Part 1: Part 2 Part 3 Part 4

Prologue

Elaine Marley fastened the rope tightly to the steel girders poking out of the reinforced concrete. She took a final look around the island, at the mounds of dirt which had once concealed her grandfather's treasure. Then, holding the rope tightly, she lowered herself into the hole blasted out of the reinforced concrete base.
The interior was hollow, and rather roomy. There was naught but air below her - she couldn't even see the bottom, even though the tropical sun was almost directly above. She could see, however, a white rope hanging from the opposite lip of the concrete chamber. Hanging from it forlornly was the sorry figure of Guybrush Threepwood. In his other hand he held a large wooden chest.
Elaine had been expecting him. Ever since she heard the explosion, somehow she knew it had been Guybrush. "Well, well, well," she said. "Guybrush Threepwood. You do turn up in the strangest places."
"Err," said Guybrush, a little embarrassed. "Hi Elaine. Do you think you could help me out?" he continued, not expecting a positive answer. If past events had been any guide, things were just going to get worse.
True to form, Elaine didn't look like she was about to spring into action. "How did you get into this mess?" she asked.
"It's kind of a long story," explained Guybrush, waggling the rope a little in an attempt to reroute Elaine's attention. For a moment, the motion threatened to restore some life to a limb that had been dead numb for hours. Fortunately, it went.
"That's OK, I've got time," said Elaine.
Guybrush sighed.
"Well, it all began on Scabb Island," he said wearily. "Some of my admiring fans had pressured me into telling my LeChuck evaporating story once again..."

MONKEY ISLAND 2: LECHUCK'S REVENGE

Scabb Island.
There were many islands concealed deep within the Caribbean. Scabb Island, however, stood alone, in that not many islands were nearby. It also stood alone in that it, like its sister island Melee, was a pirate island. There were some islands where pirates were tolerated, and even some where they were welcomed. But perhaps Scabb was now the only island where pirates were free to be pirates, in all their warts and glory.
There are many interesting figures on Scabb Island. But from the point of view of the story, the three most interesting figures were the pirates currently sitting on logs around a fire, on one of the less polluted beaches near the main settlement. Two of them, Bart and Fink, would have been there anyway. But the third was a visitor, and none other than the mighty Guybrush Threepwood. He was telling a story, and was just getting to the good bit.
"So I bust into the church and say, 'Now you're in for it, you bilious bag of barnacle bait!' And then LeChuck cries, 'Guybrush! Have mercy! I can't take it anymore!'"
"I think I know how he must have felt," commented Fink drily. He was a tall, dark pirate with a fearsome eyepatch, and he held a bottle of grog in his hand. He sat back and ran a hand over his thick moustache.
Bart, who was sitting on another log and warming something white and puffy over the fire, concurred. "Yeah, if I hear this story one more time, I'm gonna be crying myself."
"Don't you have any new stories?" said Fink.
"Well, actually, that's why I'm here on Scabb Island," Guybrush said. He looked at the fire, which was burning strongly, casting yellow light on the three figures sitting under the blue night sky. Many months had passed since he'd destroyed LeChuck, and if pirating was sometimes less than it was made out to be, he was still a changed man. For a start, he was cultivating a beard. It wasn't particularly fearsome yet, but Guybrush was confident it would mature in time. As he had.
His personality, too, was a little different. The innocent Guybrush had taken to insults like a pig takes to slop, or as it's more usually put, a fish takes to water - and now he was just a little bit different. He might not be grog swilling - it really irritated his throat - but Guybrush was certainly keyed into the fast-talking and foul-smelling aspects of pirating. A consequence of this was that he'd developed an ego. Every pirate had one - you just couldn't go around with a name like Dreadbeard if you were prone to personal insecurity.
He looked up. "I'm off on a whole new adventure," he said proudly.
"Growing a moustache?" enquired Bart.
"No," corrected Guybrush. "Bigger than that."
"A beard?!?" said an astonished Bart, who had a little trouble seeing this small, pale, ponytailed pirate with a beard you could house a lice farm in.
Guybrush rubbed at the brown hairs on his chin. Obviously the beard needed a little work. "No, I'm in search of treasure," he said. "The biggest treasure of them all. A treasure so valuable, and so well hidden, that it haunts the dreams of every pirate on the seas."
"You mean," began Bart in an awed voice. He looked at Fink.
"Big Whoop?" they said simultaneously.
"None other," confirmed Guybrush.
"Then why'd you come here?" asked Fink. "There's no treasure on Scabb Island!" In keeping with virtually every other pirate island that has ever existed in the Caribbean, Scabb Island's stock of treasure had run out centuries ago.
"Well, I didn't know that before!" said Guybrush hotly. He'd thought Scabb Island would have been the perfect place to start. But the reality was less inspiring. "Now I'm trying to charter a ship and search someplace else. When I return, I'll have riches galore, and a whole new story."
"Or you'll have died trying," added Fink helpfully.
Bart shrugged. "Either way, we won't have to hear about LeChuck anymore," he said.
Guybrush stood up and strode away, his blue coat flapping against his legs. At the foot of the path leading to the town he stopped. "Ha!" he said derisively, fairly sure he was out of earshot. "Those guys wouldn't know a good story even if they paid fifty bucks for it. When I find Big Whoop I'll become a legend among pirates for generations to come." He shook his head, and a little reality seeped in. "If only I could charter a ship and find a way off this stinking island..."
Goaded to action, he started along the path to the town.

PART 1: THE LARGO EMBARGO

---

Guybrush came to the bridge, where he stopped to take stock of things.
The bridge led over twenty feet of tepid seawater that ran green and brown with effluent, to a conglomeration of stony islands and beached ships which was Scabb Island's main settlement. It looked a lot like a hurricane had foundered a pirate fleet on the stony shore, and the pirates, those that emerged alive, had decided they may as well set about making the place habitable. And they succeeded - just.
Some ships - those that hadn't cracked in two and were still slightly seaworthy - floated in the heavy water and were connected to solid ground by means of wooden platforms and bridges much like the one at Guybrush's feet, which was the only way off and onto the mainland. Other ships, and shiplike constructions, sat on the rocks some twenty feet above the limpid water.
A sign by the bridge, which Guybrush read, proclaimed the dwelling to be Woodtick.
Guybrush patted his pockets, in which resided a large fortune in gold and jewels. He could see no foreseeable problems in charting a ship with this much money, in actual fact, it was most probably enough to see through the whole journey. He'd be travelling first class on this treasure hunt. No more part time circus work for him! Guybrush wondered what to buy first. He could just stand here and pat the money all day. Money, money, money. Looking once again into the dimly lit and dangerous pathway in front of him a strange urge arose to squander his wealth on immoral and dangerous vices. Guybrush squashed the urge, and wished all the girls who wouldn't go out with him in school could see him now!
The booty clinked as he walked, and was also a bit heavy - maybe it was time to invest in a money belt. Still, it might be plenty of money, but it was nothing compared to what he'd have once he found Big Whoop.
Guybrush stepped onto the bridge and started to cross. It was lit from above by a single yellow lantern, enough to show cracks and holes in the planks. Guybrush wasn't worried, however, even if he did fall through and was smothered to death by the fumes coming from the ocean. Pirates didn't worry about such things.
Guybrush looked ahead, and was surprised to see a short man with rabid black hair striding toward him. He was met midway on the bridge by the man, who wore puce green pants and a white shirt, and was thus obviously a pirate.
"Where do you think you're going, fancy pants?" growled the man, glaring up at Guybrush. "You ain't from these parts, are ya? This here's a toll bridge. You gotta pay."
Guybrush was not troubled. Mainly because he was fairly short himself, and anyone even shorter was obviously not someone to worry about. "Who's gonna make me, shorty?" he rejoined, jabbing a finger at the man. "I'm a pirate. I don't pay for nothin'."
The man's eyebrows narrowed. "Tough guy, eh?" With lightning-quick hands he grabbed Guybrush by his coat, lifted him up into the air, and dangled him upside down over the side of the bridge, holding him by the left foot.
Guybrush waved his arms around and started screaming. The man jiggled him up and down, in a manner strangely unreminiscent of Lipton's tea.
"Help!" screamed Guybrush. "Police!"
"Ha ha ha!" laughed the man. "Scream as loud as you want! There are no police on Scabb Island!"
Guybrush's head started to swim from the noxious sea fumes. Furthermore, gold coins were starting to spill from his pockets. "Then who keeps up the law and maintains order?" he gasped.
"I'm the only law on this island!" barked the man. He hoisted Guybrush back onto the bridge, and saw the gleam of gold. "Hey, you're loaded!" he shouted. "This is my lucky night!"
Guybrush was swaying from side to side with the combined effects of fume inhalation, blood to the brain, and adrenaline shock, and in no condition to resist the man's rapid ransacking of his person.
The man, having finished with Guybrush, strode past and onto the mainland, where he turned and pointed at Guybrush. "Remember," he said, "Wherever you go, on sea or land, you can't ever hide from Largo LaGrande!" He exited stage right.
Guybrush wiped a large runner of sweat from his forehead. "Tough town," he said. "I guess I should have got those traveller's checks."
He looked back into Woodtick. No one had moved to his cries of distress. Indeed, he couldn't see anyone moving at all. Guybrush shrugged, and stepped onto the far side of the bridge.
It didn't end on land. Instead, the bridge was supported by two broken ship masts, and the path of wooden slats continued over the rancid sea. A hulking ship, run aground on sharp rocks, marked the first dwelling on his right. Guybrush decided to say hello. He walked along the path, took a right, and entered a small squat hut erected on the skeleton of the ship.
Inside the light was warm and yellow, coming from the lanterns hanging near the ceiling. There was a man standing by a table, pounding something made of wood into submission. Around him were arrayed all manner of wooden implements. Peglegs, chairs, barrels, hammers, nails - this was obviously a woodsmith. The calendar hanging above, a risque depiction of Buzzsaw Girl, served to further this impression.
"Nice craftsmanship," said Guybrush, pointing to the peglegs hanging from the ceiling.
The woodsmith, whose name was, conveniently, Woody, didn't turn from his work. "Thanks. I made them myself," he said quickly.
Guybrush coughed - he'd wanted the woodsmith to turn around so he could have a conversation. "Ahem," he said louder, when the cough turned out to have little effect.
The woodsmith sighed, put his tools back into the front fold of his apron, and turned to Guybrush. "Yeah?" he said, hands on hips (out of habit, not because he was being particularly belligerent).
"Nice apron," complimented Guybrush sarcastically. "Are you some kind of chef?" Truly, for Guybrush the insult had become a way of life. There was nothing like the feeling of getting a good zinger past.
"No, I'm a woodsmith," said Woody. "Which gives one of us an excuse for dressing funny."
Guybrush coughed, and dropped the subject. "What's the problem with that Largo guy?" he asked, pointing in the general direction of outside.
At the mention of Largo an angry expression crossed Woody's face. "He really goes against my grain!" he said forcefully. "I'd like to make an end table out of him, but I don't have the guts." He looked around the workshop. "With all my tools, I'm still unable to create the one thing that could do this island some good."
"Like an all night tattoo parlour?"
"No, like a voodoo doll of Largo LaGrande!"
"Oh." Something told Guybrush Woody wouldn't be of much help to him. He nodded, and went outside, rejoining the main path.
It wound deeper into the town, the ships lurking above and below. Guybrush was just coming into view of two of the largest - a structure on his right that looked like a metal Zeppelin, and a ship floating on his left. The path forked to meet it, running to an open hatchway from which light welled out.
Two signs were hanging from the main mast of the ship. Guybrush trotted over and looked at them. The first, and largest, proclaimed the ship to be the Bloody Lip Bar and Grill. The second, less impressive sign, said "Help wanted. One week's salary in advance. Inquire below." Guybrush started - that was how he could get off this island. Earn some money! It might take a while, and the treasure hunt might start a little late, but better late than never. There was no way he'd be able to charter a ship on good faith.
Guybrush walked to the hatch. A steep staircase led down into the dim depths. Guybrush made his careful way down.
At the bottom he stood for a moment, letting his eyes adjust to the gloom. It was quiet in here - surely too quiet for a bar. The only sound was a small squeaking coming from his right.
Guybrush rounded the banister and saw the Bloody Lip, and really, the Scumm Bar didn't look like it needed to worry about competition.
It was deserted. The floorboards were bare, and pretty dirty. The ceiling timbers were likewise stained, and although various hanging ropes and shipping paraphernalia gave a veneer of authenticity to the place, it was an effort wasted.
At the back wall, in one corner, was a piano. At the back wall, in the other corner, was the bar. In front of the bar were four empty stools. Behind the bar stood the bartender, a big man with a nose like a squashed tomato. He was wiping a mug with a spit stained dishrag.
Guybrush walked over. "Excuse me," he said.
The bartender put the mug down and looked at him. "Yeah, boy?"
"I saw your sign outside. What's the job?"
"Oh yeah," said the bartender. "I really should take that thing down. I hired a new cook just this morning." Guybrush followed the bartender's gaze to a door behind him, from which came strange smells and the sound of running water. "But if things don't work out with him, I'll let you know."
Guybrush looked around the empty bar. A small sign on the piano perhaps said it all: "Jojo - appearing nightly. No cover charge." He never knew how to handle awkward silences. "How's business?" he asked, resting his arms on the bar.
"It's just terrible," moaned the bartender. "No one ever comes down here anymore. Largo's got all my regulars spooked. You know, I can mix any drink there is, make anything you could name, but I can't do the one thing that could really do this island some good."
Behind the bartender, Guybrush could see a small shadow descending the stairs. "What's that?" he asked, helpless to stop himself.
"A voodoo doll of Largo LaGrande!"
The shadow had reached the bottom of the steps and came into the light. "You there!" it shouted, and it was none other than Largo himself.
"Uh oh," said the bartender in a low voice.
Guybrush tried to make himself inconspicuous, but Largo had no interest in him, instead marching to the bar where the bartender stood looking nervous.
"Give me my usual," he said harshly, his mouth barely coming to the top of the bar. "And put it in a real glass!" The bartender nodded, and quickly filled a glass with grog. Largo took the glass, chugged the grog, and turned to face Guybrush. His mouth made strange chewing motions, and then he spit.
Guybrush ducked instinctively.
The green loogie sailed over his head and smacked wetly into the timber in the corner of the bar.
The bartender, who had been watching its progress, was caught by surprise when Largo leapt up and grabbed him around the neck, pulling his face to the bar. "Fork over the dough, or you'll be serving Bloody Mary's for a week." The bartender was released. "From your nose."
The bartender opened the till, and took out a large white bag. This had obviously happened before. Largo looked at the size of the bag. "That's all I have," protested the bartender, handing it over.
"Well you better have more tomorrow," threatened Largo, "or we might have to mope this dump to a new location. Like, say, the bottom of the ocean?" He cackled, and returned to the stairs.
Guybrush waited until Largo was safely out of earshot. "Boy, you just gave him all your money!" he finally exclaimed.
"I don't want to talk about it," said the bartender, picking up another mug and wiping it clean (possibly the wrong word).
Guybrush sighed. Another avenue was closed off. Even if this bartender could give him some work, he was broke. "Nice place you have here," he said, not bothering with the sincerity. "Well, see ya."

