? Guybrush lifted it clear into the open, looked at it again, then hooked the pulley over the cable. The two halves of the chicken flopped down on either side, making useable handholds.

Guybrush gripped them tight, took a deep breath, and pushed off.

The ground flew away beneath him. Hurtling forward at suicidal speed, he was carried out to sea. The arms began to stretch with his weight.

He was starting to reach the far side, and now he slowed. The ground of Hook Island came into view below.

Just as his forward momentum was about to give out, he reached the landing. Guybrush gripped the pole firmly, then unhooked the chicken. He looked at it in a new light. "Wow - that's some chicken."

He climbed down, legs still a little shaky, and looked around the new territory.

Hook Island had evidently taken something of a dive. The only structure remotely resembling habitation was a multi storey house set against a rock wall. Guybrush walked over to the front door, and knocked.

No answer. He tried the doorknob, found it unlocked, and opened the door. Cautiously he entered.

The interior that greeted him was not at all bad, in a Spartan sort of way. At the back, the room slowly metamorphosed into a mining tunnel, but here at the front there was a cheery fire to give things a homely feel. Detracting a little from the homely feel was the bald man charging across a chequered rug toward Guybrush. He didn't look happy to see visitors. And furthermore, he had two metal pincers where his hands should have been.

Guybrush was slightly taken aback. Not helping much was the bald man's large naked chest, and the mean looking skull tattooed on it. The rank eyepatch gave the final touch. "Hey!" shouted the bald man. "I don't like visitors! Who are you?"

"Excuse me, but the sign outside said there were restrooms in here," said Guybrush politely.

"Sorry, but that sign's a little out of date," said the bald man. He looked up, suddenly reminiscing. "I used to have a thriving tourist business here. I had animal acts, tattoo demonstrations, souvenirs - but there was a little accident with one of the trained animals. One of our guests was hurt very badly. So I was shut down, put out of business, and since then I've lived here all alone. The only company that I have is the same beast that mauled that unlucky tourist. The same beast that made me a hermit." The bald man turned his back and stared into the tunnels, suddenly shivering. "A monster that, just by coincidence, is identical to the one that attacked me when I was just a child, and left me with this hooks instead of hands-" he held them up for Guybrush's inspection "-a deformed man." He looked at the floor, momentarily lost in thought. "Geeze, now I'm all depressed. Thanks a lot. Can't you just leave me alone now?"

Guybrush had gotten himself together. The old Guybrush might have run screaming. But this was a new Guybrush. Look out world. "I'm a pirate, cannonball-head. Who are you?"

The bald man put his hooks on his hips. "My name's Meathook - and I think you've got a little attitude problem."

Guybrush had been trained by Captain Smirk - he wasn't about to let that opening pass. "Yeah, well I think you've got a little hair problem."

"Geeze!" exclaimed Meathook. "You just don't know when to give up, do you?"

Guybrush wanted to stop, but Meathook just kept on leading with his chin, giving him openings galore. "Obviously, neither did your barber."

"Why you!" Meathook chased him out of the house.

Guybrush immediately turned and opened the door again. This guy sounded like a pirate, and he needed a pirate. Meathook sighed as he entered. "I suppose you've come to invade my peaceful home and insult me again?"

Guybrush realised he might as well get on Meathook's good side. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to call you cannonball-head."

Meathook grinned at him. "That's okay. I'd rather have a cannonball-head than a pony tail. Ha ha ha!"

Guybrush was stung. His face turned red. "I meant to call you chrome dome," he said nastily.

"Why you!" Guybrush was chased out a second time.

On the doorsteps he berated himself. No more burning bridges. There was job to do! Even now Elaine must be in mortal peril! He entered Meathook's house for the third time, and thus time brandished the note from LeChuck. There was no more time to waste. "The Governor's been kidnapped!" he exclaimed.

"What? That's preposterous?"

"Oh really?" He handed the note over. "Take a look at this note they left."

Meathook read it slowly. His face grew serious. "Oh no! This is horrible! What are we going to do?"

Why, thought Guybrush, does everyone assume I don't know what to do? "We could just wait around here for them to come back," he said sarcastically.

"Yeah, we could do that," agreed an oblivious Meathook. "But it might get kinda boring around here... I know! We could get a ship and a crew and go rescue her!"

"What an idea!"

