Part 1: Part 2 Part 3 Part 4

PART 2: THE FOUR MAP PIECES

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Deep in the Caribbean, hidden by an endless storm, lies LeChuck's fortress. It is not a hospitable place, and almost impregnable. The fortress is a towering construction of steel and stone, built on a rocky island made almost unapproachable by fierce undercurrents and strong waves. The only way in is through a pair of doors fifty feet high. They open from the inside, allowing ships to dock within.
As for the fortress, it takes up the entire island, small as it is. It rises many stories high, with battlements and cornices and arches. There are no windows.
There are many many rooms in LeChuck's fortress, all lit by cheerless orange torchlight, rooms for grim stratagems and brutal torture. Many of them are separated from the main entrance by a labyrinth of fiendish complexity and stunning size.
One such room, perhaps the largest of them all, was currently being prepared for LeChuck's return. The voodoo high priest was looking at LeChuck's throne. It is difficult to decide which is more striking to the untutored observer - the priest or the throne. The voodoo priest, for his part, wore a deep purple ceremonial robe and a hideous facial mask two feet high, from which a further two feet of purple feathers sprouted. He held a walking stick in his right hand and something black and menacing in his left.
The throne, on the other hand, was at least three times as tall as the voodoo priest. It was built onto a huge stone shelf three feet above the ground. Here LeChuck would sit, and be dwarfed by the skull that glared down at him from its perch on the very top of the throne. It was about four feet wide, and was decorated with a ceremonial headdress like the priest's that extended its width further. The arms of the throne were two skeletons, crouching fearfully with their hands in their mouths, an expression on their face of pure, naked terror. This was not the kind of chair you sat in while playing a nice hand of backgammon. This was the kind of chair in which war was declared, fiendish plots were hatched, and pronouncements of doom made. Satan would be happy if he had a chair this good.
Largo was approaching the voodoo priest, and even the ledge on which the chair was built dwarfed him. "So," he asked, "when are we going to resurrect the old bloated fool?"
At his words there was movement in the shadows behind the voodoo priest. Into the light came the figure of the Ghost Pirate LeChuck.
"Oops," said Largo.
You would have to search hard for compliments to give this figure. The clothes -a stained red coat, brown pants and a brown tricorner hat - were rotten and torn, but they looked better than the body below, which was a dark swamp green, and unpleasantly mottled. LeChuck shuffled closer. Largo caught a whiff of him, and recoiled involuntarily. The body was still a little putrescent. There also seemed to be a lot of muscular atrophy, judging by LeChuck's awkward shuffling walk. One thing, though, hadn't changed at all. LeChuck was still as large and menacing as he'd ever been.
LeChuck stopped, and glared at Largo with muddy brown eyes. "I'll ignore that comment just this one time, Largo," he spoke, in a voice deep, strident and somewhat throaty, "only because they tell me you've found Guybrush Threekwood." His beard swayed as he spoke, and Largo thought it was the only part of him that really looked alive.
"It's 'Threepwood', and I've found him on Scabb Island."
"Very good," said LeChuck with a nasty smile. Another thing had changed since his resurrection - the mouth also seemed to malfunction. Whenever he spoke, it involved a violent, spastic roll of the head that caused saliva to spray from his mouth. "No one gets the upper hand on LeChuck without getting what he deserves. I want Guybrush brought to me, and I want him brought alive. I am entrusting this to you." Here he paused, and looked at Largo. There was no expression on his face - none was needed. "Do not fail me."
"Never, your voodoo lordship," said Largo respectfully. He left.
"Aye," said LeChuck to the voodoo priest, "Guybrush Threepwood is finished. I need you to start building me a very special doll."
The voodoo priest spoke: he had a nasty, unsettling voice. "With pleasure."

The sun had dawned on a beautiful day.
Guybrush stood on the main deck of Captain Dread's ship, looking overboard at the mild seas. Already he'd gotten used to the sway up and down of the ship. He was off to find Big Whoop, and he felt just fine.
He went into the main cabin, where Captain Dread was holding the wheel and in a similarly jolly mood. "Welcome to the Jolly Rasta!" he greeted.
The Jolly Rasta was as crowded as ever, but the morning sun was forgiving and gave his surroundings a golden, cheery air.
"So, where do you want to go?" asked Captain Dread.
Guybrush wasn't sure. "I'm not sure," he said, "what are my choices?"
"I only know how to get to three islands, mon," said Dread.
"What are they?"
"There's where we just came from, Scabb Island. The only island where pirates are free to be pirates. Then there's Booty Island. The festive, French, Mardi Gras, party-all-the-time island."
Guybrush liked the sound of Booty Island. But he was caught completely off guard by Captain Dread's next sentence.
"It's run by one of the most respected and loved governors around - Governor Elaine Marley."
"Elaine?" said Guybrush, startled into speech.
Captain Dread continued on regardless. "And last, there's Phatt Island. A fascist dictatorship, run by an over-bloated pig named Governor Phatt." He reached into his large pockets, and took out a tattered, folded piece of paper. He handed it to Guybrush. "Here, take this easy-to-read reference map courtesy of Dread Tours. You can use it to show me where you want to go."
Guybrush unfolded the map and looked at it. There were, as Captain Dread had intimated, only three islands on the map. Filling in the space were handy illustrations of mermaids, sea serpents, dugongs and compasses. And, of course, the grid co-ordinates around the corner.
Guybrush made a quick decision. Booty Island sounded good, but he had work to do at the Phatt City library. Big Whoop, after all, came first.
"Phatt Island," he said to Dread.
Dread nodded. "OK, mon." He took control of the wheel and brought them gently to starboard.
Guybrush walked back out into the sunshine and sat down. Clouds were just starting to gather above, small fluffy patches of marshmallow.
Elaine. There were a whole welter of emotions connected with that name. Guybrush had been so sure she was the one. But it wasn't to be. What hurt the most was the way she'd just left, without final word, without goodbye.
At least, that was what had hurt at first. But what had surprised Guybrush the most was the way, in the next few months, that his life reasserted itself and got back on a level keel. He'd gotten along okay without her.
Did he really need her? How much did he care about her?
Guybrush suspected he might soon discover the answers to these questions.
But it was a long journey and he couldn't spend all of it turning her over in his mind, so Guybrush took out the thick red book the voodoo lady had given him and started reading.
Big Whoop: Unclaimed Bonanza or Myth? turned out to be fascinating reading. According to the author, there were four pirates: Rapp Scallion (the cook), Young Lindy (the cabin boy), Mister Rogers (the first mate), and Captain Marley. This last name caused Guybrush to look up, wondering if there was any relation.
These four pirates buried their treasure along with plenty of - Guybrush swallowed nervously - booby traps, on a place believed to be Inky island.
Guybrush looked up from the text again. According to Wally, there was no such island. He continued reading after a moment's pause.
It turned out that they made a map which they divided into four pieces, each pirate taking one. Rapp Scallion later opened the Steamin' Weenie hut on Scabb Island. It was a huge success but fell into disrepair after Rapp was killed in a flash fire.
Young Lindy drifted aimlessly, down on his luck until he mysteriously came into money while panhandling on Booty Island. He used the cash to bankroll an advertising firm which failed after its gross mishandling of the Gangrene 'n' Honey account.
Mister Rogers retired off the coast of Phatt Island. He marketed homemade contest grog brewed in a bathtub until his recent disappearance.
Captain Marley vanished while sailing in the America's Cup race. His boat was leading at the time.
Here the account ended. It hadn't been as specific as Guybrush had hoped. For all he knew, Captain Marley's map had gone down in the ship, Rapp Scallion's map had burned in the hut, Mister Rogers had taken the map with him after disappearing, and Young Lindy had sold it to pay off his debts. Still, it was a start. One piece of the map on each of the islands that Captain Dread could get to, and there was always Elaine Marley as a lead on the fourth.
Guybrush shut the book. It might be difficult, but his path was set. The hunt was on.

Phatt Island used to be quite a good island. Its famous beach promenade, for example, built around a beautiful and sheltered harbour, compared well with southern France, the buildings coming almost right up to the sea. But time had passed the place by. The revellers had moved on (some as far as neighbouring Booty Island).
Phatt Island was no longer a fun island. The rule was oppressive. The ruler was fat. And nobody seemed to go there any more.
Accordingly, Captain Dread was able to find a choice docking position for the Jolly Rasta, and moments later Guybrush stepped out onto the wooden pier and up a set of concrete steps.
They led to a crossroad intersection and a stretch of wall. There was a very large man, almost two feet taller than Guybrush, and he was looking at the wall. Guybrush looked at the man for a moment. He was wearing a massive golden helmet, had a cutlass in his left hand, had a huge broomstick moustache, and a naff red shirt. He was obviously a guard.
Guybrush shrugged, and looked at the object of the guard's attention. It was a poster. The poster had the word WANTED in big red letters at the top of the page, then a picture of Guybrush, then below the word GUYBRUSH in black lettering. The picture wasn't perfect - he had no beard and someone had drawn a black moustache on - but good enough to get a general idea.
Guybrush became aware that the guard was staring at him suspiciously. "Excuse me, sir," said the guard in a loud, booming voice.
"Yes?" asked Guybrush, contriving to look innocent.
"Aren't you Guybrush Threepwood?" asked the guard.
Guybrush rubbed his beard in a meaningful, conspicuous motion. "No, my name is Smith. You must have me confused with someone else."
"Smith, eh?" said the guard. "That's an unusual name. Perhaps you have some identification?"
Guybrush had a brainwave. "My ID is on my ship. Wait here while I go and get it."
He took two steps before the guard spoke. "Nice try, Guybrush."
Guybrush froze, and turned around. The guard had twigged. "You better come with me," he said. "Governor Phatt would like a word with you."
"I'm really very busy," said Guybrush apologetically. "Could we do this some other time?"
The guard, by way of answer, removed a large pistol from his right pocket.
"Coming!" said Guybrush brightly. He allowed himself to be led away.