Outside, Guybrush looked around Woodtick. If it had ever been a thriving throng of pirates, those days were long past. Largo had everyone cowed. And worse, Guybrush didn't think he could see a single ship around that was seaworthy. Where could he get a charter from?
The Zeppelin ship in front of him still intrigued him, though. Guybrush walked to its small entrance, ducked his head, and entered.
This place had long ago given up all pretence of seaworthiness. The gaping holes in the ceiling, for example, through which the night sky shone brightly. The decayed and cracked floorboards at his feet. In contrast with the bar, however, at least whoever owned this place had heard of furniture.
In the corner near the entrance was a small woodfire. By it, on a small ledge, was an even smaller bed, with an even smaller table holding an even smaller lantern. It reminded Guybrush of a dollhouse he used to have - er, that is, a dollhouse his sister used to have. Guybrush wondered who could possibly fit in the kid size bed, then he looked to his right and saw who.
There was a large, low wooden table. On it was a candelabra, and a picture of some kind. And poring over the picture in dim yellow light was a small kid with red hair and a monocle. The kid looked up, and saw Guybrush. "Hello," he said, before returning to his work, whatever that was. He had a strange voice - high pitched, yet insistent, with a deep throated lining. It struck Guybrush that maybe this kid was as old as he was.
Guybrush looked at the wall behind the kid and saw it was covered, head to toe, in maps. "Nice maps," he said.
"Drew them myself," said the kid, not looking up. Guybrush wondered why anyone would draw a map.
"Excuse me," said Guybrush. It was time to find out if the kid could help.
"Oh yes. Hi there," said the kid, looking up at him. He kept his hands flat on the table, and for some reason this posture reminded Guybrush of a seal. "Can I help you?"
"Hi, I'm Guybrush, ghost-busting stud," said Guybrush by way of introduction.
"Uh huh," said the kid. He returned to his work, leaving Guybrush to meditate on the stupidity of that introduction.
"Er," said Guybrush, "what I meant to say is, I'm Guybrush. Who are you?"
The kid looked at him again. "Wally. Wally B. Feed. At your service."
"At yours and your families," said Guybrush, who had also read The Hobbit. As a matter of fact, this Wally looked a little bit like one. "I have some questions about Scabb Island."
"Why? Thinking about moving here?"
"Actually, I'm trying to get off it as soon as possible," said Guybrush, hoping Wally wouldn't be offended.
He wasn't. "Good luck!" he said. "With the sailing embargo Largo's imposed on Scabb, it's hard to get anywhere. Which doesn't help my business, let me tell you."
"You know anything about this Largo guy?" At the moment, all Guybrush knew was that Largo had all his money.
"He's just the local hood - shakes down everyone in town. Nobody comes or goes from Scabb because Largo makes them pay through the nose."
"Yeah, tell me about it," said Guybrush sympathetically.
He had an idea. "Where's the Governor's mansion?" he asked. Each Caribbean island had a Governor's mansion, occupied by a Governor. They were the law. If anyone could help him (of course, he probably wouldn't help him), it was the Governor.
"There is no Governor on Scabb!" exclaimed Wally. "This is an anarchist cooperative of pirates, cutthroats, and other criminals. A haven for roughnecks and rebels like me. The only authority on this island is that bully Largo."
It looked like Guybrush might be staying a while. "I'm looking for some room and board," he said to Wally.
"Well, I hear there's a new chef down at the Bloody Lip," said Wally. "And the Swamp Rot Inn has all the comforts of the sea. But I think Largo's booked the whole thing."
"Thanks for the lowdown," said Guybrush gratefully.
"Anytime," said Wally.
This Wally character didn't seem so bad after all. Maybe he might even be able to help with his other problem. "Do you know anything about Big Whoop?" asked Guybrush.
The name was familiar to Wally, who looked left and right shiftily. "Uh oh. Who sent you here? I should warn you: I'm heavily armed."
"Don't shoot! I was just asking," said Guybrush apologetically.
"Well, that's a dangerous question," reprimanded Wally. "I've been researching Big Whoop for years. There are lot of people who'd like to get their hands on my files."
Guybrush couldn't believe his luck. Someone who'd been researching Big Whoop for years! "Where do you think it's buried?" he asked. "Can I see your files? Want to join as a team?"
Wally was reluctant. "Well, actually the files don't have anything in them. I haven't been able to find out much about it. What do you know about it?"
Guybrush thought. Now it came to it, hardly anything at all. "I know I'm looking for it, and that's about it," he confessed.
"You mean you never heard of the four men who buried it?"
Guybrush started to fudge and say Yes, of course, before realising he may as well be honest. It might be helpful. "No, tell me all about it," he said instead.
Wally took a deep breath. "Well, all anyone knows for sure is that there was a shipwreck. The merchant vessel Elaine went down in a terrible storm."
"Elaine?" mused Guybrush aloud.
"Only four crew members survived," said Wally solemnly. "They washed up on a remote, deserted island. Some say its name was 'Inky Island', but I don't believe that."
"Why don't you believe it?" asked Guybrush. "Go on. Finish the story."
"Because there's no such island," said Wally with the voice of authority. "Anyway, that's where they supposedly found Big Whoop."
"But what is Big Whoop?" asked Guybrush. The legends weren't specific here. Everyone agreed Big Whoop contained unimaginable wealth, but nobody was sure exactly what kind of wealth.
"Whatever it was," said Wally, revealing he too didn't know, "it was so wonderful, or so horrible, that they never wanted anyone else to find it. So they took the map of the island, and split it up amongst the four of them. And they all went their separate ways."
"Where are they now?" asked Guybrush.
"Well, I don't even know their names," said Wally. "I'd go look them up at the Phatt City library, if it weren't for this stupid Largo Embargo!"
Guybrush made a note to visit the Phatt City library.
"Of course, it could just be an old legend," added Wally. "But if I could just see the map of that island, I bet I could recognise the shape of the land and track it down myself."
This Wally seemed very familiar with maps. "What is it you do here?" asked Guybrush.
"I'm a cartographer."
Guybrush did a double take. "You do open heart surgery? In here?"
"Uh... no," said Wally. "I'm the mapmaking sort of cartographer."
"Oh. How's business?
"Terrible!" exclaimed Wally. "No one needs any maps since no one can go anywhere, thanks to Largo."
What kind of maps to you make?"
Wally was delighted to have a chance to explain his work. "Every kind a pirate could need! My eyes have seen the whole world, and there's not a part of it I haven't put down on paper."
"Is that all you do? Make maps?"
"Well," said Wally less enthusiastically, "I also do some restoration work. I paste them together, re-copy them, paint little cupids in the corner, you know. Artsy-fartsy stuff."
Guybrush had thought of an insult. "Ha! Only sissies use maps."
"Maps are very, very important," said Wally gravely.
"Not to me - I don't travel." This wasn't true, but Guybrush was more interested in the effect of his words than their validity.
"That's even better!" said Wally. "With good maps, you can see the whole world without even leaving your living room. And if you actually wanted to leave the house..."
"Actually, I just prefer to stop and ask directions."
Wally grinned. "That's what Magellan thought. Ha ha ha!" He blinked at Guybrush. "Sorry. Cartographer joke."
"Is longitude the sideways one, or is that latitude?" asked Guybrush. He seemed to be a little below form tonight.
A condescending smile appeared on Wally's face. "It's so cute when you lay people try to understand geography. I could try to explain it to you, but it would probably go over your head."
Guybrush suddenly remembered the time, and realised that while he'd been talking to Wally several planets had collided, space travel had been discovered and chimps had learnt to fly. "You know, I could just talk about maps all day," he said, "but-"
"Hey! Me too!"
"-I have to go. See you."
"Okeydokey," said Wally. Guybrush left.