"Now, if we only had a captain..."

Guybrush drew himself up to his full height. "What about me?"

Meathook looked at him incredulously. "You? Ha ha ha ha!! That's a good one!"

"Hey, I'm serious!"

Meathook squinted at him. "Really?"

"Really."

"Okay, let's see you prove it. Walk this way." Meathook led him to the back of the room. Here a small tunnel receded into darkness. By its side, however, was the second largest wooden door Guybrush had ever seen. Meathook stopped at a small lever set into the stone by the door. "There's something in here that I want to show you. Something horrible." He stood in front of the door, staring at it blankly. "Something so horrible that I stay awake at night just thinking about it..." He looked at Guybrush. "But I don't mean to scare you. I'm sure a big, brave guy like you will have no problems facing this monster. After all, it's much smaller than the beast that bit off my hands so many years ago." He pulled the lever down, and the thick planks of wood opened, revealing a smaller steel door set into the rock. "Let's just hope you're quicker than I was." Meathook rotated a similar lever on the steel door, causing it to disappear upwards. Twin alligator teeth steel plates were revealed. Meathook had wandered over to one side, by a small button hanging from the ceiling. "Oh, I just remembered something - I never did get around to feeding him this week. Silly me." He pressed the button and the steel teeth parted. Behind them was a wooden trapdoor maybe a foot long. Meathook paced back to Guybrush - he looked jumpy. "I'll let you open this last door yourself," he said softly, before walking past at high speed. "Just let me get out of your way."

Not knowing what to expect, Guybrush walked slowly toward the trapdoor. "Wait!" he cried out to Meathook, who had made some distance.

Meathook turned reluctantly. "Getting cold feet?"

"No, I just don't know what I'm supposed to do."

"You're supposed to open that little door - and, if you're brave enough, touch the beast inside." He continued to pace away, and didn't stop until safely ensconced on a bunker at the far end of the room. "Okay, go ahead - if you're brave enough."

Guybrush reached a hesitant hand out to the wooden door, grasped the brass latch, and pulled it upward slowly. A guttural noise came from behind.

"AAAAIIIEEE!" screamed Meathook, ducking for cover.

The door slid up slowly, revealing a small green bird going "Braaaaaaaaaaak!" Guybrush stroked its feathers. The bird, not liking this treatment, only squealed louder.

Meathook appeared behind Guybrush. Tapping the lever, the little door swung shut again. His eyes were wide. "I don't believe it. You're a brave man after all. You faced the beast I've feared all these years. You had the guts to do what I never could." An ashamed Meathook turned his back. "I feel like such a coward." he said sadly. "I'm not good enough to be on your crew. I'm not even good enough to swab your decks."

"Oh come on, Meathook," said Guybrush behind him in a friendly voice. "You're a big, strong, great looking guy with a great tattoo - you can swab my decks anytime!"

Meathook turned, a look of insane gratitude in his face. "Really?"

"Sure!"

"I can still be on your crew?"

"Just pack your stuff and meet me at the dock."

"Oh thank you, thank you!" exclaimed Meathook happily. "I won't let you down." He walked briskly over to his bedside table and started rummaging through his belongings. Seeing his work here was done, Guybrush started for the exit.

"Hey, maybe I'll get to show you my whole tattoo routine when we're at sea!"

Guybrush liked the sound of this. "Hey, this is sounding better and better all the time!"

He walked purposefully along the main town pier. In the distance, he could see Stan manoeuvring his ship into the harbour. Guybrush was headed toward the third member of his crew. The only pirate who hadn't yet fled for safety. The only pirate, in fact, that was unable to do so.

Otis the prisoner.

He looked reasonably pleased to see him, or at least pleased compared to most of the Melee Island™ folk. "The Governor's been kidnapped!" said Guybrush as his opening line. It tended to get people's attention.

As it did now. "What?" asked Otis, hanging onto the cell bars. Guybrush showed him the note. "They've kidnapped the Governor? That really makes me mad. I feel like kicking someone. Hmmm... I wonder if she left her place unlocked."

"If I let you out, would you join my crew?" wondered Guybrush aloud.

"Sure! Of course! To my emancipator, I shall be eternally indebted. Until then, I pace." A pursuit he immediately resumed.

Guybrush left the prison, thinking. He didn't have the keys to the cell, and he didn't have the file anymore, so there must be some other way of breaking the lock. Perhaps an acid...