He was taken to the Governor's mansion.
Very few people go to see the Governor's mansion on Phatt. This is partly because it is a very good mansion, and the Governor doesn't want people seeing it because then they might get all grumpy about the extravagant opulence and have dark, dangerous ideas about violence and revolution.
The only way to see the mansion in the first place is to be allowed in through the gate. Once you're on the right side of the fence, however, the view is picture perfect. There is the mansion itself, built on a small hill with white walls, arches and latticed windows, a manner reminiscent of the Greek isles. There are the surrounding gardens, and a lawn shorn to bright green perfection. There is the backdrop, a stunning view of yellow sand, gentle waves cresting onto the beach, clusters of palm trees, and green hills in the distance.
The interior, unfortunately, was less inspiring. Drab paintings, rugs on the floor, and a strange musty smell in the air. Guybrush was led through the entrance, up the stairs, and into the bedroom of Governor Phatt.
His first thought was that it was a very appropriate name.
Governor Phatt was not sitting at a dressing table awaiting their entrance - rather, he was lying in bed under a large quilt. The bed, a four poster with red curtains, was nearly filled to capacity by his rotund girth, which extended some feet into the air.
Guybrush was shown around the bed towards Governor's Phatt's head, about the only way of conducing a conversation with him. The size of the head matched the size of the body. Governor Phatt didn't so much have double chins as an amorphous fatty thing which drowned out all chinlike features altogether. Flies buzzed around his mouth, which was crusty with food.
The guard stood watchfully at the door.
There was a single book on the bedspread - Famous Pirate Quotations. There was also a strange apparatus here by Governor Phatt - three metal pipes, ending in narrow nozzles bare inches from his mouth.
Governor Phatt spoke at last, fixing his beady eyes on Guybrush.
"Well, Mr-"
That was as far as he got before there was a loud ringing nearby. "Oh, excuse me," said Governor Phatt, before turning his mouth eagerly toward the nozzles. Out of the nozzles was ejected a stream of food - green from one, beige from another, brown from the last. This landed straight in his mouth, some splashing out but most being swallowed straight down the gullet.
The stream ended. Governor Phatt wiped his mouth on his arm and looked at Guybrush again. He let out a huge belch, and grinned. "Well, Mr Threepwood," he said, starting over, "I can't tell you how pleased I am to have you as my guest."
Guest? Guybrush wasn't sure he cared much for his method of invitation.
"Oh, why is that?"
"I thought we might talk about a few things," said the Governor.
"Thank you," said Guybrush politely, while being able to see why the Governor might need armed assistance to get people to talk to him. He thought of an opening line. "Your home is lovely."
The compliment pleased Governor Phatt. "You have an eye for the finer things in life, Mr Threepwood," he said, smiling. "I admit my tastes run to the expensive."
Guybrush couldn't resist. "To the expansive is more like it." Under cover of the insult, he wondered: how can he afford this? Phatt Island doesn't look that prosperous.
The smile disappeared. "I am not a patient man, Mr Threepwood. Yes, I've had to indulge in a bit of creative financing. But I've just made a deal that will keep the bill collectors out of here for a long time."
"Selling your old clothes to make circus tents?" said Guybrush sarcastically. "Melting down your silverware to build an oil pipeline? Renting yourself out to ship captains as ballast? Selling advertising space on your stomach? What?"
Governor Phatt's eyes narrowed further. "I shall be selling something that I believe I will be glad to get rid of. I'm selling you, Mr Threepwood. To the Ghost Pirate LeChuck."
"LeChuck's dead," said Guybrush. "I killed him. Say, you don't want to hear the story of how I blew his top, do you?"
The Governor was not perturbed. "Perhaps you didn't kill him quite so thoroughly as you imagined. He seemed perfectly healthy the last time I saw him."
The words struck a cold chill in Guybrush's heart, even as the alarm sounded for Governor Phatt's next meal. "Last time you saw him?" he echoed. "Oh, no! LeChuck's back!"
The Governor wiped his mouth. "I beg your pardon, what did you say?"
"He doesn't scare me," said Guybrush boldly, if insincerely. "Just tell me where I can find him."
"I rather think he'll find you, Mr Threepwood," contended Governor Phatt. "You see, he's put a sizeable bounty on your head."
"Oh?"
"A bounty I intend to collect."
"Oh." So much for a pleasant conversation, thought Guybrush. "I bet that bounty would buy a lot of pure grease and bacon fat, huh?" he added as a parting insult.
"Why, you!" snapped the Governor, red spots flaring on his cheeks. "You can figure it out while you wait in jail for LeChuck to pick you up. Take him away!"
The guard, taking this as his cue, saluted. "Yes sir, Governor Phatt! Come on, you little weasel." He took Guybrush by the arm and led him out.
"I'll be back!" shouted Guybrush defiantly as he was pulled through the door.

The Phatt city jail was small - only two cells. They were, however, strongly constructed from stone and steel bars. Into one of these cells Guybrush was put. The guard shut the door and turned the key.
"Don't try to escape or anything," he warned. "Walt will chew you to bits." Walt was the small, brown and white beagle which stood to attention by the door leading out. The guard came over to Walt and looked down. "OK Walt, I'll be back to relieve you at eleven," he said, before leaving.
It looked like Guybrush would have a lot of time to examine his surroundings, in minute detail. He sat down on the rock hard mattress to think.
The mattress really was uncomfortable. Guybrush lifted it up to reveal a long stick wedged below. He took out and threw it on the floor. He sat down again.
In the cell next to him, he now noticed, was a skeleton, obviously either a long dead prisoner or an example of dieting gone horribly wrong. The sight of the skeleton didn't give Guybrush much cause for confidence.
Over in the corner near the exit was a tall cupboard/bookshelf. Contained thereon was a large manilla envelope, containing all his possessions. If he could just reach it... he wouldn't be able to escape, but he'd feel a bit better. Looking at his possessions, however, he caught a glimmer of light that seemed to come from Walt.
Walt held a set of keys in his mouth.
Guybrush quickly drew in breath, and knelt down to the edge of his cell. "Here, boy," he said as softly as possible.
No movement from Walt.
Guybrush gently knocked the stick against the bars of the cell.
Walt stayed still.
Guybrush was not about to give up. Somehow or other, he'd get Walt over here. And now, looking at the dead prisoner, he had a new idea how.
Guybrush reached for the leg of the prisoner with his stick, it being the closest appendage. Slowly he dragged it along the floor, before he was able to reach down and pick it up. Now he crossed his cell to Walt, and waved the bone between the bars. He whistled softly.
"Here doggie, here boy..."
Walt, at last, came. He reached the bars, dropped the saliva-coated keys and gratefully took the bone. With it safely in his mouth Walt turned and ran out into the sunshine.
Guybrush picked up the keys, or, as he now saw, the one key hanging from a large chain.
They fit the cell door perfectly. The cell door swung open, and the sound of an ungreased hinge had never sounded so good. Guybrush stretched his legs, and went to collect his stuff.
Beside his envelope was another, similarly sized manilla envelope. This one was marked as the property of a Mr. Willy Gorilla, who had been arrested for grinding his organ in public. Curious, Guybrush opened the envelope, finding a banana and an organ.
The organ he left behind. The banana, however, apart from looking delicious, might also come in handy. Guybrush had previous experience with bananas, and to come across another one was perhaps a good sign.

Guybrush walked back out into the sunshine. The jail entrance led out to the main dock area, in fact the very place where Guybrush had been arrested. His poster still hung on the wall by the jail. Now that he had a bit more time, Guybrush read the small print. It turned out he'd been arrested for the murder of G.P. LeChuck, which was a bit rich. Other offences included the use of witchcraft on the person of Largo LaGrande, the thievery of clothing and medically prescribed hair supplements for such witchcraft, graverobbing, trespassing, larceny without a permit, exceeding allowable FDA limit for rodent parts in vichyssoise, unauthorised exiting from a penal institution, and releasing a dangerous reptile in a populated area. He was also wanted for questioning regarding the disappearance of prescription eyewear.
Actually, when you looked at it, it was a pretty hefty list of offences - they might well have arrested him even if LeChuck wasn't offering the money. Still, what did they expect? Pirates get up to that sort of thing.
A reward was offered for information leading to his apprehension. And lastly, a line which Guybrush quite liked, he was to be considered armed and dangerous!
"Armed and dangerous?" said Guybrush. "Right on!"
It was time to find the Phatt library. Guybrush walked back down the concrete steps to the pier, and looked along the promenade. There, to his left, was a large sign reading LIBRARY. Guybrush set off toward it.
He passed a narrow alley on his left. He looked in and saw two people standing near a big wheel. Curious, Guybrush took a short detour.
The alleyway was small, but uncluttered, and reasonably bright here at its end. Set against the back wall was a large wheel, with handles allowing it to be spun. Standing in the spinning position was a brightly dressed, Italian looking gentlemen with black hair. He was the dealer.
His customer, or audience, or whatever the other person was doing, was a small, rodent-like man with an awful taste in hats and pants (both green).
The dealer looked around the alley. "No more bets?" he called out. "Okay, here we go." He gave the wheel a huge spin.
Ever so slightly it slowed down, until finally coming to a halt. "25 black," read the wheel spinner.
"All right!" exclaimed the punter.
"You're a winner, sir!" congratulated the dealer. "Which prize would you like?"
"What have you got left?" asked the punter. He had a lower-class, nasally accent.
"We have money," said the dealer, in his role as croupier and host, "an invitation to Governor Marley's Mardi Gras Party, and a free pass to see the Linguini Brothers Circus."
They all sounded like good prizes to Guybrush. But that Marley Mardi Gras party immediately caught his attention.
"I'd like the money," said the punter.
"The money it is," agreed the dealer. He reached into the thick folds of his red coat and took out a small brown satchel. The punter took it greedily and stuffed it down his pants for safekeeping. He gambolled off.
Guybrush thought he might try his luck at the roulette wheel. He came forward, and spoke to the dealer. "Hello."
"How ya doin'?", responded the dealer merrily.
Guybrush had never gambled before, and he was a bit unsure how things worked. "Can you explain how this game works?" he asked.
"Sure! It's easy. Just tell me which number ya want, and I'll spin the wheel. If yer number comes up, ya win!"
"Sounds simple. What numbers can I bet on?"
"One to thirty-two, red or black."
Guybrush nodded. "Do many other people come to play here?" he asked.
"Lotsa people come to play when we've got a bunch of prizes," said the dealer proudly. "But we're almost out today. We only have three left."
"What prizes do you have left?" asked Guybrush. He hoped the invitation hadn't been taken.
"A Free Pass to the Linguini Brothers Circus, an invitation to Governor Marley's Mardi Gras Fish Fry, and of course, money. Sixty pieces of eight for each bet!"
"Wow!" exclaimed Guybrush. In the corner of his eye, he could see the green-trousered punter coming back. Well, too bad for him, because Guybrush was about to have a punt himself. "I'd like to place a bet," he said to the dealer.
"Betting costs money, kid," said the dealer. "One piece of eight for each game."
"Oh yeah," said Guybrush. He handed a piece of eight to the dealer, who took it gladly.
"OK kid," said the dealer, "which number ya want?"
Guybrush had a really good feeling about 7 black, and told the dealer so.
The dealer nodded, and spun the wheel briskly. Guybrush stared into the spinning disc, its pegs clacking at a furious pace. Gradually they slowed.
The wheel stopped on 6 black. "Too bad!" commiserated the dealer. "Better luck next time."
"Thanks, anyway," said Guybrush. He hated losing, and the sympathy from the dealer only marginally made up for it. He might have stood there for a moment, lost in thought, but the punter barged up and scowled at him.
"Excuse me, pal."
Guybrush moved out of the way, allowing the punter to state that he wanted another bet - this one on thirteen red.
For a moment Guybrush hovered, wanting to see someone else fail, then he turned and trudged down the alleyway, back to the open sunshine.