He breathed in once more the Woodtick air. Here, at Wally's door, the path forked again. Left, it went directly to the hull of a large ship. Right, it wound up until finally reaching solid ground, a tall rocky spire on which rested the broken remains of another pirate ship. Guybrush could see people up there.
He went left. This looked like the Swamp Rot Inn. Maybe there might be a spare room.
The entrance to the Inn was high and clean, and boded well. However, inside Guybrush found himself descending a shallow set of stairs, which led to a dim lit and lonely lobby. The floor was bare except for a green rug at his feet. On the far side were arrayed purple chairs and coffee tables, but they were offcolour and empty. In addition, the ship wasn't entirely on a level, so that the main masts which ran through the room tilted slightly to the left.
Tied to one of the masts was a nasty looking tiny green alligator. Guybrush was glad to see the knot was very secure.
Nestled in a corner by the other mast was the innkeeper. He looked to be busy with paperwork. Not wanting to disturb him, Guybrush looked at the guest registry. "Hmmm... only one name," he mused.
The innkeeper heard him. "Yeah, but that dang Largo eats like thirty."
Guybrush seemed to have his attention. "Excuse me, I'd like a room please," he requested.
The innkeeper shook his head. "Sorry, we only have one and it's full." He pointed at the stairs on his left, which led to a small alcove. Guybrush peered around and saw a small door. "Sorry," said the innkeeper.
There was nothing he could do here. Guybrush wandered out and took the right path. It wound up steeply, and before long Guybrush found himself once more standing on firm ground. Firm ground, of course, being a relative term. Up here on the ledge, he didn't feel all that secure.
There were, as he had supposed earlier, people up here. Above, and on his left, three pirates were sleeping on a ledge even more precarious than that he currently stood on - it was narrower, higher, and sloped dangerously. The pirates looked strangely familiar.
On his right stood a strange pirate wearing thick glasses stood at attention behind a bench. And in front, the innards of the ship were laid bare. It had broken in half in the tremendous storm which hurled it onto the stony plateau, and now huts and roofs had been erected in the bare space between fore and aft. Lanterns hung from the splintered remains of the masts. And, more strangely, clothes lines hung between the masts, weighted down with dripping clothes.
There was a sign on the mast nearest the strange man, who had a black hat with an X on it and was thus obviously a pirate. "Not responsible for stains left on clothing." Another read "Not responsible for lost buttons or hooks." It occurred to Guybrush that this was the Woodtick laundry, and the pirate was the laundry guy.
Which made him completely useless. Guybrush forgot him and once more looked at the pirates on his left. They really did seem familiar. He debated with himself for a moment, then tiptoed out onto the narrow ledge beneath the pirates. Their feet hung just out of reach of his head. He was acutely conscious of the gaping space behind him.
He craned his head upward to talk to the pirates, and the feeling of vertigo increased. A gust of wind came and tugged him sideways.
Guybrush swallowed, and took a deep breath. "WAKE UP!" he yelled.
This had immediate effect on the pirates. The pirate nearest, a tall man wearing a black shirt, black tricorner hat, and a wooden leg, yawned and stretched his arm. The middle pirate, fat and stupid, opened his eyes and blinked like a magpie. The pirate on the left, the one closest to the edge, merely opened his eyes and stared down at Guybrush. He looked the calmest of the three - he wore no shoes, no socks, had a natty red headband, and was sitting nonchalantly mere centimetres from a drop that could kill him.
Guybrush had finally placed the pirates. He knew them, all right, from Melee Island. They'd been trying to get a circus started. Along the way they'd tried to sell him the minutes of PTA meeting, claiming it to be a map.
The pirate nearest Guybrush, his name Frank, was the first to speak. "What is it?" he asked sleepily.
Guybrush became aware a rat was running around the ledge by his feet. This didn't help his composure much. "Long time no see," he said to the pirates.
They looked at each other. "Do we know you?" said Frank.
"I'm Guybrush Threepwood, a mighty pirate."
"How nice for you," said Frank.
"No, really-"
"Why did you wake us up, Gorbush?"
The rat ran back along the ledge and disappeared around the corner. "Is that your rat?" asked Guybrush.
"Yes," said the pirate with the red headband. Guybrush didn't know his name. "We call him 'Muenster Monster' because of his insatiable passion for cheese." The middle pirate, who took up enough room for two, looked left and right shiftily. He'd never spoken to Guybrush before, and didn't look like starting now.
"What are you guys doing up there?" asked Guybrush. After all, they could at least sleep on the ground.
"We're performing."
"That's right," agreed Frank. "Performing."
"That's what we do for a living now."
Eh? thought Guybrush. The middle pirate had gone to sleep again.
Frank took up the story. "You see, after our circus failed, we started a pirate catering business on nearby Phatt Island."
"'The Sacking Lunch'. It was quite lucrative."
"Why aren't you still doing that?" asked Guybrush, who wasn't sure what this had to do with performing but was sure they'd get there eventually.
"The Governor of the island made us an offer we" - here Frank paused and looked at his fellow pirates for support - "couldn't refuse. So we sold him the business."
"What did you do with the money?"
"We sank the money into one of those new-fangled glass-bottomed boats."
Frank nodded. "We wanted to take passengers on sight-seeing trips-"
"-and search for a place called Drinky Island in our spare time."
"Boy, did we ever want to get there!" exclaimed Frank.
I'll bet they did, thought Guybrush, before realising that Drinky Island sounded a lot like Inky island.
The short pirate on his left continued. "Apart from the obvious reason, we had inside information that Drinky was in fact the resting place of the legendary treasure of Big Whoop!"
Guybrush stared up at the pirates. "Big Whoop! I'm looking for that too! Er, did you find anything?"
"Well, I hope your luck is better than ours," said the short pirate.
"You see, we got a bit of a raw deal on the boat," said Frank.
"Seems the salesman didn't have any glass for the bottom, so he just left a gaping hole there."
"By the time we noticed, we were taking on water fast!"
"We ended up stranded on a deserted island."
Guybrush's excitement had ebbed. They'd obviously never even gotten close, just as they seemed to similarly distant from explaining the performing bit. "How much longer is this story?" he asked wearily. "I think it's past my bedtime."
"We met a philosopher on the island," said Frank, "and he told us something which changed our lives."
"That you should bore passers-by to tears with long stories?"
Frank ignored the comment. "He told us that all the world is a stage, and that we are merely players. So, we became performance artists. In our current work, we portray the man's response to global environmental issues of a changing world."
"How come you have to perform on that ledge?" asked Guybrush, getting back to the original point.
"Ah..." said Frank, thinking, "to show the precarious nature of the position. So to speak."
"Right, right," agreed the short pirate.
"I think you're overlooking the potential symbolism to be gained by your closeness to the earth," pointed out Guybrush.
"Er," said Frank.
"But..."
"All right, you got us," admitted Frank. "We're really up here because, well..." He didn't like to say.
The short pirate finished for him. "We're afraid to come down."
The fear completely baffled Guybrush "What?" he asked incredulously. People had fear of heights, not fear of depths.
"What's the word for it, Frank?" asked the short pirate.
"Err... ahhh..." mumbled Frank, thinking deeply.
"Terrafirmaphobia?" suggested Guybrush.
"It's the opposite of Acrophobia," said Frank. "Something like 'Orcaphobia'."
"Sounds like 'workaphobia' to me," opined Guybrush.
"Say what you will, we're not coming down," said the short pirate.
"Okay," said Guybrush. He couldn't really care if they came down or not. "What happened to your leg?" he asked Frank.
Frank looked down at the wooden appendage where his right leg used to be. "It happened during a performance," he said, wincing a little at the memory.
"When he lost the leg," continued the short pirate, "Frank was brilliantly showing the inseparability of the path man walks from the food chain."
"The symbolism of the cheese was essential," said Frank. He looked again at the leg, going over it with his fingers. "You know, this leg is looking sorta dingy. Would you get some polish over at the woodsmith's and polish it for me?"
"You'll have to give me the money for the polish," said Guybrush.
"OK," agreed Frank. He took a piece of eight from his pocket, leant down, and dropped it into Guybrush's waiting palm.
Guybrush pocketed the money. "See you later," he said, and edged back onto more solid ground. He could have asked about employment, or Largo, or where you could charter a ship from, but not to these people. Even as he left they fell asleep again.
Guybrush looked around Woodtick in disgust, and started back the way he'd came. Nobody could offer him a shred of help. Everyone was frightened of Largo. Call themselves pirates! Guybrush snorted. He had a single gold coin, but didn't look like getting any more. He had no money, no ship (he didn't even know if there was a ship), and Largo was in his way anyway.
He reached the far side of the bridge, where the sign proclaimed 'Welcome to Woodtick - No Trezer huntin' zone." This was indicated in an unusual way, by hanging a shovel from the sign and painting a red circle around it. Guybrush reached out to take the shovel. It was a "Thrifty-dig� - For the treasure hunter on a budget."
It came out easily in his hands. Guybrush looked at its angles, depressed. Maybe he'd be reduced to treasure hunting on this dry hump of an island.
There was only one place he could go. Guybrush shrugged his shoulders, and took the path back to the beach.