Guybrush knocked on the door of Scumm Bar politely, but he may as well have just barged in because it was still deserted. He scooped up as many mugs as he could find, then darted into the kitchen. Sure enough, the barrel of grog was still there in the corner. Ah, grog, the only drink with a negative pH. Underneath the tap, the floorboards had been completely eaten away by stray drops.

Guybrush took one of the mugs and filled it. Steam rose up, and there was a warm hissing sound. Quickly Guybrush rose and ran out of the bar, making his quick way to the jail. The mug was melting even as he ran, so he did his best to pour the grog into a new mug. Pausing only now and then to refill a new mug, Guybrush ran for the jail as fast as he could without spilling drops on his arms.

Otis was happier to see him this time. "Hey great, a drink!" he said as Guybrush ran hell pell into the jail. "I'm real thirsty."

Guybrush tossed the remaining grog at the lock, which immediately began to hiss. "Yikes!" said Otis, ducking into the corner. The lock was glowing orange, and clouds of steam that smelled like rust were dispersing.

The last drops of grog hit the stone flagons on the floor, leaving a disintegrated lock. "Wow," said Otis. "And to think I used to drink that stuff." He pushed open the door and strode gladly out. "I'm free! Oh yeah, thanks." He turned toward the exit. "Sucker! Ha ha ha!" Running now, Otis quickly disappeared around the corner.

"But..." Guybrush wished Otis had stuck around so they could discuss things a bit more. "Do we still have a deal?"

The doorway remained empty.

"I'm sure he'll be back," said Guybrush. "He gave me his word as a pirate." But somehow, thought Guybrush, the word of a pirate was not the most trustworthy to be given.

Guybrush walked back to the pier, deciding he may as well guide Stan in. Now where was he going to get a third pirate from?

Stan was waiting for him, and he was in far better spirits. "Hey!" he greeted Guybrush. "It's a good thing you showed up. Ten people have offered to buy this baby from me while I've been standing here waiting for you. But I said 'No Way! I know a guy who's in love with this ship, and it would break his heart to lose it.' Am I right? Of course I am! I mean, just look at her!"

They turned and looked at the wooden hulk floating before them. Stan put a matey arm around Guybrush's shoulders. "Sleek... aerodynamic... a buoyant, barnacle covered beauty." They paused there for a moment, watching the ship, the way its flag fluttered in the night breeze, the way it bobbed up and down in the current, the pleasing sway of the masts.

A shooting star appeared above the ship, carving a bright blue arc.

"I think we're having a real moment here," said Stan, looking lovingly at the ship. He let go of Guybrush. "I've changed my mind. I can't give her up. You can have your money back. How could I sell something so dear?"

One of the smaller masts suddenly cracked, and fell into the harbour.

"Then again, a deal's a deal, right?" said Stan quickly. "Right. Catchyoulater. Goodluck. Enjoy. I'mouttahere." Stan would have left then, but he suddenly remembered something. "Whoops! I almost forgot to give you this free seafaring literature." Guybrush took a couple of pamphlets. "My gift to you. Just remember where you got it. STAN'S!!!" Finally, he was gone.

Maybe I should have gotten that extended warranty after all, thought Guybrush. But his thoughts were rapidly interrupted when he saw Otis approaching from one end of the pier.

"Hey, long time no see," greeted Otis.

"Your Aunt Tillie makes lousy carrot cake," said a surly Guybrush.

"Oh come on. Don't be bitter. I'm here to help. Not just for the money."

Money? thought Guybrush. Again his interior dialogue was derailed, this time by the Sword Master appearing behind him. "Yeah, we are getting paid for this, aren't we?" she asked.

"Carla. How appropriate. You fight like a cow."

"Look, don't start with me, okay?" She looked at Guybrush's ship. "So what's that waterlogged wreck doing out there? How are we going to get our ship in here with that pile of scrap in the way?"

Now Meathook was approaching. He looked concerned. "Where's the cabin boy? I need him to go back to my place and pick up my bags."

"What's going on here?" asked the Sword Master.

"Where's our ship?" asked Otis.

"Where's our crew?" asked Meathook.

This isn't going to be as easy as I thought, thought Guybrush.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4

The Secret of Monkey Island

PART 1: THE THREE TRIALS

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