The library was the next door down. Guybrush pushed it open, fast at first but slower when he heard the sound of the hinges echoed from within.
Guybrush entered into the dim, dusty surrounds of the library.
It was empty. And very full of books. They were stacked on top of card catalogs, decked from the floor to the ceiling on shelves, and lined every available wall space. The Phatt Island libraries was one of those libraries that contained so many books within a small space that they were in serious danger of distorting the fabric of spacetime and providing gateways into L-Space. Guybrush knew, without even trying them, that he'd get hopelessly lost in the pathways, narrow arches and small alcoves strewn everywhere.
Luckily, the main desk was straight ahead, and sitting behind it was a severe woman wearing large glasses. She had grey hair tied tightly into a bun, and was making notes with studied concentration.
Before he made his way over, however, Guybrush noticed a small model on a table by the door - about the only spare space not occupied by a book. It looked like a model lighthouse, built on a scale model of Phatt harbour. Looking at it curiously, Guybrush walked over to the main desk.
"Excuse me," said Guybrush.
The librarian turned, a disapproving expression on her face. "SSSSHHHH!" she hissed, removing her glasses for emphasis. "This is a library! WHISPER!" She put her glasses on. "Now, what is it?"
"Why do you have a model lighthouse here?" whispered Guybrush.
"There's a new lighthouse being built in town," explained the librarian. "This is a scale model of what it will look like."
Guybrush looked again at the model. It was very attractive, for a lighthouse. "Why do you need a lighthouse?" he asked.
"We're tired of rebuilding the wharf every time a ship goes through it," explained the librarian. "That's why it has to be very bright. It will have one of the most powerful magnifying glasses in the Caribbean. It'd show you the model, but unfortunately the light bulb has burned out."
That was as far as Guybrush wanted to go with the conversation. "I'm looking for a book," he said.
"Do you have a library card?" asked the librarian.
"No, how do I get one?"
"I'll need some personal information." The librarian rummaged around on the desk, found a small pad, and picked up a pen. "Name?"
"Guybrush Threepwood."
"Address?"
"1060 West Addison."
"Age?"
"Ninet - uh - twenty-one."
"Occupation?"
"Consultant."
"Vices?"
"Jaywalking."
"I see." The librarian made some notes, then filled out a small rectangular card. "All right, your library card will be mailed to the address you gave me. In the meantime, please use this temporary card." She handed him the card with his personal details. "You may check books out of the library, but only four at a time."
"That's about as many titles as I can remember anyhow," said Guybrush in an attempt at humour.
The librarian peered at him. "What book are you looking for?"
"I don't know, what have you got?"
Guybrush got his second disapproving expression. "You expect me to name every book in the library?" asked the librarian. "Use the card catalog like a normal person." She pointed at a huge cabinet near the front door. Then she went back to the paperwork.
Guybrush wandered over to the card catalog. Big, and imposing, were the first two words to come to mind. The next were Big and Whoop. That was what he was after, and what he should start searching for.
Guybrush pulled open the AB drawer. At first, he didn't seem to have much luck, although the biography section was interesting - "The Time I Blew Up LeChuck" by Guybrush Threepwood, a book he certainly didn't remember writing, "Lick the Silver Spoon," by L. Phatt, "Both Heads Empty," the Fettucini Brothers story, "Both Hands Moving," the Stan story, "Both Hands Empty," the Herman Toothrot story. There was an Adult Entertainment section, containing "Zelda Carbuncle Tells All", memoirs of a woman of dubious pleasure. The Archaeology section was represented by "X never marks the spot," by an I. Jones. Finally, Guybrush found a section headed Big Whoop: See Treasure.
Guybrush shut the AB drawer and pulled open the TU drawer. The selections in here were equally curious. Underwear was represented by "Wedgies: Harmless Fun or Sadistic Torture?" Trilogies contained three books by Simon Finkleberth - "Why People Shouldn't Write Trilogies", "Why People Won't Read Trilogies", and "Why People Write Trilogies" Anyway. Eventually Guybrush found the Treasure section, and to his disappointment there was only the one book. "Big Whoop: Unclaimed Bonanza or Myth" - and he already had it.
Guybrush was momentarily at a loss for ideas. Then he remembered one of the four pirates had drowned at sea. Maybe there might be a section on Shipwrecks. He pulled open the S drawer, and was told to look under Disasters.
Guybrush pulled open the CD drawer. He pawed through the cards, but soon found he was being sidetracked by all the great books on offer. There was Cannibalism - "How to Serve Your Fellow Man" by Lemonhead. There was Circuses - "Alfredo and Bill's Excellent Adventure", and "Damn the Human Torpedo", the origin of the human cannonball trick. (Guybrush wished he'd had that tome the last time he was on Melee Island.) The Classics were there too, with "Great Expectorations", by Captain Loogie.
Finally he reached it: Disasters. The one volume listed was "Great Shipwrecks of Our Century," a book from the Lime-life series.
Guybrush memorised the title. Then he walked over to the desk, and asked the librarian if they had "Great Shipwrecks of Our Century." The librarian came out from behind the desk, and Guybrush's first thought was that she was a really short woman. Then he realised she was sitting on a revolving chair and pushing her way along the wooden floor.
The chair, making slight squeaking noises, disappeared down a narrow row. Seconds later it emerged, with the librarian holding a small blue book. She set it down on the desk, and Guybrush thanked her.
"Remember, silence is golden," said the librarian.
He returned to the card catalog and started browsing at random, hoping to find something. The PQR drawer was interesting - Philosophy, Pillaging, Quotations, Ranches, and a very large Romance section, with novels all written by a Melanie Leary and with titles like Love's Lingering Lassitude, Fascination's Final Frenzy, Passion's Persistent Presence, Sin's Sordid Swan Song, Yearning's Yellowing Yesterdays, etc etc. With one exception - there was a volume called "Next to Nothing." By E. Marley - an account of her time with Guybrush Threepwood. Guybrush had an idea what the contents would be like.
"If you can't say something nice you're not supposed to say anything at all," he muttered. "Much less write a whole book."
There were less fruitful pickings to be found in the rest of the catalog. He found such strange gems as "Opulence as a Social Art", by L. Phatt, "So You're Going to be Executed ... dozens of things to say on the chopping block", in the Gallows Humour section, "The Shirt Off My Back", by Lady Godiva, "Popular Punishments for Grave Robbers", "Hal Barwood on Monkey 2" (less is more, guys! You can't polish a turd), and a whole section on the Ghost Pirate LeChuck, apparently written by Guybrush Threepwood (he must have been asleep.) The critics seemed to agree, for each title - "Why I Blew Up LeChuck", "Where I Blew Up LeChuck", and "When I Blew Up LeChuck" - was listed as one of Guybrush's worst.
Guybrush didn't feel like checking them out, because they were probably right.
Finally he came across something of interest. History: See Scabb Island. Guybrush went to Scabb Island, and found the title "Scabb Island History." He asked the librarian about it, and was soon holding a thin tome. He skimmed through the basics, and found Scabb Island was first settled as a quarantine island for skin diseases. It later became a haven for pirates because of its distinctive lack of authority figures.
That was the extent of the usefulness of Scabb Island History. Guybrush started to leave the library - it looked like he'd have to get some more information in the field before it'd be useful.
He stopped by the model lighthouse. He bent down, and looked into the very top of the lighthouse. In it was a small lighthouse lens, apparently one of the most magnifying lenses available, according to the librarian. It looked to be a very familiar size to Guybrush.
The librarian was busy with her books. Quickly Guybrush lifted the top of the lighthouse, and took the lens. He slipped it into his pocket and walked nonchalantly outside.
He took the promenade. The lens would make a good present for Wally, who was probably still blundering around trying to see things. Guybrush's conscience hadn't exactly been troubled by his deeds of the past, but when an opportunity like that was presented, you'd be stupid not to take it.
The houses he was passing on his left were dreary, brown and red brick buildings. Nestled in between them was another, darker alleyway. Recalling the interesting experience Guybrush had had down the first alleyway, he tried the second.
It led past tall piles of boxes and into a small, drab courtyard with a huge puddle on the floor from the dripping pipes. Here there was a really big green door, with multiple padlocks and a small slot at the top, several feet above Guybrush's head.
Guybrush had no idea what on earth could go on behind such a door, so he decided to knock.
The slot above his head opened. Guybrush craned his head up, but could only see dark space. "What do you want, kid?" said a deep voice from behind the door.
"Who are you, and what are you doing behind there?" asked Guybrush.
"I'm Bruno," said Bruno, "and that's none of your business. Get lost."
Guybrush had a feeling the slot was about to be closed. "Have you ever heard the legend of the Mighty Guybrush?" he said quickly.
The slot instantly shut.
"Well, don't you want to hear it again?"
No response from Bruno. Guybrush shrugged, and walked back out to the promenade. He took in the sea view which, if you weren't looking at the buildings, wasn't that bad. The longer gaze allowed him to notice a small figure, sitting on the edge of the nearby pier.
Guybrush walked to the pier and started along it. Drawing near, he saw the figure was a rotund, greasy kid of about twelve, and he was fishing. The getup was a bit unusual, Guybrush had to admit - corncob pipe, a grey hat with fish sewn to it, and a red and white striped jumper.
"Caught anything yet?" asked Guybrush.
"Are you kidding?" asked the kid. He had a high-pitched, irritating voice, like a Sitcom Kid on TV. And he had the smart-alec attitude to go along with it. "I reached my limit hours ago!"
Guybrush didn't like this kid. "I'm Guybrush Threepwood," he said, "a mighty fisherman!"
The kid took the corncob pipe from his mouth, and looked at Guybrush with wide, white and very suspicious eyes. "Oh, you are, are you?" he asked, not believing a word.
"I'm also the man who caught the notorious LeChuck!"
The kid snorted, and looked back out to sea. "Yeah, right. If you fish as poorly as you lie, you don't even deserve to be talking to me."
"I'm the best fisherman in these isles!" continued Guybrush. The kid was starting to get his gander up.
"I beg to differ: I'm the best fisherman in these isles," said the supercilious kid.
Guybrush gaped at the kid. "You?" he blurted, managing to sound like the most astonished person in the world. "You couldn't fish your way out of a paper bag. You couldn't catch cold in a blizzard. Couldn't even catch fish at a restaurant."
"What?" said the kid. He stretched his arms wide to give an approximate indication of size. "The pike I catch make Pike's Peak look like an anthill." He looked at the sea with satisfaction. "That's why I'm known as 'The Blowfish'."
"You mean 'The BlowHARD'," retorted Guybrush, who wasn't about to let such a gimme past. "The fish you catch are so small you need tweezers to throw them back."
The kid looked at him, momentarily lost for words. There was a mean glint in his eyes. "Listen bait-for-brains," he finally snapped, "I'm the best around and that's that."
There were any number of ways to respond here, and Guybrush tried them all. "Not if your lures are as ugly as you are," said Guybrush. "Or if your hooks are as dull as your wit, or if your reel is as rusty as your imagination, or if your bait is as tiny as your brain, or if your line as weak as your lines. Not on your life, Hammerhead-face."
"Perhaps you'd like to make a small wager, eh, Mr. Fisherman?" suggested the kid.
Guybrush knew the right thing to do here - not show any sign of insecurity. "Sure, I'll take your bet," he said confidently.
The kid chuckled. "Let me tell you what I had in mind first." He removed the pipe from his mouth again and looked earnestly at Guybrush. "If you can catch a bigger fish than I can, I'll give you my prizewinning pole."
The pole in question rested in his left hand, and indeed looked like quite a good model. "Kiss your pole goodbye," said Guybrush.
"If I catch a bigger fish than you, you have to eat it. Raw." The kid smiled at Guybrush.
Guybrush swallowed, meanwhile doing his best to keep a confident face. "You mean, on rice with a little wasabe and soy sauce?"
"No. Plain, cold, and with the head on it." He looked intently at Guybrush. "What do you say?"
Guybrush didn't like the idea of eating raw fish. But he just couldn't wait to see the expression on this kid's face when he won. "All right, it's a bet," he said.
The kid's face lit up - he was looking forward to the denouement as well. "Great! I'm really looking forward to making you eat my catch." He looked out to sea. "What with all the sewage from Governor Phatt's mansion, the fish around here are usually pretty gross. I never eat mine, just sell them to restaurants. Best get fishing, buddy. Heh heh heh."
Guybrush tried to think of a parting insult, failed, and had to be content with turning on his heels and walking smartly away.
Soon he had reached the end of the promenade. The path continued inland here, passing through thick forest groves and over rainwashed gullies. Soon Guybrush found himself consulting Dread's map.
Phatt was an irregularly shaped island, with the main docks in the north and the Governor's mansion in the south. There was a small triangular island off the northwestern coast, separated by a narrow rip. If Mister Rogers had retired off the coast of Phatt Island, here was the only place he could have done it.
The detail wasn't great, but Guybrush at least knew his general direction. The problem would be how to get to the island.
He walked west for some time, following a reasonable sized stream, before he came to a waterfall. Water cascaded down over several stages of rocky drops, in a noisy but picturesque way.
Still, there was something odd about the splashes - a hollow echoing quality. Guybrush picked up a rock and threw it through the curtain of water at its lowest point. No sound of rock smashing against rock wall. No sound of rock landing in water pool. Nothing at all.
He might be mistaken, but Guybrush could have sworn there was a tunnel behind there. And if there was a tunnel behind there, it led in exactly the right direction to take him under the rip. But no way was he trying out his theory with all that water coming down.
Guybrush climbed back up and took the path leading to the top of the waterfall. It wound left and right for some time, before coming to a plateau by the river.
There was something strange and silver and metallic here - a pump.
Guybrush took a closer look. It had needles, and dials, and although Guybrush couldn't make head or tail of them, it seemed to be turned on. At irregular intervals a whooshing and hissing noise would come from the pump.
There was only one control Guybrush could work out. Near the bottom of the pump was a large red wheel. It was turned all the way clockwise - the fully open position. Guybrush tried to pull it shut but the wheel refused to budge. He'd need a monkey wrench before he could possibly close this rusted wheel.