Bart and Fink were still here - they hadn't moved an inch. Guybrush sat down on the empty log and tried not to look too sheepish.
"He's back," said Fink.
"I ever tell you about the time I kicked LeChuck's butt?" said Guybrush hopefully.
"Look, Guybrush," said Fink, "besides the fact that we'd all rather die than hear that story again, there's another reason why you shouldn't go spreading that story around."
"Largo LaGrande is back on Scabb Island," said Bart in hushed tones.
"Tell me about it," said Guybrush.
"He used to be LeChuck's right hand man," continued Bart. "You don't want to get Largo on your bad side."
That answered something - why was everyone afraid of this puny blackhaired pirate? "Tell me about this Largo guy," prompted Guybrush.
"A two-bit thug!" said Fink contemptuously.
"He's nothing but a low-down weasel!" agreed Bart.
"So why don't you kick Largo off the island?" asked Guybrush.
"Well, we would," said Fink, looking uncomfortable.
"But he was very close to LeChuck," said Bart.
"LeChuck's gone forever!" said Guybrush.
"I heard they never found the body!" said Bart.
"That's because I blew it into a thousand pieces!" exclaimed Guybrush. "Remember? I had the root beer, and LeChuck-"
"Oh no, not this story again!" said Fink, and with that the discussion ended.
"How's the pirate business?" asked Guybrush.
Bart looked disgusted. "Horrible."
"The sailing embargo has all of us pirates landlocked," explained Fink. He took a swig of grog. "We can't go about our business."
"Some of us tried pirating on land, but it just doesn't feel right," Bart said sadly.
This was the third time Guybrush had heard of the embargo. "What's this about an embargo?" he asked.
"The Largo Embargo!" said Fink - apparently, it had a name.
"Well, it's not really an embargo," conceded Bart. "It's a tax on ships coming or going."
"But it's a huge tax that no captain on this island can afford."
"Including Dread," said Bart.
Fink squinted at Guybrush, and swigged more grog. "That fool Largo just doesn't know when to stop. He can't take more from us than we have!" He spit into the fire, which crackled loudly then subsided.
Guybrush wasn't going to give up that easily. "Any idea where I could hire a ship?" he asked them.
"You'll need to go to the far side of the island," said Fink. "And there you'll meet a man named... Captain Dread!"
"Yikes!" said Guybrush. "Sounds intimidating."
"Not really," said Bart. "Once you get to know him."
"Of course," sighed Fink, "he can't take you anywhere until Largo lifts his sailing embargo."
Guybrush smiled. So, Captain Dread obviously wasn't that intimidating. There was just one more piece of business he had, then he was back on the hunt.
"Is there a voodoo practitioner on the island?" he asked.
"What?" said Fink.
Guybrush had heard one of the Woodtick residents musing about making a voodoo doll of Largo. It so happened Guybrush, while never having made a voodoo doll in his life, did have some experience in the black arts. And one thing he'd noticed is that voodoo magic tended to be highly effective.
"There's the International House of Mojo," said Bart. "It's in the swamp on the east side of the island."
Guybrush stood up. "Well, I'll see you salty dogs later."
Bart looked at Fink. "That reminds me - do we have any weenies left?"
Guybrush walked away. The beach here was quiet and secluded. The sea, too, came in over numerous rocks and crags and by the time it finally reached the shore it was too tired to bother with all that tedious wave nonsense. This had probably once been a favourite tourist destination, before Largo had come along. The most visible remnant was a small, round hut built on a rocky outcrop in the sea and only reachable by a small spit of sand. It was Rapp Scallion's Steamin' Weenie Hut, where once upon a time the steamin' weenies had rolled out by the barrel-load. No longer.
As he left, Guybrush noticed a small stick lying under a line of sleepy oaks. It caught his eye - something about its length and thickness was intriguing. He picked it up, and found it would make a very good walking stick. Just the thing for tackling the rugged interior of Scabb Island.
Guybrush walked on.

Scabb was a small, but treacherous island. Guybrush could have walked straight along the beach, from here on the north side until he reached the swamp at the east. But the way was too rocky, there were cliffs, and overall the safest way was to take the interior on.
Scabb's interior was, for the main, flat. There was only one real mountain, and from it flowed the only real river. It ran directly east from the mountain, itself in the centre of the island, until breaking into a delta at the eastern swamp. Guybrush expected to find the International House of Mojo here.
He walked south. Soon he found a path going southeast, the way he wanted too. He followed it, and after ten minutes of hiking found himself at the edge of a vast, stinking, green bog. Trees, twisted and dark, grew in the swamp, obscuring his vision of the interior. Wreathes of fog curled around their branches, issuing from some unknown passage deep in the swamp. He caught warm gusts of air, and heard fluttering noises.
Fortunately for Guybrush, a sign at the edge of the swamp told him he had reached his destination: "The International House of Mojo. By the sign, floating in the green water, was a coffin. There was a paddle in the coffin.
"Creepy, but apparently seaworthy," said Guybrush, and climbed into the coffin. It rocked in the thick water, but not much, and hardly sank at all. Guybrush grasped the paddle and started paddling.
His path forward led him directly into a thicket of trees. The progress was slow, and Guybrush had plenty of time to look around at the stagnant water, the green scum, and the brown foliage, the way the roots of the trees split above water, like mangroves.
He was now passing under dank and decaying boughs. The light was almost gone entirely. Tiny points of light wheeled above him, and it wasn't until a pair flew down and swooped him that Guybrush realised they were bats. He raised his paddle to fend them off, and suddenly the fen was full of a frantic screeching and fluttering.
Guybrush bent his head down and paddled harder. He looked ahead and realised he could see green light glowing in the distance.
He rounded a dark clump of growth and saw it.
The light came from torches, wet pieces of wood which had been set in the swamp and now burned with a green flame. There were four of them, acting as markers on a pathway leading to the International House of Mojo.
There were no bats here, although Guybrush could still hear them behind him - the light must drive them away. That, or the dwelling he now beheld.
Suspended above the water, beyond the green torches, was a huge wooden shack, shaped as a head. Its eyes were ship wheels. It had a hollow gaping nose, from which yellow light spilled. Its teeth were dirty and slanted. It had no lower jaw, leaving a space of perhaps six feet between the roof of its mouth and the swamp.
Guybrush tried to peer into its throat to see what lay beyond, and couldn't pierce the gloom. He started paddling again.
The coffin passed under the face of the hut, and was enveloped either side by the bent and warped logs which supported it. Soon the coffin had passed completely into the interior. Still he couldn't see what lay ahead. For all he knew the passage would get narrower, which would make things tricky.
The normally still swamp water started to run under the coffin. Guybrush looked down and saw it running away in all directions, as if on a very shallow fountain. Guybrush felt a thump.
The coffin was lifted out of the swamp water, and toward the roof of the mouth. Now, as Guybrush looked up, he saw there in fact wasn't a roof, merely an open circular hole. The coffin, borne on a thick circle of wood, was heading straight for it.
The lower jaw of the head clicked shut.

Guybrush looked around, and stepped out of the coffin. He was in a small room, dimly lit by candle light, and the first thing he noticed was the smell, half rotting spice, half cooked chicken. He looked around, and saw two ancient, huge shelves struggling under the weight of more jars and bottles than he could count. The bottles, which took a whole shelf to themselves, were unlabelled. In any case, Guybrush wasn't sure he wanted to know about their colourful, sludgy contents.
The second shelf was more interesting. Near the top, bound editions of "Voodoo quarterly." They took up a lot of space. Near the bottom, labelled jars. Guybrush picked up one - "Tender-touch pirate powder�," he read. "Prevents stump chafing and eye-patch rash." By it, another jar, this one "Golden Tongue� - the five day treatment plan that helps you talk to women." He moved on. "Eau d'Mojo - the mystical aroma of Voodoo captured in a delightful potpourri." Elsewhere, he found cat de-wormer, skink toes, bat wax, and Ash-2-Life�.
His eye was caught by a slight green glow to his left, and suddenly Guybrush realised he was staring out of the eyes of the head. The nose was a triangular gap around his knees. He was in its brain area.
There was a small table under the right eye. It contained two skulls (Display models), and a length of thin string - yo-yo string, as it turned out. Guybrush took the string, if only because he knew it was just bound to come in useful.
But it was time to meet the proprietor. At the far side of this small antechamber, opposite the eyes, were drawn back two thick purple curtains. Guybrush ducked into the small gap between, and here she was.
She sat on an ornate, tall chair with a back fashioned to look like a cobra. Green lanterns were lit either side. Behind the chair, a huge green sheet was draped the height of the wall, and along both adjoining walls. The overall effect was of entering a large tent.
The room was littered with large jars containing what looked like tadpoles, and various anatomical diagrams. But the point of interest for Guybrush was the old voodoo lady, who sat before him barefoot, wearing a striped red and green dress, large white blouse, and green turban. She seemed to have been expecting him.
"Guybrush Threepwood," she began. "It's been a long time since you last came to see me."
He'd never visited this hut in his life. "Do I know you from somewhere?" he asked, scratching his head.
The voodoo lady nodded. "Ah, we often forget those who help us most."
"We do?"
"It was I who told you how to do away with LeChuck," said the voodoo lady. "I told you where to find the voodoo antiroot, and how to turn it into the powerful ghost-dissolving potion you needed."
"Oh yeah. Now I remember," said Guybrush. He was starting to recall the voodoo lady on Melee Island, who had helped him discover his purpose. But she hadn't told him how... hadn't it been the Cannibals who... Guybrush let it go. It was in the past, and too much trouble to revisit now. But he did recall her telling him his fortune.
"I'd like to have my fortune read," said Guybrush.
The voodoo lady stared into the middle distance and began to speak, only it sounded more like a recital. "I see a hard road for you, Guybrush. Things didn't get easy for you when you defeated LeChuck, did they? People only wanted more. You had to keep proving yourself over and over. The pressure kept mounting, until you lost it all - your fame, your fortune, the one you love."
Guybrush was a little unnerved by her shrewd guesses. How did she know about Elaine? "OK, that's enough," he said, not really wanting to hear any more. If the voodoo lady had any say in it, things would just get worse. "How's business?" he asked conversationally. He'd found it was a good way to change the topic. People loved talking about themselves.
The voodoo lady was no exception. "Very good," she said with satisfaction. "Many hexes this week. Saved many people from the evil eye. Made many pieces of eight, although Largo took most of them."
"Tell me about this Largo guy," said Guybrush.
"He's a weak little man who bullies this whole island around," said the voodoo lady.
And he seems to have a problem making friends, thought Guybrush.
"Most people are afraid of him because he was once LeChuck's right hand man."
This point Guybrush just didn't get. LeChuck wasn't around anymore, so how come everyone was still afraid of him? "But LeChuck's history. I got rid of him myself."
"True evil can never be destroyed completely," said the voodoo lady forebodingly. "You will see."
"Why don't you just put a curse on Largo?"
The voodoo lady sighed with frustration. "I've tried. My most powerful magic lies in voodoo dolls. But to make an effective doll I need some items from Largo's person, and no-one's brave enough to go get them for me."
"What sort of ingredients do you need for the doll?" asked Guybrush, who didn't want to get that close to Largo's person if it was at all possible.
"Are you willing to help me make one?"
"Uh, maybe."
"To make it work, you need to bring me some personal artifacts of the victim. One from each of the four basic food groups: something of the Thread, something of the Head, something of the Body, and something of the Dead."
"Hey, that almost rhymes!" said Guybrush.
"For the thread, I need piece of Largo's clothing," said the voodoo lady. "And a lock of hair will do for the hair. Bring me a sample of fluid from his body-"
That, thought Guybrush, may be difficult.
"-and from his Dead relatives you must acquire some remnant of a corpse. Here - take this shopping list."
The voodoo lady reached for the floor, picking up a scrap of paper. She handed it to Guybrush.
"Thanks," said Guybrush.
"Now, go!" commanded the voodoo lady. Guybrush did so, brushing past the curtains and returning to the coffin. As he sat down, his weight caused the floor to sink again.

Five minutes later, he was standing on the shore of the swamp, and walking briskly south. He already had an idea for one of the ingredients.
Scabb Island, of course, had a cemetery. But unlike most islands where the cemetery, if not exactly prominent, is at least in the general area, Scabb Island's cemetery was located on a lonely, windy promontory at the southeastern corner of the island, about as far from everyone else as possible.
Nevertheless, Guybrush was still able to find a path to it. Not five minutes later
he was at the cemetery, a large area fenced off from the rest of the island. He walked under the arch leading in.
Near the entrance, several small houses had been erected. One, however, was sitting alone near the beach on his left. Guybrush approached it, and found the reason was that it was a Quarantine tomb - the inhabitants had died of Green Tongue fever.
He looked around the cemetery. He had no idea where he could find a blood relative of Largo. It looked like he'd be searching every tomb.
The tomb nearest the entrance was marked "The Ricketts - no trespassing."
Next to it was a crypt, with a curious inscription: "Stan's Kozy Krypts� - A Place to spend eternity, not a fortune!" Guybrush had known a Stan who was in the ship business. Could this be the same person?
Guybrush moved to the next tomb, marked "The Quagmyres - no trespassing."
Slowly but surely, he was drawn deeper into the cemetery, away from the entrance and toward the point where two sides of the Scabb Island coastline.
"The Grouts - no trespassing." Having seen the final tomb, Guybrush looked at a row of crosses embedded in the earth. These too had an inscription: "Stan's Casual Crosses� - For graves that don't need to dress up." Fortunately some of the crosses actually had names, less fortunately they weren't the names he was after. "Here lies Hank Plank. Does anybody recognise his name? He didn't have any money on him when he died, and somebody's got to pay for the funeral - Stan." None of the crosses were any help. "Here lies Nibbles the dog. He was a bad dog. We're glad he's dead."
Guybrush sighed and looked to the bluff, which overlooked 270 degrees of shallow ocean. Erected upon this mound of earth were the tombstones, in a position where they would be sheltered from wind by the thick foliage that grew between them and the sea.
The first gravestones he came to were in a group of three, being those of the Unknown Pirate, Unknown Cabin Boy, and the Unknown Drunk Guy We Found Face Down In His Own Vomit On The Beach. A further three were marked as reserved for future occupants.
That left just four graves, standing on the very summit of the bluff, under the boughs of the greenery.
Guybrush came to the first. "Here lies Daredevil Jim Mcdow. Hand of steel, leg of wood... Jim took every risk he could. A life of action, that was Jim's. Too bad he ran out of limbs." He could have skipped straight to the next, but actually some of these epitaphs were really good. Besides, it wouldn't do to go disrespecting the dead on a pirate island like Scabb.
He came to the next tombstone, which was smaller but neater. "No man commanded Jean Louise. Not on land, and not on water. Jean did whatever he pleased, until he kissed the gunner's daughter."
The next tombstone even seemed to have a limerick of sorts.
"There once was a girl named Carrie
Who thought that she soon should marry
She went into town
And flirted around
She didn't get wed she got buried."
There was one tombstone left. It occupied prime place on the bluff. Guybrush held his breath as he read the inscription.
"Marco Largo LaGrande. Hell on sea or sand. The good news is: he's dead. The bad news is: he's bred."
At last. After trawling through every grave in the place, Guybrush had found his man. He looked down at the soil he would soon be digging up, and saw with relief that it was loose and not too dry.
The metal lip of the shovel plunged deeply into the earth. The full moon shone on a cloudless night but somehow, from somewhere, lightning struck suddenly, immersing the cemetery in painful light. Thunder rolled and lightning struck again as Guybrush dug deeper and deeper.
The shovel struck wood. It wasn't very sturdy wood, as the metal blade plunged right through it and into the space below. Guybrush threw the shovel aside and knelt down. The smell of death wafted out.
Guybrush reached into the coffin and grasped a bone. It came out easily in his hand, and in the light of the moon Guybrush saw it was a thigh bone. He raised it above his head triumphantly.
Violent bursts of lightning cannoned across the sky. The trees around him shuddered with the force of the thunder, rolling in across the sea from both sides. Gales of wind swept the bluff.

Largo LaGrande was in his room at the Swamp Rot Inn, and he was not happy. "I'd swear on my grandfather's grave, something weird is going on," he mused, trying to work out why he suddenly felt so peculiar, so thin.

Back at the cemetery, things had calmed down once Guybrush hid the bone in his coat. He filled the hole back in, and was soon on his way out.
It was a long, tiring walk back to Woodtick, which gave Guybrush plenty of time to muse about where he might get the other ingredients. Finding something of the thread shouldn't be hard - all he had to do was break into Largo's room at the Swamp Rot Inn, get a piece of clothing, and get out. Finding something of the head would be a little more difficult, unless Largo was the type to cut his hair himself. The hardest seemed to be the fluid. Guybrush could only think of three. One involved injury, and there was no way Guybrush was cutting Largo without a voodoo doll to protect him. Another involved personal ablutions, and Guybrush found the idea of collecting Largo's urine even less appealing. The third he might as well forget about altogether.
But as he neared Woodtick, he thought of a fourth - spit.
The green loogie he'd hocked in the Bloody Lip. Probably it was still there - the bar didn't look like it'd been cleaned in months.
Woodtick came into view. Guybrush walked nimbly along the platforms until he came to the Bloody Lip, where he opened the hatch, ducked down the staircase, and surveyed the murky interior.
There it was. A thin bright green stain on the wall. You couldn't miss it. Largo had been here. Guybrush walked over and knelt down, ignoring the strange looks he was getting from the bartender. He reached out a hand, then common sense intervened and withdrew it.
How was he going to collect the spit?
Fortunately the answer was at hand. Guybrush, scanning the room, saw the sign on the piano and took it. It was bond paper. Not too thick, and not too tissue thin. Perfect.
Guybrush wiped off the spit, folded the paper in two, and gingerly slipped it into a coat pocket. That made two.
Guybrush looked longingly at the kitchen, at the job that should rightfully have been his, and looked back at the bartender, who seemed to have forgotten all about him. Guybrush got an idea.
He stood up, slunk over to the kitchen door, and slid around the frame. Once inside, he ducked against the wall so as to be out of sight of the bartender. He exhaled, and looked around.
It wasn't a bad little kitchen, certainly better than that in the Scumm Bar. There were plenty of canned goods in the cupboard on his right, and on closer inspection they all turned out to be cans of fruit cocktail. There were shelves laden with meats and jars, huge sacks, barrels, and chests. The table in the centre of the room was bare, supporting only a single knife and a candelabra. And in the back was the biggest, baddest, nastiest cast iron stove Guybrush had ever seen.
And then there was the chef. He was thin, and had black hair, and was wearing a very conspicuous red apron, but Guybrush could make out much more because the chef had his back turned, and was doing something to a barrel in the corner.
Guybrush tiptoed to the centre table and took the knife. He considered stabbing the chef, thus vacating the position, but it just wasn't him. Guybrush had something of an aversion to violence. At least, he amended, an aversion to the kind of violence where the other guy's got a chance of inflicting some. But the knife felt good, and he just knew it would be as useful as the string, so he took it.
There was a large pot on the stove, and Guybrush wandered over to take a look at the chef's handiwork. He peered in, and saw a cold potato and leek soup. Guybrush hated leeks.
The chef suddenly walked to a table near the door, paying Guybrush no interest. He started chopping vegetables.
Guybrush swallowed. His route of escape had been blocked. And surely the bartender would be wondering where he'd disappeared to. He looked around frantically for a means of escape.
One presented itself. The wall near the stove was inset with three windows. Only one of them didn't have any glass in it. Guybrush looked out - below was a narrow window ledge. Above, by just craning his neck he could see a rail.
Guybrush climbed out onto the window sill, and reached for the rail. By stretching, he could just grasp it with both hands. He took several deep breaths, and flexed his muscles.
Guybrush leapt. His arms bent, retracted, and pulled upward. His left foot found the floor of the deck, and Guybrush was able to roll over the rail and onto the deck. He lay there for a minute, breathing heavily.
Presently he got his breath back, and got up. He started toward the Swamp Rot Inn, because he now had a plan for getting inside Largo's room.