Captain Dread, waiting patiently in the Jolly Rasta, saw Guybrush return twenty minutes later. Guybrush climbed aboard and sat down on the deck.
"Where do you want to go, mon?" asked Dread, holding Wally's monocle in his hand.
"Booty Island," said Guybrush. It was time he tried his luck elsewhere.
"OK, mon." Captain Dread cast off the ropes, and soon they were drifting out of the harbour and into the sea.
Maybe they would have better luck on Booty.

It was only an hour later, still fairly early in the morning, when they made it to Booty Island. Booty and Phatt were really quite close to each other, which made travel between them easy.
Booty, like Phatt, was also fairly irregular in its shape. It was, however, all in the one piece. The Governor's Mansion (Elaine's Mansion, he amended) was in the northwestern corner of the island, and on a small peninsula separated from the main island by a narrow spit.
The main township, into which Dread had docked, was slightly more alive than Phatt Island's, but not much. In contrast to Phatt, where the central item around which all the buildings crowded was the promenade, here all the dwellings and stores were situated around a bare plain in front of the pier.
The closest house was built right on the end of the pier, next to the beach. Guybrush went over and tried the door. He entered.
Even before he taken a few steps inside, he knew where he was. An antique shop, albeit one with highly unusual selections. A bright man with thick red hair, red beard and tricorner hat greeted him from behind the counter. He was more than willing to elaborate on everything Guybrush looked at.
"That's a real ship's horn just like the one used on modern ships," he said to Guybrush as he looked at a small horn hanging from the wall. He had a bookish, enthusiastic voice. Guybrush looked around, and saw a stack of pirate hats. "You'd look good in one of those," said the antique dealer encouragingly. "And they're great for parties."
"Nice shop you've got here," said Guybrush.
"Thanks. I pride myself on the quality of my merchandise. I only sell the finest of pirate memorabilia. Even the trade-ins are first class. And I always make you the best deals."
"How can you afford to do that?"
"Volume."
By the pirate hats was an anchor, "ergonomically formulated to enhance stopping power." By this was a left turn sign, "one I took from the famous Precipice View Road."
"I've never heard of it," said Guybrush.
"They call it Dead Man's Drop now."
The selection was criminally diverse. Rotting skulls - "Those are authentic scale reproductions of rotting skulls rendered in sun-bleached whalebone. There's even some loose skin to hang them from." Indy's whip� - "That's the real thing! As seen in 'Raiders', 'Temple', 'Holy Grail', and 'The Young Chronicles'." A huge mask - "It looks like Spiffy the Pinhead."
The wide selection had piqued Guybrush's interest. Maybe there might be something of use here.
He looked down and saw a treasure chest on the floor. "It's said," said the dealer helpfully, "that the infamous Greenbeard won that from Long John Cooper in a poker game. Shame that it's empty." By it was a pegleg that looked familiar in its design. "It was handmade by a good friend of mine from another island." And a well-polished old saw. "Found that beauty at the bottom of the sea. She cleaned up real nicely though."
There were more of the authentic pirate goods. A huge bowswain's wheel nestled in an unused corner. "I got that as a gift from a man I saved a few years ago," said the dealer. "Don't have much use for a wheel, but he said one good turn deserves another." A number of mean-looking black cannons were piled nearby. "That's a Mark VII 'devastator' triple cannon emplacement," said the dealer. "If they'd only thought to leave a hole for the fuse."
But some of the items verged on the ridiculous. A parchment painting of a whale, for example. "That's the legendary white whale. Never been caught, except on canvas."
"Does it have a name?"
"Dunno. Maybe. Maybe not. Nothing says a whale must have a name."
A feather pen - "I made that from my last parrot. Got too noisy for me." Hubcaps - "I was told these are used as a form of barter in the inner cities." Elvis plates - "That collectible plate is worth a mint."
"Wow! I knew these would be valuable someday."
But there was one item here that made it all worthwhile. It was displayed prominently on the counter, right next to the antique dealer.
A map piece.
"That's part of the Big Whoop treasure map," said the dealer in hushed tones. "I don't know a lot about the piece, but there's supposed to be a book at the Phatt City library that tells all about the whole map."
"How much is the map piece?" asked Guybrush hopefully.
"The map piece is made of authentic parchment from the turn of the century," said the dealer. "Can't find things like that anymore."
"Yeah, but how much is it?"
The dealer thought. "About six million pieces of eight."
"Um... I don't think I have that much to spend."
"Well, I do have some nice fake maps for less," offered the dealer.
"No thanks," said Guybrush firmly. He wanted the map, and nothing but the map would do. "Do you take Visa?"
"Yeah, like you have one," said the dealer. "But I do accept personal checks or trade-ins."
Here was an avenue. "What kind of trade-ins do you accept?"
"I'll take most old swords, some used parrots, almost anything valuable made of bronze, and a few old ship parts."
"Would you give the map piece for any of those things?"
"No. But there's one thing I might trade for the piece."
"What?"
The dealer looked wistfully into the middle distance. "There's a certain ship that sunk and I'd really like the figurehead. I'd give you the map if you got the figurehead for me."
This sounded difficult. "What can you tell me about this ship?" asked Guybrush.
"The ship was a huge galleon named the Mad Monkey. Nobody knows where it sank or why. But, the figurehead is supposed to be the most fabulous piece of art ever. That's why I want it. I'm a collector of fine art, as I'm sure you can see."
"All right," said Guybrush. "Goodbye." He walked back out into the sunshine. He had something of a hunch.
Guybrush got back on board the Jolly Rasta and searched through his stuff until finding what he was after "Great Shipwrecks Of Our Century." He quickly searched the index, and there it was - the Mad Monkey.
Guybrush followed the reference. According to this account, the Mad Monkey sank at 38N, 88W. Guybrush checked Dread's map, and found the reference was a bare patch of ocean near Phatt Island.
However, there was a problem. When he called Dread over and pointed out where he wanted them to go, Dread shook his head. "That's the Forbidden Triangle, mon," he said. "No way are we sailing there."
Guybrush tried the patch of ocean nearby. It turned out to be the Forbidden Square. Other patches of ocean, chosen at random, were revealed to be the Forbidden Pentagon, Forbidden Circle, Forbidden Hexogram, and Forbidden Trapezoid.
When Dread said he only knew how to get to three islands, he hadn't been kidding. It seemed Guybrush might have to find some other ship to charter if he wanted to go dredging.
He put the book down and returned to shore. It was time to find Elaine, maybe she could help.
As Guybrush walked through the township, he saw two people standing outside, looking busy. The first was a small, wizened old man standing by a cannon, looking senile. The second was a tall, striking pirate woman, dressed in green and purple and wearing a very large pirate hat. She was holding a number of leaflets in her hands and waving them about, calling out "Cruises! Sunken Galleons! Last day before I leave!"
Guybrush walked up to her. "Hi," he said, introducing himself.
"I'm Captain Kate Capsize." Guybrush placed the name immediately - the woman who'd taken the last drop of the Scabb Island bartender's near-grog. "Like to charter a ship?" she continued.
This was a stroke of fortune. From the bartender's description, Kate didn't seem like the type to get all fearful at Forbidden Dodecahedrons and other geometrical figures. "I do weddings, funerals, bar mitzvahs, you name it."
"Could I have one of those leaflets?" he asked.
"Yeah, OK." Kate handed him one - it was basically a huge picture of her face. The subtext was small and hard to read. "Capsize Charters - glass-bottom boat for sightseeing or special-interest voyages."
"Are you the same Kate who bought all the near-grog at the Bloody Lip?" asked Guybrush as he read the leaflet.
"Yeah, and you can't have any of it, so don't ask," said Kate.
Guybrush decided not to. "I'm interested in chartering a ship," he said.
"Great!" said Kate enthusiastically. "Not many people want to charter a glass-bottomed boat around here. Pretty soon I'm off to Phatt Island to try my luck there, but let's talk turkey first. My fee is 6000 pieces of eight."
That was, approximately, three hundred times Dread's fee. "Don't you think 6000 pieces of eight is a bit high?" asked Guybrush.
"No, I don't."
"All I have is four hundred pieces of eight."
"I guess you'd better find some more then, huh?"
"I'm searching for the treasure of Big Whoop," explained Guybrush. Surely that would interest her.
Seemingly, it did. "Yeah?" she asked. "When I was first mate on the Limping Limpet we went in search of Big Whoop. We'd heard it was buried under a place called Blinky Island. Never found the island or the treasure. The captain eventually died of boredom while we were crossing the Sea of Beige Flotsam. Hope your luck is better."
It seemed he'd need to raise more funds before coming back to Kate. Guybrush sighed, and walked over to the old man standing by the cannon. Something about the spatial juxtaposition of these objects drew him. For one thing, Guybrush had something of a history with cannons.
He wondered if this one was loaded.
The old man, dressed brightly and cheerfully, had not noticed he had company. "Hello there," said Guybrush.
The man turned his head and saw Guybrush finally, at least as far as the prescription spectacles he was wearing allowed. He had large gold earrings and a red bandanna - this was obviously an old pirate.
He brought something up to his left ear, something golden and tubular. "Sorry son, didn't have my horn out," he said apologetically, holding the horn firmly in place. "Could you say that again?"
"I said hello there," said Guybrush, louder this time. "My name's Threepwood."
"Oh, why hello there Threepwood," said the old pirate pleasantly. His name was Augustus DeWaat.
"Whatcha lookin at?"
"I watch the sea, and when the mail boat arrives, I blow this cannon. Dang ship's three days late." Augustus was not at all put out by Guybrush's question. It was a long boring day to be spent watching for boats, and it was Mardi Gras too. Any company was welcome.
"You don't have a brother named Marty, do you?" asked Guybrush idly.
Augustus shook his head. "Boy, the only pirate I know is Marty Graw!"
"Who?"
"Mardi Gras! It's a joke, boy, a joke. You're here for Mardi Gras, aren't you?"
"Is this the right time of year for Mardi Gras?" asked Guybrush. It certainly wasn't being celebrated on any of the other islands he'd been on recently.
"Son, it's always Mardi Gras on Booty Island," said Augustus proudly. "I used to be Governor of this island. But I never had any time to come down here and enjoy the party. So I quit, and now I watch for the mail boat."
"In that case, no," said Guybrush. "I'm on a treasure hunt."
Augustus didn't quite understand. "What? They doing a treasure hunt again this year? I can't believe they'd try that again after all the mishaps last time."
"What kind of mishaps?"
Augustus looked properly sombre. "Well, some people got carried away... some graves got dug up... horrible business."
"Dang, there goes all my fun," said Guybrush.
"Well, there's always Governor Marley's party," said Augustus helpfully.
"Marley?" said Guybrush. He was still a little unsure on this point. "That's funny, I used to date a Governor Marley."
"Oh sure," said Augustus sarcastically. "And I'll bet you helped her beat LeChuck, too." He waggled his left eyebrow conspiratorially, momentarily causing his actual left eye to come into view (the right one being completely hidden by bushy white eyebrows).
"Don't laugh," said Guybrush. "I've got the proof right here, in my pock-" Suddenly, he remembered what had happened to LeChuck's beard. "Uh, oh."
Augustus smiled goodnaturedly. "Hey hey, kid, it's OK. Mardi Gras is the time for fantasy. Now run along and enjoy yourself."
Guybrush decided to take the advice and end the conversation on a friendly note. "Well, bye," he said, and started walking further inland. He was drawing close to some sort of pavilion, with a group of people standing by a small green pitch, surrounded by bright, tall banners, fluttering merrily in the breeze. But Guybrush saw something on his left which diverted his attention for a while.
It was a large shopfront, with the white paint flaking a little. What caught Guybrush's eyes was the huge sign tacked to it, with red and white lights flashing around the rim.
"Stan's Previously Owned Coffins," proclaimed the sign.
"Open," added a flashing green sign erected in the window.
Guybrush wondered if this was his old friend Stan. Maybe he should walk in and say hello.
He opened, and entered.
He didn't have much time to take in the surroundings, the stacks and piles of coffins displayed to their best advantage in the mildewy light, the Mardi Gras streamers and balloons hanging from the ceiling, the signs and posters reading SALE and 50% OFF!, because as he entered a tall man in a checked grey coat and huge white sombrero flew out from behind the counter and bounded over.
He was, as Guybrush now recognised, the one and only Stan.
Stan seemed to be in high spirits (as, very often, his customers were). "HOWDY!!" he yelled enthusiastically. "Welcome to Stan's Previously Owned Coffins!" He had now reached Guybrush and was falling smoothly into his patter. "We handle the dead for a lot less bread."
Little had changed with Stan. He still moved his hands ceaselessly when he talked, and his foot tapped the floor like a dwarf hunting for gold.
"What are you looking for, son?" he asked Guybrush, guiding him over to the main display area. "Need a bin for your next of kin? Want a family plot without spending a lot? You're in luck! Just look at this quality merchandise!" Stan looked lovingly at his trade wares. "Never before touched by a living soul. Most of it only used for a few hours - premature burial, you know. That sort of thing.
"Well, speak up. Or are you dead? Either way, you came to the right place." Stan paused, and Guybrush found he had time to fit in a sentence.
"Didn't you used to be a used-ship salesman?" he asked, a bit unsure as to why Stan didn't seem to remember him.
"Well, yeah," said Stan. "But I decided to get into a business where unsatisfied customers are less likely to come back and complain."
Given the quality of some of Stan's previous merchandise, Guybrush could only agree that this had been a good idea.
"Do you do funerals?" he asked.
"Of course we do funerals!" said Stan. "And not just those sombre, all-black, three-handkerchief affairs. We do it in a rowdy Mardi Gras style, with music and dancing and pallbearer races. I like to say we put the fun in funerals. Heh heh."
"Actually, I'm not in the market for a coffin just yet," confessed Guybrush. He would have gone further but Stan jumped in first.
"It's never too early to make funeral arrangements," said Stan sagely. "Making plot reservations now ensures you a space at our popular Scabb Island Internment Park�, as well as entitling you to discounts on park rentals."
Guybrush assumed he meant the cemetery. And his eye was caught by a large gold key hanging from a hook behind the counter. The sign above the hook read CRYPTS.
"Rentals?" he wondered aloud.
"You know - for barbecues, parties, that sort of thing."
Stan's sales technique was mesmerising. "I need to get something embalmed," asked Guybrush, merely wanting to see what verbal profundities it would provoke from Stan.
He wasn't disappointed. "Well, you came to the right place!" exclaimed Stan confidently, and suddenly his voice changed a little - got even more strident, if that was possible. "'Your loved ones deserve Stan's special preserve. You won't smell a whiff, when we're done with your stiff.'"
Guybrush scratched his head. "I never knew morticians were so clever." He looked around at Stan's gear. "I'm looking for a good used coffin." Who knew, with LeChuck on his tail maybe it wasn't premature to start worrying about his funeral.
"Amazing!" said Stan. "When you first walked in here I said, 'Now there's a guy who needs a good used coffin!' There happens to be an excellent deal right behind you."
Guybrush turned around, allowing Stan to quickly whip out a measuring tape, make a rough estimate, and conceal it quickly.
"Let's go have a look-see," said Stan, leading Guybrush over to a sturdy looking pine coffin on a white shelf. The lid was open, allowing Guybrush to see that it was quite a large coffin.
"Now this here," said Stan in reverent tones, "is the Cadillac of Coffins. Look at all that leg room! There's room in there for Long John Silver himself! Here - let me get in and show you."
Stan leapt into the air and landed sitting down in the coffin. "Yes, a man can really rest in peace and comfort with one of these. Why should a man's coffin be any smaller than his bunk at sea?"
Guybrush, who had been on one of Stan's boats and knew how large the bunks were, found this a somewhat unflattering comparison.
"I could spend a lot of time in a coffin like this," said Stan in contented tones, running a hand over the finish. He leapt back out. "Can I show you anything else?"
"How much is that coffin?" asked Guybrush.
"Well, it's complicated," said Stan. "Pricing here at Stan's works on a sliding scale - based on one's ability to pay - so as to make a decent funeral affordable to even our poorest customers."
"That's very considerate of you," said Guybrush.
"So, how much dough do you have on you?" asked Stan, giving the game away a little.
"Four hundred pieces of eight," said Guybrush.
"I think cremation might be more appropriate in this instance," said Stan after a short pause.
"I'd just like to browse," said Guybrush. It was really time he got back on the treasure trail.
"Sorry," said Stan regretfully, "Health regulations prohibit me from allowing uncertified persons free access to used internment paraphernalia."
"Aw, shucks," said Guybrush. "Well, I gotta go. See you later."
Stan reached into his pocket. "Here, take this complimentary hankie," he said, offering Guybrush a small white square. Guybrush took it - surprisingly, it was clean. "Just my way of saying, 'I care.'"
Guybrush nodded, and walked back out into the open air.