The proprietor of the Inn, busy with his paperwork, failed utterly to notice a small furtive shadow detach itself from the entrance and dash around to shelter behind the thick mast to which his pet alligator had been tied. He did notice, however, a green flash seconds later, and looked up just in time to see Pegbiter dashing out the stairs.
"Hey!" he shouted. "How'd old Pegbiter get loose?" He quickly stood up, rounded the desk and strode out the lobby, moving surprisingly quickly for someone with a wooden leg and a moustache reaching to his ears. "I'd better go catch him," he muttered to himself, "before he catches somebody else."
Guybrush put the knife back in his pocket and came out from behind the mast. He looked quickly to the entrance, but there was no need - the innkeeper was long gone. He smiled, and walked past the front desk to the staircase.
Several short steps led to the small alcove, into which was set a single door. Guybrush listened for activity, then opened it.
What he saw was a typical bachelor pad. The one lantern cast dirty, wavering yellow light onto the interior, but it was more than enough.
The bed was messy and unmade. The floor (Guybrush couldn't really see deep enough through the muck to see if it was carpet) was littered with ancient leftovers. Guybrush made sure not to touch them - it looked like Largo was trying to grow penicillin.
Guybrush remembered Largo might be back at any moment. He entered and tried to shut the door behind him. Unfortunately, it swung slightly open. Guybrush tried again but the door didn't seem to close properly. He sighed and strode over to the dressing table. It was a bit on the tattered side and only had one drawer. This one drawer was open, and empty. But there was something on the dressing table which lifted Guybrush's spirits.
A styrofoam head. And on the foam head was a black toupee, with strange little white bugs all over it.
Largo wore a wig. And even it had lice.
Could this be something of the head. Guybrush thought yes, and lifted the wig from its perch. That just left a bit of clothing, and surely Largo had some around here.
Guybrush tried pulling the dresser drawer open, but it wouldn't budge. He looked on the floor. He knelt down, held his nose, and looked under Largo's bed. He lifted the bedspread and looked in Largo's bed. He saw a dressing screen in the corner and looked behind it.
Nothing.
Largo was obviously the kind of pirate who only had one set of clothes - those he wore. Guybrush had met several pirates like this, fortunately never at close range.
This made things more difficult. He would have to be crafty...
But first he'd have to get out of here so he had time to think. He was almost to the door when it opened before him, revealing Largo.
"Who let you into my room?" barked Largo angrily.
"I... uh... thought it was my room," stammered Guybrush.
"Well, it ain't. So get the #$%^ out of here!" Largo mercifully stood aside, allowing Guybrush to dart out the open door and into the lobby. Here he stood for a while, calming down and thinking.
He needed a way to get Largo out of his clothes. Maybe he didn't have any spares here, but perhaps he had extra clothes waiting at the laundry. But how could he get Largo to change his clothes. If he got them really stained, maybe. And, there was the additional problem of avoiding life-threatening injury as a result of the stains.
Guybrush paced around the lobby, going over various ideas. Eventually, he had a plan. Sort of.

The first stage of the plan involved going to visit the performance pirates. They had something he needed. Hanging from a stray timber wedged under their ledge was a tin bucket.
Guybrush reached up to take it by the handle, but the short pirate stirred and woke. "Hey, leave that alone," he said sharply.
Guybrush withdrew his hand. "Sorry, is this your bucket?" he asked politely.
"Well... no," admitted the short pirate.
"So you won't mind if I take it?"
"I guess not," said the pirate. He shrugged, and fell back to sleep. Guybrush reached up and took the bucket. Stage one completed.

The second stage of the plan was executed fifteen minutes later, as Guybrush stood by the swamp shielding the International House of Mojo. He knelt down as close as he dared to the swamp, and dipped the bucket into the green and brown sludge. It came out heavy and dripping. Stage two, the bucket of mud.

Stage three of the plan came about a further fifteen minutes on, with Guybrush back in Woodtick and trying to look nonchalant about carrying a bucket of mud in one hand.
He entered the Swamp Rot Inn, and sighed with relief that the innkeeper was still chasing Pegbiter. Who knew, maybe he'd gotten trapped in quicksand or something - that'd be a help.
Guybrush listened at Largo's door, heard nothing, and threw it open quickly. No one.
He entered, and shut the door behind him. It swung open again, but that was all part of the plan. Guybrush now lifted the bucket in both hands, balancing it on the very top of the door. Ha, ha! he thought. Largo was going to have a big surprise when he opened this door. Guybrush reached for the handle when the flaw in his plan surfaced.
He was stuck in Largo's room. He couldn't get out without disturbing the bucket. And if Largo caught him in here - Guybrush shuddered from the mere thought.
There was a slight creak from behind door. Was that... Largo?
Guybrush looked around wildly for an escape. He was about to duck under the bed, when he thought the fumes down there might well asphyxiate him. Finally, he ducked behind the dressing screen.
He was just in time. He heard the door creak open, and there was just time for a single note to be whistled before there was a heavy slap.
"Hey! What the hell!" shouted Largo, his heavy voice given a echoing, bubbling quality by the mud and tin it travelled through. Guybrush heard Largo stumbling about and banging at the bucket with his hands. He wished he could be seeing this.
"What's going on?" yelled Largo. "Whoever did this is gonna pay!" There was more stumbling, and several bottles were knocked over. "I can't get this thing off my head!" Largo's voice was getting louder and angrier. "When I get this thing off my head somebody's gonna be real sorry,"
Guybrush tried to huddle further back behind the screen.
Largo blundered noisily around, before finally locating the door. He lurched out.
Guybrush heard more swearing and crashing, but it grew more and more distant until he couldn't hear it any more. He came out from behind the dressing screen.
There was a wet brown patch in front of the door, but not much mud. Just about all of it must have landed on Largo. Maybe I shouldn't have done that, thought Guybrush. Largo had sounded furious, positively steamed with anger.
Oh well, it was done. Now for stage four - trailing the quarry.

Guybrush walked up the staircase and into the open. He looked left and right, and immediately located his target. Largo was yelling at the laundry guy. Guybrush smiled and headed in that direction.
As he drew nearer, he saw that Largo's shirt was clean. He must have handed his dirty clothes over already. As he drew yet nearer he started to hear what Largo was yelling.
"You're making me mad, Marty," said Largo menacingly as Guybrush finally drew close. Guybrush ducked to his left, stood near the sleeping pirates and tried not to look too interested in proceedings.
"That's my name, don't wear it out," said Marty, exposing his toothless gums in the process.
"Look, I want it free. And I want it tonight."
"Party tonight?" asked Marty incredulously, pushing his glasses back up his nose. "Sure, I'll come."
Largo glared at him. "I'm talking about getting my laundry."
Marty grinned. "Don't worry about me. I've been dry for three years."
"I said, 'I need it back tonight.'"
Marty cupped a hand to his ear. "What? Yeah, we'll stay out all night."
"This is useless," said Largo. He caught sight of Guybrush. "You!" he said, pointing an accusing finger.
Guybrush's eyes widened.
"-tell him I'll be back to pick it up," finished Largo. "Or else!" Business taken care of, he walked back along the platform and had soon disappeared below.
Now to see if his plan would come off. Guybrush walked over to Marty, who looked questioningly at him, although it was hard to tell his expression underneath those thick glasses.
"Who are you?" began Guybrush. It wouldn't make sense to ask for Largo's clothes straightaway. He needed to get into Marty's confidence first.
"Sure sonny, I can get out stew," replied Marty. "That's easy. I can also extract grog, spit, and swamp mud. That's because I'm Maaaad Marty. I'm mad about getting your clothes the cleanest they can be."
"What do you know about Largo LaGrande?"
Marty stared at him. "I don't know anything about cargo or contraband!" he said loudly. "I'm clean, clean, clean!"
Guybrush was starting to pick up on the problem of conversing with Marty - namely, speaking in such a way that what Marty hears is what you actually said.
"I've got a laundry-type question," said Guybrush experimentally.
"Shoot."
"Do you do alterations?"
Marty nearly got it right. "Alter rations?" he asked, confused. "You mean change the numbers on your food stamps? You've got some nerve!"
"I'm sorry," said Guybrush. "Anyway, I'd like to pick up some clothes."
Marty must have been used to this question, because he now stared at Guybrush and asked "Do you have your claim ticket, sonny?"
Guybrush could have kicked himself. "NO, I DONT HAVE MY CLAIM TICKET," he said in a deep voice.
"You don't have to shout at me," said Marty, slightly aggrieved. "I can hear you. But I can't give you your clothes without a claim ticket."
"But I'm Largo LaGrande!"
Marty was obviously shortsighted as well as slightly deaf, because he didn't challenge this assertion but repeated "No claim ticket, no clothes."
"Aah, skip it," said Guybrush, and turned away.
All right, the plan would have to be amended. Stage five - get the claim ticket.

Guybrush crept stealthily into Largo's room, having checked first that it was empty. Where would Largo keep his ticket?
As he searched, he had a sensation of deja vu. The dresser was empty. Nothing under the bed, nothing on the bed. The floor was useless. Nothing behind the screen. In desperation, Guybrush checked behind the door.
There was nothing behind the door. But taped to the door was the claim ticket.
Whew, thought Guybrush, who had been getting a little frantic and stressed. He took the ticket and shut the door. Stage five completed.

Now it was time for stage six - get the gear.
Guybrush didn't bother trying to talk to Marty, and simply gave him the claim ticket. Marty shook the ticket, peered at it, and put it down. "I'll see what we have ready for Mr LaGrande," he said, and walked back a little to a pulley. He started to rotate the pulley, and clothes hanging on the clothesline closest to Guybrush started to file past his view, from one end of the ship to the other.
"I know it's here somewhere," he said as a brilliant red pirate coat drifted past. Pirate hats and shirts followed. "I saw it here a while ago." Trousers and ties sailed slowly past. "Now where was it?" There was a gap in the line, and then Marty saw what he was after. "Ah, here it is," he announced as Largo's apparel came into view.
Guybrush had been expecting a shirt. But no. What Marty unhooked from the line and handed to him was a pearly white bra. Marty looked at Guybrush a little longer, then returned to his desk.
Guybrush, blushing a little, quickly concealed the glaring white bra with its clean, April-Fresh� scent in his pocket. Slowly, however, his blush was replaced with a grin as he realised he had all four ingredients. It was time to visit the voodoo lady.

Paddling the coffin through the dark swamp was as much work as it was the first time, and Guybrush was sweating a little when he was finally borne upward into the hut. He got out quickly, and walked into the presence of the voodoo lady.
"Back again, Mr Threepwood?" she asked as he appeared. "Have you brought me the ingredients?"
Guybrush reached into his coat and removed the first exhibit. "I have his toupee," he announced, handing the infected object to the voodoo lady.
She turned it over in her hands, looking at it critically. "Hmmm... not really a part of his head. But I can probably get some scalp fragments from it." She took a small juju bag, and shook the toupee above it. Dandruff and lice fell into it. "Have you brought me any other ingredients?"
Guybrush winced and took out the piece of paper. "I have some of his spit," he said, eager to hand the object over.
"Excellent," said the voodoo lady. She took the paper, picked up a knife, and scraped the spit from the paper and into the bag. "You can keep the paper," she said, handing it back. "Anything else?"
"I have this pearly white bra," said Guybrush, brandishing it for inspection.
The voodoo woman took it. "Yes, that will do," she said. She gripped the bra tightly, and pulled a loose thread. It came out in her hands, and was dropped into the juju bag. "Do you have the final ingredient?"
Guybrush showed her the bone. "I have the bone of his grandfather."
"Perfect," said the voodoo lady with satisfaction. She took the bone in one hand, a knife in the other, and shaved a small chip off the exterior. It went into the bag. "At last!" she shouted. "Now I can make a voodoo doll to be reckoned with! A dandruff flake from Largo's head! A single piece of Largo's thread! A drop of fluid from his body! A single chip off the bone of the dead!" She reached into a sack by the chair, and dropped what looked like salt into the bag. "And finally, some miscellaneous voodoo herbs and seasonings, including monosodium glutamate." Several pinches of these went in. "This ought to be good," she said, grinning at Guybrush. She rummaged at the back of the chair, and the final ingredient was produced - a small, featureless doll.
The voodoo woman dropped it in with the rest, then seized the juju bag violently with both hands. She held it in front of her chest and started to shake it violently. "Two! Four! Six! Eight!" she shouted, and her eyes flashed green as she did so. "Who do we assassinate!" She shook the bag harder. "Largo! Largo! Yeah!"
The bag rattled and shook as she swung it above her head, around her body, all the while shaking it firmly. The vibrations built to a crescendo.
The juju bag exploded. White shards of light fell to the ground, leaving bare the small doll held firmly in her hands.
Even several metres away, Guybrush could recognise the doll. "Hey! That looks just like him!" he shouted.
The voodoo lady extended it to Guybrush, and now he saw that along with the doll she held a small pin in her hand. Guybrush took them both. "Thanks, Voodoo Lady," he said gratefully.
"One more thing," she said before he could leave. "Some of the ingredients were not the optimum specimens. It should still work, but it'll have a limited range. You will have to get close to Largo. Very close."
Guybrush nodded, and left.

He spent much of the journey back amusing himself by stabbing Largo. It probably wasn't having any effect, but even mild discomfort would be a bonus. The doll really was a perfect likeness - little, mean-looking and ugly.
Guybrush crossed the bridge, darted through Woodtick to the Swamp Rot Inn, and came to Largo's door. He crossed his fingers, and pushed open the door.
Largo was here. "HEY!" he shouted as Guybrush entered. "What are you doing in here?"
Guybrush calmly held the voodoo doll in his left hand, and the long, sharp needle in his right. He brought the needle up and jammed it down into the back of the doll.
The effect on Largo was instantaneous. His back arched; his eyes boggled; his tongue involuntarily jerked out of his mouth. "YOW!" he screamed.
Guybrush removed the pin.
Largo stared at him with wide, shocked eyes. He was rubbing his back, but the pain had already gone.
"Take that!" said Guybrush sternly, "you stumpy little dimwitted toad!"
"What?" growled Largo. "Who do you think you are?"
"I'm Guybrush Threepwood," said Guybrush. "People don't always recognise me - that's why I carry this!" His right hand holding the pin hovered menacingly above the doll. Guybrush smirked at Largo.
Largo was a creature of habit - all the wrong ones. Consequently, he was still unwilling to concede Guybrush the upper hand. "I'm gonna tear you limb from limb!" he roared. He ran for Guybrush.
Before he'd even crossed half the distance Guybrush stabbed again. Largo was brought instantly to a halt, yelling at a sharp stabbing pain in his back. "How are you doing that?" he asked, puzzled, rubbing the sore spot.
Guybrush removed the pin and brandished it menacingly. "Largo LaGrande," he pronounced, "you are a no-good, vicious, two-bit thug. I command you to give me back my money and leave this island!"
Largo scowled at him. "Ha! I already spent your money!"
"Oh," said Guybrush. For a moment he nearly lost control of the situation, then the script reasserted itself. "Well, I command you to leave this island!"
"Just you try and make- YOUCH! ACCK! OW!" In this way Largo made a most undignified exit from his room, being stabbed every few seconds by Guybrush.
Guybrush put away the doll. "That'll teach you to mess with the slayer of the Ghost Pirate LeChuck!" he called out after Largo.
Unexpectedly, Largo reappeared at the door. He came in, slowly. "What's that?" he asked. "You killed LeChuck?"
"As a matter of fact, I did," said Guybrush. "Quite an interesting story, actually..."
Largo's eyebrows came close together - a sign of deep thought. "The fortune teller said she did in LeChuck," he said.
"She did, did she?" asked Guybrush. It annoyed him a little that other people might try to take his credit for killing LeChuck. Accordingly, he made the greatest blunder ever in his pirate career.
Guybrush reached into his coat and removed a long, black wriggling thing. He showed it to Largo, whose eyes boggled.
"Is that..."
"Yes," said Guybrush. "LeChuck's beard. Still alive and wriggling." He'd found it scurrying around Stan's shipyard like a rabid muskrat. Even now it still swayed and squirmed as Guybrush held it from the roots.
"Let me see that," said Largo. Quickly he seized the beard and stuffed it down his pants. His eyes screwed up. His mouth dropped open. "My God, it is alive!" he gasped. He opened his eyes again, and now as they stared at Guybrush he saw a horrible confidence return. "We've been looking for a living piece of LeChuck for years!" shouted Largo. "Now we can bring him back to life! Look out world! The most fearsome pirate of all time will soon sail the seas again!"
Largo ran from the room before Guybrush even had time to retrieve the doll.

"I'm afraid it's true, Guybrush," said the voodoo lady. It wasn't what Guybrush had come to hear. Surely LeChuck couldn't return to life again? "If they have any animated tissue, they can reanimate his whole body."
"But I blew his body into a zillion pieces!" said Guybrush desperately.
"Not his body, Guybrush," corrected the voodoo lady. "You destroyed his spirit form. His body was safely buried far away."
"But by now it must be..." How long had LeChuck been dead? A year? Two years?
"Rotten?" answered the voodoo lady. "Partially decomposed? Yes. And I don't think that's going to make him any more pleasant to deal with."
"He's going to be looking for me!" cried Guybrush.
"Yes."
"He's going to try to kill me!!!"
"Undoubtedly."
Questioned bubbled up in his mind. "What can I do? Where can I hide?"
"There is no place to hide," said the voodoo lady implacably.
"Can you give me something to protect me?"
"He has magic just as strong as mine," admitted the voodoo lady. "Nothing I could give you would protect you. But there is a way out."
Guybrush's ears, already straining, pricked up further. "What is it?"
"You're doing it right now," hinted the voodoo lady.
"Fiddling with the change in my pocket?"
"Hunting for Big Whoop," said the voodoo lady.
"Oh yeah. I was doing that, wasn't I?" In all the stress, Guybrush's treasure search had been entirely forgotten.
"Big Whoop isn't just a treasure," said the voodoo lady. "It contains the secret to another world. Find that world and you'll be able to escape LeChuck forever."
"But I know so little about Big Whoop," said Guybrush despondently. He knew a little from Wally, and there was the Phatt City Library to check out, but even that might not be enough. Where, for instance, were the four map pieces? And who were the four pirates?
Unexpectedly, the voodoo lady seemed to know more. She reached for a thick book lying beside the chair, and gave it to Guybrush. "Take this book," she said.
Guybrush looked at the title. "'Big Whoop: Unclaimed Bonanza or Myth?' Where'd you get this?"
"I checked it out at the Phatt City Library," said the voodoo lady. "I foresaw your need." The matter of how she'd actually gotten to the Phatt City Library was left blank.
"Gee, thanks," said Guybrush gratefully, clutching the book.
"I used your name when I checked it out, so be sure and return it when you're finished reading," warned the voodoo lady. "The overdue fines in Phatt City are pretty steep."
"Gee... thanks." Having said his farewell (and possibly his epitaph), Guybrush took leave of the voodoo lady's presence and returned, somewhat forebodingly, to the coffin.
Once he was safely back on land, Guybrush was able to think through the implications of the voodoo lady's words. It was even more imperative that he get off the island now. Largo, after all, knew he was here, and LeChuck would know soon after.
His weary legs set off on the walk back to Woodtick. Guybrush was getting sick of this journey. But it did give him time to think, and soon Guybrush had the glimmerings of a plan.