He really did have to get to the Governor's. But his path led him closer toward the pavilion, and as he drew near he started to get very curious.
The banners, now he had gotten close enough to read them, were emblazoned with the words PIRATE SPIT COMPETITION, and were adorned with green globs and pictures of pirates hocking furiously.
The playing field was smaller than Guybrush had first thought, and consisted of a narrow strip of grass on which were painted white lines at regular intervals. Standing along one side of this strip was a motley group of pirates, somewhat more pedestrian than your normal, battle-and-grog-hardened louts.. Striding up and down the strip, trying to get them involved, was an energetic pirate who reminded Guybrush a little of Stan, except this pirate had huge comical spectacles, a hunched back, and an even bigger mouth (if that were possible). He was the Spitmaster, main adjudicator for the spitting competition.
"Don't be shy! Let it fly!" he exhorted the pirates, who looked back politely, none of them particularly willing to take the step forward. "Just put your two lips together and blow! Prove to me you guys are at least as fun as a pack of llamas. Step up to the line and test your swill. Valuable prizes - first prize wins a personalised bronze plaque!"
No response. "I hear there are some scouts here from the pro spitting circuit," hinted the Spitmaster. "Don't let this grass wither up and die! Come on - it's all paid for by Booty Island Parks and Rec. Just look at this juicy crowd! Are you pirates or what? Two, four, six, eight! Come on, let's expectorate! This may be your last chance at popularity and success! Thousands will spit - hundreds will win! Even a child can do it. In fact, they do it pretty well! Turn a disgusting habit into a prestige winning skill! You think spitting is gross?" He made a look of disgust. "I'll tell you what's gross - swallowing that stuff is gross."
The Spitmaster showed no sign of slowing. "It's a great day for spitting!" He cocked an ear. "What's that - did I hear somebody swallow? What a waste! Well, who's going to be next? I know you want to volunteer - it's on the tip of your tongue!"
It might have been how the sun at that moment shone through the clouds, lighting the grass and the banners and the distant sea, or maybe it was Guybrush's susceptibility to the spiel. But somehow, this spitting competition was starting to sound better and better.
Guybrush stepped up to the line. "I'll give it a try," he said nonchalantly.
The Spitmaster turned. "A volunteer!" he cried. Some of the pirates in the crowd applauded politely. The Spitmaster ran forward. "All right, settle down, folks," he said. "This kid looks like a serious contender."
There was a moment of silence as everyone looked at Guybrush. "What's your name, boy?" asked the Spitmaster.
"I am, of course, Captain Loogie," said Guybrush, remembering a name from the library.
The Spitmaster liked the moniker. "The Loogster!" he cried. The audience applauded. "Loog-o-rama! Hockin' the big ones for fame and fortune!" He ran to the far side of the grass strip. "Spit away!"
A silence fell amongst them, a silence not penetrated by the occasional cry of encouragement from a male or female pirate. Guybrush hocked up till his mouth was full, then started to swish the saliva around, giving it fluidity. He puckered his lips and let fly, jerking his head forward.
The green runnels of saliva struck his lips, stuck there, and dripped impotently to the ground.
"Misfire! Misfire!" cried the Spitmaster. "Everybody run!" Setting the example, he ran back over to Guybrush. "Gee, that's too bad, Captain. Let's give him a big hand anyway, folks."
The pirates applauded. "At least he tried," continued the Spitmaster as Guybrush stepped away from the line. "Now how about you?"
Guybrush walked past the spitting competition, and the voice of the Spitmaster grew fainter as he exhorted the crowd. Guybrush knew he hadn't shown his best form. In fact, he'd always fancied himself as a good spitter. And now he'd failed.
Guybrush was depressed for a little while, but got over it once he was far from the main dock and wandering through thick forest. Captain Dread's map was sketchy, but it was enough to show the Governor's mansion at the northwestern corner. Guybrush hoped it was low tide, because the spit connecting the mansion to the mainland looked pretty thin.
So he passed through the island, and before long had come to the opening of the spit, the seawater calm on either side. A small hut had been erected here, with a wooden bar blocking the way forward. Standing in front of the hut was a large, fat, ghost-blue pirate with a mean glint in his eyes and a huge black beard.
The pirate held out its hand, and suddenly Guybrush recognised him.
He jumped five feet in the air. "THE GHOST PIRATE LECHUCK!!!"
The pirate looked puzzled, reached its thick hands up to its head, and pulled it off. Inside was a blonde woman who looked similar to Kate. "Get a grip," she said. "Don't you know a Mardi Gras costume when you see one?"
Guybrush exhaled, inhaled, and exhaled, until his heart had gotten down from three hundred beats a second.
"Is there something I can help you with?" asked the woman.
"Nice costume," said Guybrush. "Almost scared me to death."
"Thanks."
"What are you guarding here?" he continued. Guybrush hadn't expected any problems in getting to the mansion. He'd had some on Melee Island, but that was different. They knew each other now.
"I'm guarding Governor Marley's mansion," said the woman.
"Elaine Marley? From Melee Island?" Guybrush thought he better make sure about this.
"Yup," agreed the woman. "The same heroic Elaine Marley who killed the Ghost Pirate LeChuck."
Guybrush hadn't heard this story. "But, I killed LeChuck!" he said.
"Why would Governor Marley lie?" asked the woman.
Who knew? Guybrush didn't. "Jealousy? Revenge? Fame and fortune? Revenge?"
"In your dreams," said the woman in a dismissive tone.
Guybrush had a sudden idea why the mansion was being guarded. It might be because of the party. Guybrush had heard talk about a Mardi Gras Fish Fry. But no-one had mentioned invitations.
"I'm here for the Governor's party," he said to the guard.
"You mean Governor Marley's Mardi Gras Fish Fry?" she amended. "It's invitation only and costumes are required."
This was not what Guybrush wanted to hear. "This is my costume," he said, indicating his swashbuckling blue coat, mud brown boots and belt buckle.
The guard was not fooled. "Nobody would willingly wear such a dopey costume."
She wasn't a stupid guard, and there didn't seem to be any gainsaying her. "I gotta go," said Guybrush. "Keep up the good work." He walked back into the jungle as purposefully as possible.