By the time he reached Woodtick again, he had all the details worked out. Plan B, Getting The Money, was almost as intricate as his first plan, namely Getting The Ingredients.
First step in the plan involved going to the Swamp Rot Inn. In the lobby, in the food bowl of old Pegbiter, was something Guybrush had seen but not paid much attention to at first - a pile of Cheese Squigglies. They were one of his favourites, but Guybrush going to be eating these ones because they would be needed in the second step.
Second step of the plan saw Guybrush walking up to the performance pirates. It wasn't them he was interested in - it was their rat. Likewise, Mad Marty in the corner could be ignored. But Guybrush's self-confidence had come back one returning to the newly liberated Woodtick. He might as well inform the populace of his role in thwarting Largo's evil presence, otherwise they'd just invent twisted stories that didn't mention him at all.
"I made Largo leave this island," said Guybrush to Marty.
"You made cards out of sand? Do I care?"
Guybrush abandoned the conversation and looked to the ground. Sure enough, the rat was here, scurrying around piles of rags.
Time for the trap.
There was a box on the ground, under the sleeping pirates. Guybrush opened it, and put the cheese squigglies inside. Then he took a small stick and propped the lid open. Finally, string was tied to the stick. Guybrush took the other end of the string and retreated several metres away.
The rat ran near the box, and stopped. It raised its nose and sniffed the air. Then it darted to the right, running straight in. Guybrush yanked the string, and the lid of the box swung shut behind the rat. Guybrush, walking over, heard muffled scratching and squeaking sounds.
He tipped the box on its side and opened the lid. As it turned out he was being needlessly cautious; the rat obviously had agoraphobia, because it now cowered in the corner, whimpering. Guybrush picked him up and patted him. Having a live rat really wasn't so different as having a ghost beard.
Guybrush walked back down the platform and over to the Bloody Lip. He walked along the deck, over the kitchen, until he was roughly at the same place as the open window. Quickly he jumped the rail, lowered himself down to the window sill, and climbed into the kitchen.
The cook was still here, as energetic and lively as ever. If he noticed Guybrush's presence, he didn't seem too concerned. Obviously, he was a fellow really dedicated to his cooking.
Guybrush sighed. Here was where he and the rat would have to part ways. He looked at the cold potato and leek soup, which seemed to be coming along nicely, then dropped the rat into it. It blinked at him, then started happily doing circles in the thick sludgy material, a motion somewhat reminiscent of swimming.
Guybrush was happy to see the rat enjoyed its new home. It was a good thing this was a cold soup. He returned to the window, climbed onto the deck, and was moments later climbing down the main staircase into the Bloody Lip.
The bartender, still cleaning dishes, looked at him as he approached, still the only patron in the place. Guybrush looked at the bartender and thought he could do with some good news. "Largo LaGrande has left Scabb Island for good!" he said happily.
The bartender took the news strangely. "Well, well," he mused, as if he'd been expecting such a development. "I guess all those laxatives I was slipping into his drinks finally got to him."
"What?!?"
"Don't worry," added the bartender. "I don't put them in all the drinks."
Guybrush smiled. This might well be the final time he came here to the Bloody Lip. With Largo gone, it was time to celebrate. "Grog, please," he said to the bartender. "Shaken, not stirred."
The bartender laughed. "Maybe you'd like a Shirley Temple instead?"
"I'm old enough!" protested Guybrush. "Look at my beard!"
"Ha! That's the oldest trick in the book!" Still, the bartender was in a good mood too, what from Guybrush's news, so he made an offer. "Tell you what - I'll let you have some near-grog. It doesn't have any alcohol in it, but it's just as nasty-smelling and foul-tasting as that stuff grownups drink."
"Right on!"
The bartender slapped his head. "Oh, wait. What am I saying? I just sold the last of it to Kate. Sorry."
"Rats."
"Of course, if you have some ID..."
Guybrush did not have any ID. He'd always found it was simpler just to tell people his name.
"Who's this Kate person you mentioned?" he asked, a bit annoyed with her.
"Ah, the Courageous Captain Kate Capsize," said the bartender fondly. "Tough as steel, sharp as nails. She rents her ship out , does some freelance pirating. Her only loyalty is to the highest bidder. Don't get on her bad side."
Guybrush nodded politely, and rested his arms on the bar. "Hey... ah... how's the stew tonight?" he asked, failing totally in his attempt at nonchalance.
"Stew?" asked the bartender incredulously, not because he noticed Guybrush's incompetent deception but at the terrible faux pas he'd just committed. "How gauche! We only serve gourmet chilled soups here. In fact, our new cook has been working all day on a very special vichyssoise. Let me go see how he's doing."
The bartender emerged from behind the bar, walking past Guybrush and into the kitchen. And although Guybrush saw none of the resultant action, the dialogue was more than illustrative enough.
First, the bartender's voice: "How's the vichyssoise, Bernard?"
The cook, Bernard, responded in likewise friendly terms. "Excellent, sir. Won't you have a taste?"
"I think I will..."
There was a violent explosion of potato and leek, and a terrifically loud crash.
"OH MY GOD!!" screamed the bartender. "What kind of demented recipe book are you using?"
Guybrush giggled. Things were going well.
"You're fired!" shouted the bartender.
"But sir!"
"Out! Get out of my sight!"
The cook came out of the kitchen door, walking quickly and with an expression of annoyance on his face. If he recognised Guybrush or even saw him he again gave no sign, although Guybrush was given a moment of worry.
Back in the kitchen, the bartender was still in shock. "This is the most disgusting, filthy mess I've ever seen in my life!" he exclaimed, loud enough for Guybrush, and indeed most of the residents of Woodtick, to hear. "Look at all the hair! And what's this stuff? How am I ever going to get rid of this junk?"
There was a ruffle and scrape, and the sound of liquids sloshing. Then the bartender emerged, holding a small white bowl at chest height. He set it down on the bar. "Well, here's your soup," he said.
Guybrush didn't even bother to look down. "Uh, I'm not really that hungry anymore," he said.
"Dang," said the cook, annoyed. Then he had an idea. "Hey, can you cook?"
Here was the opening Guybrush been angling for. Still, he had to be cautious, or the bartender might suspect. "A little," he admitted.
"How'd you like a career in the fast-paced world of pub-food cuisine?"
"Are you saying there's an opening in the kitchen?"
"Yeah. You interested?"
Here was the interesting part. The sign out the front said one week's salary in advance. The question was, how much was one week's salary?
Guybrush rubbed his chin. "I don't know. How much does it pay?"
"Four hundred and twenty pieces of eight a week," said the bartender. "First week paid in advance."
"Sure, I'll give it a shot."
The bartender beamed. "Great! The job's yours. Here's a week's worth of wages." He reached down under the bar, to some place Largo knew nothing of, and took out a white bag. He handed it to Guybrush, who found it pleasingly heavy. "Now strap on an apron, and get to work."

Once inside the kitchen, Guybrush crossed to the window, jumped out, and climbed to the deck. He was smiling as he walked back to the main platform. Very soon, he'd have a ship of his very own.
Bart and Fink had said something about a Captain Dread on the other side of the island, ie the southwestern corner. Guybrush set out to find him.
His journey took him across the river, skirting the side of the central mountain, and beyond until the land narrowed before him into a long, thin peninsula.
About halfway down this peninsula, which was somewhat separated from the rest of Scabb Island and more exposed to crosswinds, he came across a wooden sign hanging from a tall pole.
"Captain Dread's Ship Charters," read Guybrush. "Twenty pieces of eight. Inquire within." Here, on his right, a platform of thick timbers led out to a ragged collection of rocks. Anchored, or foundered, at this point was a smallish ship, almost a houseboat. There were lights coming from the interior.
Guybrush started across the pier. The wind might have been a problem at higher altitudes, but here it just blew more warm air. The smell of salt, however, was bracing as always.
Guybrush reached the entrance of the boat, which only served to further his confusion. The main room seemed not such much to have been built as reassembled from scrap. The timbers were thick and haphazard. Odd items were strewn across the floor. The lifeboat hung from the ceiling. Various tools and marine carcasses were hung from the walls, and of course there were the requisite barrels and boxes. It certainly was a crowded ship.
Amongst all this confusion a dark man with his back to Guybrush leant on the wheel, staring out to sea. All Guybrush could see from this angle was that he had a ragged white shirt, a big red hat, and even bigger black dreadlocks.
"Are you Captain Dread?" asked Guybrush to the figure. It turned and grinned at him.
"Ya mon, I'm Captain Dread. What can I do for ya?"
"Natty dreads," complimented Guybrush. He especially liked the way they danced when Captain Dread spoke in his melodic Caribbean way.
"Thanks, mon," said Captain Dread drily.
Guybrush looked hopefully at Captain Dread. "I need to charter a ship."
Captain Dread shook his head regretfully. "I can't charter you my ship, because a while ago I lost my lucky sailing necklace. I called it my 'eye that has seen the world'. I can't sail without it. No way, mon." He sighed.
Guybrush was a little confused by the superstition. Couldn't he get another? "Tell me more about that necklace thingy you lost," he prompted.
Captain Dread looked into the middle distance as he recalled. "It happened sometime ago. My navigator and I set sail for this legendary island. When we arrived, we were taken prisoner by cannibals. I escaped, mon, but my navigator was not so lucky. All I found of him was one of his eyeballs, and I've kept it as a good luck charm."
Guybrush found the sketchy description of his navigator interesting. Particularly how it seemed to fit with a certain Scabb Island navigator, Wally. Wally only had the use of one eye. And he used a monocle. "Gee, I think I've met your friend," said Guybrush.
"Unlikely," said Captain Dread.
Guybrush shrugged his shoulders. He was at an impasse here, and nothing he could do would help to convince Captain Dread. It was time to go. "Gotta run, lotsa treasure huntin' to do," said Guybrush.
"OK, bye, mon. Come again."

Guybrush spent the next twenty minutes walking back to Woodtick and seeking out Wally's place. Perhaps, it had been Wally's monocle that Captain Dread used as a good luck charm. Perhaps, Wally had a spare. Perhaps, he might be able to borrow it. A slender chance, but things had come right for him so far.
Wally looked up as he entered. "Hello," he greeted, before returning to his mapwork.
Guybrush came closer, for the benefit of his eyes, and coughed. "Hi Wally."
Wally looked up again, and this time seemed to focus on him. "Oh, hello Mr. Brush," said Wally.
Here was another person who could be told the tale in full. "Hey, I did it!," began Guybrush proudly. "Largo LaGrande has left the island for good!"
"That's great," said Wally, somewhat indifferently. "I guess I can stop with the bricks through his window now." He lost interest in Guybrush and started poring over the maps once more, his head bent down so low he could nearly kiss them.
Guybrush stood there, and waited, but Wally's attention was complete. Guybrush realised that because he was no longer being watched, he had been forgotten. Now to get his monocle.
Guybrush was about to start rifling through Wally's room, possibly creating noise and disturbing him, when a sudden chance presented itself. Wally looked up, his right eye (the one with the monocle) twitching from some irritation. Wally reached up, squinted, and the monocle dropped into his palm. He dropped it on the table, then rubbed both eyes with his hands.
Seizing his chance, Guybrush snapped up the monocle.
Wally stopped rubbing his eyes and started feeling around the table for the monocle. He didn't find it. "Hey! Where's my monocle?" he cried.
Guybrush slipped back to the door. He wasn't worried about being observed, because Wally was almost totally blind now. For a moment he felt a bit guilty about reducing a fellow human being to blindness, but the cloud passed and the moonlight shone brightly once more.

Twenty more minutes, and Guybrush was back at Captain Dread's habitation. "It's me again," he announced as he stepped aboard.
"So I see," responded Captain Dread. "What can I do for ya this time, mon?"
Guybrush stepped into the vessel, threading his way around the rubbish on the floor. He handed a small, shin object on a metal chain to Captain Dread. "Would you like my monocle?" he offered.
Captain Dread ran careful fingers over it, and suddenly broke into a big smile. "Thanks, mon! This will do just fine for my lucky sailing necklace."
Guybrush had a feeling it might.
"What con I do for ya?" asked Dread, still fingering the monocle.
"I need to charter a ship," said Guybrush.
"You're in luck, my friend. Rumour has it Largo's been run off the island, so now I'm free to sail again. Only problem is," and here he looked carefully at Guybrush, "that you don't look like the type that has twenty pieces of eight."
Guybrush wondered how on earth Captain Dread could infer this information from his appearance, but his joy at actually having a ship to charter overruled. "Actually, I do have that much!" he said brightly.
"Well, mon!" said an equally lively Captain Dread. "Consider my ship chartered!"
"Great! Where's your ship?"
"You're standing in it, mon," said Captain Dread patiently.
"Yikes!"

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