Twenty five minutes later he was back on the deck of the Jolly Rasta.
"Mon?" asked Captain Dread as he climbed on.
"Scabb Island," said Guybrush. Seeing a light in Captain Dread's eyes, he added, "We're making a round journey."
No way were they giving up now. They were just getting started.
There was the matter, for example, of getting to the island off the coast of Phatt. Guybrush needed a monkey wrench, and he thought the woodsmith might have one. He also thought of the Bloody Lip, and added Getting A Drink to his list of priorities.

The Jolly Rasta coasted on a gentle breeze, reaching Scabb Island just as noon passed. Captain Dread weighed anchor a small distance from Woodtick (it was a town without a dock), leaving Guybrush to find his way to the bridge leading across.
It might have been noon, but it would be hard to tell here in the damp, dim light. Scabb Island was subject to some unusual weather patterns, among them mist that accumulated by day and evaporated by night. It always felt like ten p.m. here.
He walked over and to the woodsmith's hut. As he saw him hard at work, he remembered that here was someone he hadn't informed about Largo's disappearance yet. He thought the woodsmith might be glad to learn the news.
"Largo LaGrande will never bother you again!" Guybrush announced as he stepped inside.
The woodsmith nodded. "Yeah, I heard Marty stuck a bunch of pins in his underwear or something. Drove him right out of town."
"No, it was me!" cried Guybrush. He was sick of others taking the fortune and glory that was rightfully his.
"You?" said the woodsmith dubiously. "What were you doing with Largo's underwear?"
"Um, well..." Guybrush suddenly wasn't as anxious to tell the story as before. "Oh, never mind." He looked around the hut. "Do you have a monkey wrench?"
"What's this look like, an ironmongers? No I don't."
Guybrush couldn't believe it. But rather than pointlessly remonstrate, he stepped back outside.
It was all looking very black as far as finding Big Whoop went. Not even a single map piece found (well, one found, but not taken). Guybrush looked at the Bloody Lip. Here was another meeting he'd been dreading, but he might as well get it over with.
Guybrush walked to the hatchway, opened it, and walked into the warm, dark depths of the Bloody Lip. He tried to cross unobserved to the kitchen door, but the bartender caught him. "You're supposed to be cooking," he said.
"The knives needed sharpening," offered Guybrush as an excuse.
The bartender didn't take it. "Nice try, but not good enough. You're fired." He started polishing a different mug.
That was certainly more painless than Guybrush had expected. For one, he still had his four hundred pieces of eight.
There was a strange, discordant noise coming from a disused corner. Guybrush couldn't place it for a moment, then he turned and saw a monkey sitting down at the piano and belting out some old honkytonk. This, perhaps, was Jojo.
Jojo jumped up and down, using his long fingers to good effect. He didn't, however, have much sense of tempo, and the metronome clicking time wasn't helping much.
Guybrush sat down at the bar. "Grog, please," he said to the bartender.
"I'll need to see some ID for that," said the bartender.
Here was where the library finally came in handy. "Would a temporary library card do?" asked Guybrush, proffering his to the bartender.
"Let me see it." He studied the card. "Is Guybrush a French name?" he asked.
"No, actually it's a fictional name."
"Oh. All right, can I get you that drink now?"
It had worked. "Yeah, I could really use it," said Guybrush, not kidding at all.
"Name yer poison."
"Whadda ya got?" asked Guybrush. He didn't really feel in the mood for a straight grog.
"Well, we have some speciality drinks here at the Bloody Lip," said the bartender. "Like: Yellow Beard's Baby, Bloody Stump, and Blue Whale."
"Give me a Bloody Stump," said Guybrush.
"Can't. Chain saw's out of gas!" The bartender laughed heartily.
"Hilarious," agreed Guybrush, deadpan.
"Yeah, I crack myself up. That'll be one piece of eight."
"OK." Guybrush handed over the coin, and the bartender did something complicated with bottles and a mug. Seconds later Guybrush had a Bloody Stump in front of him, a drink with a colour that fitted the name.
"And here's a complimentary crazy straw," said the bartender, fitting it to the mug. "We give them to all new customers at the Bloody Lip."
Guybrush started to raise the drink to his lips, but paused. Those other drinks sounded tempting too, and he didn't want to miss out on anything.
"I'll have Yellow Beard's Baby," he said to the bartender, putting down his Bloody Stump.
The bartender leered. "Well, you can try, but I don't think nature's on your side. Ha ha ha!"
"Just give me the drink, please," said Guybrush impatiently.
"Hey, I have to crack jokes," said the bartender apologetically. "It's a union thing. That'll be one piece of eight."
Guybrush handed over the metal - in return he was given a glass filled with an anaemic yellow liquid.
"And mix me up a Blue Whale while you're at it," he said.
"Sorry. Blender's not big enough!" The bartender guffawed merrily. "But seriously, that'll be one piece of eight."
Consistent pricing. Moments later Guybrush had three drinks, lined up in a row.
Using the crazy straw, Guybrush first had a taste of Yellow Beard's Baby. "Yuck," was his initial reaction.
"It's an acquired taste," said the bartender.
Guybrush shifted the straw to the Blue Whale. Apart from being a bit more viscous and gluggy, nothing much improved. He tried the Bloody Stump, and gagged on the coppery taste.
Guybrush tried a little mixing and matching, to see if it would improve the taste. He poured some of the Blue Whale into the Bloody Stump, but that just made things worse. He poured the rest into Yellow Beard's Baby.
The taste was nothing to write about. But this drink had the curious effect of making his spit incredibly thick. And it was an appropriately cack green colour.
Guybrush remembered Largo coming down here, drinking his usual, then managing to spit clear across to the other side of the room.
And suddenly Guybrush had an idea for the spitting competition.
He asked the bartender for a lid, and fitted it to the glass. It also had a hole for the crazy straw, which Guybrush took advantage of. He pocketed the glass.
Guybrush looked at Jojo again, watching the monkey pound the piano with gusto, if imprecise gusto. "I should have listened to my mother - I should have practised," he said softly. He watched the swing of the metronome left and right, heard the click of the tempo.
He was starting to get a very silly idea. But as he watched Jojo's iron fingers, it got steadily more respectable.
After all, if you needed a monkey wrench, you needed a monkey wrench.
Guybrush stood up and walked over to the piano. Jojo ignored him - his focus was totally on the white and black keys. But that was okay, as Guybrush had an ace up his sleeve.
A yellow ace, in particular. Guybrush took out the banana and waggled it near Jojo's face.
Jojo turned to look at the banana, but kept playing steadily. The bartender was less impressed. "Hey! Don't bug the monkey!"
Guybrush removed the banana from view. Then he had another idea. In one quick motion he impaled the banana on the metronome.
Jojo instantly stopped playing and looked keenly at Guybrush. The room was filled with a dramatic quiet, leavened only slightly by the ticking of the metronome.
The bartender didn't like it. "Hey, what'd you do to my piano player?"
Guybrush took Jojo by the warm, leathery hand. Jojo came willingly as Guybrush led him from the piano and to the stairs.
"Go ahead and take my entertainment," said the bartender bitterly. "Thanks for nothing, buddy."
Guybrush led Jojo up the stairs (he negotiated them easily), and back through Woodtick to Dread's ship. Jojo was an agreeable companion. He seemed to hold Guybrush as his new lord and master, and did anything Guybrush wanted him to.
Soon they had made the Jolly Rasta. "Phatt Island," said Guybrush. Captain Dread looked curiously at his new companion, but wisely held his tongue.

One and a half hours later they had reached Phatt Island, driven by a fast breeze. Jojo was an immensely curious monkey, and wormed his way through every possible alcove, passage and vantage point on the boat. Captain Dread was not impressed at first, but soon grew to like the little feller too.
At the Phatt City docks, Guybrush took Jojo with him. They walked along the promenade, and as Guybrush looked into the gambling alley he was surprised to see the man dressed in green was still there.
Guybrush crept into the alley and hid behind a large stack of boxes. Jojo followed him, Guybrush motioning him to be quiet. Jojo nodded.
"OK, here we go," said the dealer. Guybrush heard the rapid clacking of pegs, before they slowed and finally stopped. "29 red."
"All right!" said the man.
"You win again!" congratulated the dealer. "Today is your lucky day, all right!"
How could he have won again? thought Guybrush. And it had been a few hours since he was here last. How many other times had he won?
"Would you like money again?" asked the dealer.
"Yeah." There was a rattle, and then Guybrush heard the man coming back out. He ducked down further.
The man passed without noticing them. Quickly Guybrush stood and followed him out, taking care to keep his distance.
The man took a left, walking past the library and several other buildings before coming to the next alleyway, which he entered.
He walked to the huge, bolted green door, and knocked. Guybrush and Jojo hid behind another stack of boxes, a position from which they could see the slot open.
"Gimme the next number," said the gambler to the open slot.
"First give me the password," said Bruno. A huge, hairy palm was extended through the slot, all five fingers extended. "If this is one," said Bruno, before rearranging his hand so only two fingers appeared, "what's this?"
"Five," said the gambler instantly.
"Right," said Bruno, drawing back his hand. The slot itself was something like nine feet above ground, so how high was Bruno. Guybrush didn't want to know. "The winning number will be seven red," said Bruno.
"Thanks," said the gambler, turning and walking back out of the alley.
Guybrush indicated to Jojo to stay put, and walked to the door. He knocked.
The slot opened. "What do you want, kid?" asked Bruno impatiently.
"What's the next winning number going to be?"
"First give me the password," said Bruno. "You have to get it right three times." His hand emerged from the door, with two fingers in the V sign. "If this is five," he said, bringing two more fingers into view, "what's this?"
You are a very strange person, did you know that? thought Guybrush. But he recognised this might not be a time for wisecracks, so he gave the answer instead. "Two." The system wasn't hard. All you needed to do was pay attention to the first number of fingers he displayed.
"OK, that's one right. Two more. If this is two" - still four fingers were displayed - "what's this?" The four fingers collapsed into a fist.
The attempt to confuse Guybrush was not working. "Four."
"That's two. One more. If this is four" - one finger raised - "what's this?" An extra finger was raised.
"One." Guybrush hated number games, and this was a really stupid password system, but the guessing was easy.
Bruno withdrew his hand. "OK, you must be a member of the Gambler's Guild," he conceded. "But I don't recognise you." He sounded a little suspicious.
Guybrush made up a story on the spot. "No, I was transferred here today. New orders."
"What?" said Bruno, even more suspiciously.
Guybrush scratched his head. "Um... sorry. Had a flashback there. What I meant was that I just joined today."
"Oh. OK," said Bruno. "The winning number will be 22 black." The slot shut.
Guybrush grinned. It had gone perfectly. He called Jojo from the shadows and together they walked back to the promenade.

The dealer was a little surprised to see a monkey by Guybrush's side, but kept his silence. He kept his silence because the guy in the green clothes was making a bet, and there was an etiquette to these things.
The dealer spun the wheel. It stopped, mere seconds later, on the number 29 red.
"All right!" said the guy.
"Another win!" agreed the dealer. "Money again?"
"Money."
The dealer handed another satchel of money to the guy, who stuffed it down his voluminous trousers. "I think that's enough for me today," he said.
"OK, Ralphie," said the dealer. "See you again tomorrow."
Ralphie walked away with a spring and a swagger. This was just making Guybrush more confused. How on earth did the casino make money?
"Why does that other guy keep winning so much?" he asked once Ralphie had disappeared.
"Oh, maybe he's got some... inside help," said the dealer, winking. "Know what I mean?"
Guybrush knew about that. "How can you make a profit if that guy keeps winning?" he asked.
The dealer shrugged his shoulders. "Hey, I only work here. It's the owners who are losing money."
Guybrush wondered about the owners. What casino boss would willingly run at a loss? As far as he could tell, a perfect one.
"I'd like to place another bet," he said to the dealer. "Jojo, stop that." He gave him one piece of eight (the dealer, not Jojo).
"OK, kid. Which number ya want?"
With utter certainty in his voice, Guybrush said, "22 black."
"OK, here we go." The dealer gave the wheel another spin. Guybrush wondered how the system was fixed. Maybe there was some kind of motor in the wall.
The motion of the wheel gave him no clues. It span, slowed, and finally came to a halt on 22 black.
"22 black!" shouted the dealer. "You're a winner, kid! Which of our FABulous PRIzes do you want? Take your pick! You can have sixty pieces of eight... or... an invitation to Governor Marley's Mardi Gras party... or... you can have a free pass to see the Linguini Brothers circus! Well? Which will it be?"
"I'd love to have the invitation!" enthused Guybrush
"He wants the invitation!" The dealer reached into his jacket, and withdrew a small, off-white rectangle of parchment. It was given to Guybrush. "Congratulations!"
"Thanks," said Guybrush, pocketing the valuable paper. "Come on, Jojo." They left the alleyway and started walking lazily down the promenade.
The fishing boy was still here. "Caught anything yet?" called Guybrush derisively as he passed.
"Yeah, but nothing gross enough to make you eat it!" rejoined the fishing boy. He looked with narrow eyes at Guybrush and Jojo, and his face held an expression that suggested there were plenty of jokes to be made about the situation, ones he just couldn't be bothered thinking of right now.
They walked on past and to the inland path. Fifteen minutes later, their progress a little slowed by Jojo's tendency to swing on every branch he saw, Guybrush finally made it to the waterfall.
They climbed up to the top, where the pump was in full flow. This was where Jojo would really come in handy.
Guybrush took Jojo's hand, and bent the fingers into a rough circle. He fitted the circle around the wheel, made some further adjustments, and soon had them fitting snugly around the rim.
With the monkey wrench properly configured, Guybrush now picked Jojo up and started rotating him anticlockwise, pulling the wheel to its closed position. After several turns, the sound of the water nearby grew fainter. Guybrush kept on with the rotations until the only sound was a faint drip.
Guybrush put Jojo back on the ground, allowing the monkey to get its breath back (it had been a little surprised at Guybrush's ingenuity). Then they walked back to the foot of the waterfall.
Waterfall no longer. The bare rock behind was fully exposed. And something else as well.
A tunnel leading straight under the hill, sloping slightly downward.
Guybrush walked past the lip of rocks, and found that the tunnel was lit by electric light, bright white light spilling from a fixture in the ceiling. The walls, floor and ceiling were straight, grey metal plates. Pipes ran along the walls and under the ceiling.
Guybrush led Jojo along the tunnel, through numerous doorways and passages. The path led straight on, never deviating left or right. Eventually, they began to rise again.
Light at the far end of the tunnel grew, casting the walls in stark relief. Sounds came to them - the call of gulls and the gentle crash of waves.
They came out on a beach. In spite of the high sun it was still a little shady here, mainly because of the rocky outcrop looming above them. There was a hole in the bluff halfway up, but completely unreachable because Guybrush was too short.
If he wanted to get up the bluff, there was a path leading around the rocky outcrop. And as they took this path, Guybrush saw a small wooden shack at the top off the bluff, sheltered by tall palm trees but with a perfect sea view.
If Mister Rogers had ever had a holiday home, surely this was it. The silence here was complete - perhaps this was the only inhabitant of the isle.

It didn't look so good up close. The windows were either shuttered, or boarded over. Boxes and bits of metal were laid against one wall. The roof tiles were stained and cracked.
It didn't look like anyone had lived here for a long time.
There was a grotesque statue lying in what was probably the front lawn. Jojo was dangling from one of its arms. It was somehow appropriate - the statue was a rough approximation of a monkey, hideously exaggerated. It looked like something stolen from the prow of a ship.
There was a plaque near the bottom. Guybrush read the inscription. "When I see far, you are near."
It sounded like a riddle. How could you make an inanimate statue of a monkey see anything?
Guybrush thought about it, came up with nothing resembling an answer, and decided to try the door. If this place really was deserted, it'd at least give him plenty of privacy in which to search.
"Wait here," he said to Jojo, who nodded. Guybrush didn't want the monkey along, in case someone lived here after all.
Guybrush noticed two things when he opened the door. Firstly, he saw that whoever lived here must have enjoyed grog a lot. Secondly, he saw the present occupant of the house, a fat grizzled pirate with white hair and a red nose, glaring balefully at him.
The pirate waddled over. "Yes? What do you want?" he asked.
"I was wondering if I could come in for a minute," said Guybrush politely.
"What do you really want?"
Guybrush realised deception would not be of much use with this suspicious character. "I heard about this guy who used to live here," he began.
The pirate shook his head wearily. "I knew it. Look, kid: I'm sick of you would-be treasure hunters comin' over here. I just inherited this house two months ago. And every single day, all I've heard is people knockin on my door and saying 'Do you have a treasure here?' Why can't you people just go away and leave a retired pirate in peace?"
"I'm Guybrush Threepwood," said Guybrush. "Prepare to die." He wasn't about to let some fat lazy pirate get in his way.
"So... you want to sword fight, do you?" asked the pirate disdainfully. "Sword fighting is for wimps, weenies and sissies."
"Giving up so easily?" taunted Guybrush.
"I have a better way to solve a dispute," answered the pirate. "Real pirates solve their differences with a drinking competition."
"Drinking contest?" He only knew a little about Mister Rogers and his homemade brew, and this was an area of pirating he had less experience in.
"Come on in," said the pirate. He walked back inside, leading Guybrush to a small table with two wooden stools. "I'll get us set up." He wandered off to the kitchen, giving Guybrush more time to observe the place.
There was not much in the way of amenity, or convenience, or plain comfort. The floor was bare timber, rotted and dirty. The light was dim and brown, mostly cut off by the boarded up windows, and that which did come in only served to give definition to thick dust beams. Apart from the table, there was absolutely no other furniture in the place. The only items of decoration were the black and twisted stump of a tree, rooted in a barrel, and a mirror frame hanging from the wall. The mirror itself had long since cracked and vanished.
What filled the place were the bottles. There were bottles everywhere. Stacked in crates by the door, in barrels near the porous roof, on shelves and rickety benches, even above the door frame.
The pirate had vanished into the kitchen area, but his voice carried back to Guybrush as he poured the drinks. "This is my special grog," he said. "It's just for contests."
He emerged from the kitchen door, holding a large ceramic mug. "I hate having to waste it," he said, placing it on the table. "Here's your drink." He returned to the kitchen. "From what I'm told," he continued, preparing the second drink, "nobody can drink the special contest grog without feeling faint. But I've been practising."
Guybrush looked in the clear substance in the mug. He took in several deep breaths, and wished he'd eaten more for lunch.
"But I've been practising," said the pirate confidently. There was a pause. "You know," he continued, "most of the treasure hunters just leave when I ask them to. But you. You're persistent. It'll get you places in life, my boy. But it won't get you into my house."
Finally he reappeared holding his mug. "You sure you don't want to back out?" he asked.
Guybrush sat down. "No, thank you," he said firmly.
The pirate sat down. "You drink first."
Guybrush took the mug in his hand, and raised it to his mouth. Strange smells drifted to his nose, but before he could decipher them Guybrush rammed the mug against his lips and chugged the contents.
He put the mug down and looked at the pirate, his hand resting confidently on the table.
It gave way and Guybrush crashed headfirst into the timber.
He raised his head again, and started screaming like a train whistle. His skull felt like it was being inflated with nitro-glycerine. His throat was a flaming expressway. His heart was that of an epileptic rabbit on amphetamines. Guybrush's eyes boggled as his head flailed left and right. His ponytail was raised straight upright.
His body was literally thrown out of his chair by the convulsions. It fell onto the floor, where Guybrush thrashed momentarily, and then was still, eyes shut.
The pirate looked down at him. "Just what I expected."

How long Guybrush lost consciousness he couldn't really say. The next thing he knew, his arm was being shaken by something furry.
Guybrush opened his eyes, winced at the steel daggers of light, and shut them again. He had a pounding headache.
He could also hear the sound of the sea, and could feel sand below. He must be on the beach.
Guybrush decided to risk opening his eyes again. Slower this time, he gently raised the heavy eyelids, and was soon staring into the face of a worried Jojo. Guybrush swivelled his head left, slowly, and eventually saw the sea. He did the same thing to the right, and saw the rocky bluff rising above.
"Oooh," he moaned, and tried to raise his head. As he did so, it felt like an iron bar suddenly solidified in his skull, but he continued until his head was raised enough to allow him to sit up. Guybrush paused in this position, like a heavyweight weightlifter halfway through the snatch-and-jerk, then stood up.
A second bolt of pain went through his overloaded head, and his vision drained by degrees until he couldn't see anything. For a moment he thought he might faint, then gradually sight returned.
Guybrush swayed, and put a hand to his forehead. "Oh, my head," he groaned. What did the pirate put in his grog? DDT? No way was Guybrush trying that trick again.
Jojo still looked a bit worried at Guybrush's condition. Guybrush waved at him, trying to reassure him that he wasn't that bad. Jojo wasn't convinced.
Slowly, as if not yet in command of all his muscles, Guybrush made for the tunnel to the mainland.

The trip back to Captain Dread's took a while, almost three quarters of an hour, but at the end of it Guybrush began to regain some of his former vigour. The sickening pules had gone from his head, leaving only a dreadful memory and the admonition to never try that stunt again.
Guybrush told Captain Dread to head for Booty Island. Moments later they pulled out of Phatt harbour and were once more on the high seas (as high as the seas got around here, at any rate). The wind was shifting around, and it helped them again on their journey.
When they docked, Guybrush left the ship with Jojo, who was becoming something of a firm friend. They paused in the main township - Ville de la Booty. Guybrush got out the invitation, because he had the feeling he'd forgotten something.
"'You are cordially invited to Governor Marley's Mardi Gras blowout,'" he read to Jojo. "'Don't forget to bring this invitation when you pick up your complimentary costume! Please present invitation at door and wear your costume.'" That was what he'd forgotten - he needed his costume. The woman at the guardhouse had said something about costumes, too.
Happily for Guybrush, the solution was at hand. Amongst the buildings crowded around the pier was an unassuming building labelled COSTUME SHOP.
Guybrush and Jojo pushed open the door and wandered in.
Their eyes were greeted by an incredible display of colour and variety in the costumes, masks and foam toys that comprised the shop's stock. Lizards. Meese. Elephants. Coats and pants in every colour and every possible combination of stripes and dots. Jojo screeched with delight and jumped up, grasping hold of the right arm of Bowling Boy�. He pulled himself level with the upper shelf and started running along the top, occasionally pausing and scratching the mask or costume nearby in a thoughtful manner.
Guybrush felt a similar curiosity - many of these toys were ones he'd loved as a kid, and even owned. But he had business here, and so he instead walked over to a short, balding man who looked like he ran the store.
The man indeed ran the store - had done so for many decades. The work had left its mark on him - he had small, beady eyes, a large belly, and a strange backward lean to his upper body. Combined with the arms that just hung straight down, lifelessly (unless they were measuring something), the overall impression was that he sleepwalked everywhere.
Guybrush got his attention and handed him the invitation. "Ah, you have a costume on reserve!" exclaimed the shopkeeper. Behind him, Jojo was trying on the mask of Cannibal Ted� for size. "Let's see, I think you're costume is right over here." He started toward the back of the store. "Walk this way, please."
"If I could walk that way I wouldn't need the talcum powder," said Guybrush under his breath, and followed the storekeeper out back.
In a small corner, defined by large purple curtains on either side, was a small alcove resembling a wardrobe. The only item of clothing hanging in the wardrobe was a purple cocktail dress. The sleeves came halfway down the upper arms, the hem came up to just above the knees, and the cut of the neck was enough for people to get a good look at his collarbones.
Guybrush was glad he wasn't any taller, or it could have been really embarrassing.
"Well, here it is," said the shopkeeper. "Last costume on reserve. Of course, all the good ones went a few hours ago." Seeing Guybrush's expression, he added, "Not to worry. You'll surely be the talk of the party in this."
That's what Guybrush was mostly worried about.
"Well, have fun and enjoy your costume," said the shopkeeper, leaving. Guybrush removed the dress from its coathook, gently folded it up, and put it in his coat. It certainly was a beautiful dress, what with its frills and lace and ribbons, it just had the wrong owner.
Guybrush walked back into the store. "Come on, Jojo," he said to Jojo, now having fun swinging from the roof timbers. "Down from there."
They walked out into the sunshine, and went off in search of a party.

"Is there something I can help you with?" asked the guard, talking to Guybrush but looking curiously at Jojo.
Guybrush was not nearly scared to death this time, partly because the guard had kept her mask off. Guybrush couldn't blame her, it must have gotten really stuffy in there.
"You could let me into the party," hinted Guybrush.
"I think I said it's invitation only," said the guard impatiently.
"I've got my invitation right here," said Guybrush, showing her the small card.
She looked surprised. "Well, what do you know? You do have an invitation. Do you have a costume?"
Guybrush nodded. "I've got my costume right here," he said, patting his coat.
"Better put it on," advised the guard.
"Well, if you insist," said Guybrush. "But you'll have to try to restrain yourself." He started to remove his shirt.
"No, no, not here!" said the guard quickly. "Go in the bushes or something."
Guybrush followed her advice before his face got any redder. "Geeze," muttered the guard. Jojo nodded his head sympathetically. "What are you?" asked the guard. "His escort?"
In a few minutes Guybrush returned, a little hesitantly. Every item of clothing he wore had gone, except for his boots and certain concealed undergarments. In their place he wore the cocktail dress, now looking more like lilac in the intense sun. It had a very lowcut back - Guybrush hoped he didn't have to wear this for too long, or else he'd end up with a really bad case of sunburn.
"Oh, that is nice," said the guard appreciatively. "And the boots are a nice touch. Ok, I guess you can go through. But I'm not sure about him-" and here she looked at Jojo.
"Ah," said Guybrush. "He's my, uh, chaperone." Jojo looked at Guybrush with wide eyes.
"Chaperone," said the guard.
"Yes," said Guybrush. "It's just not safe leaving me alone at a party." He passed the guard, pushed up the bar, and soon he and Jojo were crossing the spit to Governor Marley's mansion.

Guybrush was carrying his old clothes on his arm. These would have to be ditched before he reached the mansion. So it was that when they finally made it to solid land, Guybrush found a hiding place for his clothes, not too far from the main path. Satisfied, Guybrush and Jojo walked on.
The path wound up, down and around. Every now and then, the way was marked with a lamppost. Soon they came to a small stream, crossed by the fallen arch of a massive trunk. Guybrush and Jojo crossed, and finally saw the mansion.
There was no seaview this time, like at Phatt. Neither was there particularly outstanding architecture, or finely manicured gardens. What the Booty Island mansion had in its favour was its sheer size. As far as Guybrush could see, the land around was tilled lawn, carefully tended rainforest, or even orchid fields. In the middle of this sat the mansion, a massive three storey conglomerate of turrets, staircases, chimneys, arches and balustrades.
There was a large brown dog napping by the front door, and a gardener working away with a rake nearby. It all looked rather sleepy, and Guybrush couldn't as yet hear any party sounds.
He and Jojo walked slowly along the front path, with its cobbles brushed clean. Around them birds chirped from the trees, and a warm breeze blew from the east.
They reached the front door. Guybrush took a deep breath, and opened it.

The music blasted out, mingled with innumerable voices and exclamations. With it came the smells, warm and inviting, of fried fish and grog. And pouring on top of this sensory overload came the sights, of a million people in costumes and masks unlimited in their variety and imagination.
Well, maybe not a million, Guybrush amended. But certainly a lot. What looked like Governor Marley's living room was nearly packed full of revellers, all congregated in groups and having merry conversation.
Guybrush and Jojo walked in slowly. No one had noticed their presence. Guybrush looked around for somebody he recognised, but no luck. In these costumes, he'd probably even miss Elaine.
Jojo had vanished into the crowd. Guybrush came to a table, where two short pirates were toasting everything in sight. The skeleton of a fish on a silver platter told Guybrush he was too late for the hors d'oeuvres.
"To Elaine Marley!" toasted a pirate in green goggles, red beard and suspenders.
"To Elaine!" responded the pirate nearby, who was even shorter and wearing a saucepan on his head. They drank.
"To this great party!"
"To the party!" More drinking. Guybrush tried to make conversation, but these pirates weren't interested.
"And let's have one for the Jolly Roger!"
"Yeah! For Roger!"
"To Santa Claus!"
"Santa!"
"To the love of a good parrot!"
"Aye! A pirate's best friend!"
"To that captain we strung up three years ago!"
"Swab this! That's what I say to him!"
Guybrush left these merry pirates to their business, and walked over to the window, where a skeleton was talking to a moose.
"I'm going to sweat off twenty pounds in this stupid costume," the moose moaned. It smelt like he was well on the way, thought Guybrush.
"No kidding," agreed the skeleton. "I forgot to put airholes in mine."
"Why do we put up with this stuff?"
"I dunno." The skeleton was philosophical. "I guess to prove we're a couple of fun-loving guys?" Guybrush had just noticed that these two conversationalists also had glasses of grog in their hand. In fact, everyone seemed to have a glass of grog. Guybrush wished he had a glass of grog.
"You check out the spitting contest?" asked the moose.
"Yeah. Got second place."
"Not bad!" congratulated the moose.
"Yeah, well, you know," said the skeleton sheepishly. "The wind was with me." Guybrush made a mental note that, if he ever tried the spitting competition again, to wait for a friendly gust of air.
"Some party, eh?" asked Guybrush.
"Yep," said the skeleton. "Try the fish?" he continued, not talking to Guybrush but to the moose.
"Yeah. Almost choked on a bone. Hey, hear the one about the Polar Bear with the harelip?"
"Yeah. Last week."
"Yeah, well, you know," said the moose. This indeed was one of the problems of living on an island on permanent Mardi Gras - everyone knew all the jokes. Sometimes, it made things difficult.
"Yeah."
"How's work?" asked the moose.
The skeleton made so-so motions with his hand. "Same old, same old."
"Like the music?"
"It's alright," conceded the skeleton, taking a sip of grog.
"Where'd you get the costume?"
"Wore it last year, of course. Can I get you a refill."
"Nyah. I'm fine."
Guybrush tried again to wedge himself into the conversation, but was ignored. "Pretty good turn out," said the skeleton.
"Yep."
"Heard any new jokes?"
The moose shook his overlarge head. "Not in months." He looked at the dining table. "Gotta get the recipe for that fish."
"Oh, yeah."
Guybrush walked away, brushing his way through the crowd until he managed to find a spare spot by the mantelpiece. Here, another two pirates were conversing. One was an otherwise short man wearing a huge cannibal mask, possibly two feet in diameter. Standing near him was a woman in a purple shirt and blue dress. Her only concession to costume requirements was a small white face mask, a la Phantom of the Opera. Guybrush wasn't sure, but he thought this could be Elaine.
"Nice mask," the cannibal was saying.
"Thanks," agreed the woman. The sound of her voice wasn't a lot like Elaine's, but Guybrush kept on listening just in case.
"More subtle than most."
"Yes, thanks," said the woman.
"Not your usual, larger-than-life, Mardi Gras head," continued the cannibal.
"Nope," agreed the woman, a little curtly.
"Probably saved a lot on materials, huh?" said the cannibal.
"I'm sure I don't know," said the woman haughtily.
The cannibal didn't notice her tone. "Not that paper mache is very expensive," he conceded.
"Do you mean, 'Papier Mâché?'" asked the woman.
"Yeah, whatever."
"No, I don't imagine that it's very expensive at all," said the woman in a tone that suggested that if it was in any way expensive, no-one around here would be wearing it.
"Still, you must have saved a bundle," said the cannibal.
This last comment was too much for the woman. "I never scrimp when it comes to the holidays," she said severely.
The cannibal finally realised he'd gone too far. "Well, I didn't mean you were cheap-"
"Parties and balls are my life," said the woman. She sounded upset.
"I just meant-"
"Making gay is the only purpose I can find in my wretched, well-to-do life."
"I'm sure it must be hard-"
"But you say my costume looks cheap," said the woman in hurt tones.
"No, no. It looks great!" said the cannibal enthusiastically.
"That's not what you said before."
"I just said it looked... subtle."
"Can't we just drop the subject?" asked the woman.
"Yeah. OK. Fine." The cannibal and the woman took long sips of grog.
Guybrush had come to the final conclusion that this wasn't Elaine. As he left them and walked through the crowd again, he couldn't hear her anywhere. Maybe she wasn't even here, perhaps she was somewhere else in the mansion.
There were only two ways out of this room. There was the front door, which wouldn't be of much use. And there was a staircase, leading up to the first floor landing.
Unfortunately for Guybrush, the foot of the staircase was blocked. Two pirates with huge masks stood there. One of them had the biggest mask Guybrush had yet seen, a gigantic clown's head four feet wide. It wobbled as he spoke. He also had a green and gold speckled tie and purple pants, and was not about to win any fashion awards. His partner was more tough looking, due to the mean ugly pig's head he was wearing and the leather coat he wore with it.
They didn't actually block the staircase proper, no this task was taken up by two revellers, one male, one female, who were getting fully into the Mardi Gras spirit.
"OK, party's over, time to go home," said Guybrush to the couple. They paid him no attention. "Can I see both your ID's, please? Haven't you ever heard of mono? Can I just squeeze by? Step aside, please. Get a room."
No response. As far as Guybrush knew, they couldn't even hear him.
Nearby, the clown sounded similarly dissatisfied with proceedings. "So, where are all the chicks?" he asked.
"Yeah, I thought there'd be some here," agreed the pig.
"Then again, in these costumes, who can tell?"
"That's true. There might be some babes here."
"But what can we do about it?" asked the clown.
"Well... we just ask," said the pig slowly.
The clown didn't like this idea much. "Ask? What are you, nuts?"
"Yeah. I guess you're right," said the pig.
The clown sighed.
"Mardi Gras sure is tough on us swingers," agreed the pig.
"I'll drink to that," said the clown. He did.
Guybrush looked around the room. He wasn't looking for women, just one woman. And she wasn't here.
But at that moment something completely unexpected happened.
Guybrush was looking at the mantelpiece, near the cannibal. There was a large frame above the mantelpiece. And, nestled in one corner of the frame, was what looked like a piece from a map.
For a moment, Guybrush was completely motionless. Then he dived forward, forcing his way through the throng. It couldn't be, could it? She wouldn't leave it lying around in plain view, would she?
But as Guybrush finally emerged on the other side of the crowd, he saw that yes, this was part of the map to Big Whoop. Quickly Guybrush reached up and took the scrap of parchment, slipping it into his dress. "All right! I got the first map piece!" he said, as loudly as he dared.
Wasting no more time, Guybrush pushed back to the front door and walked into the afternoon sun.

As he did so, he remembered Jojo. But before he could return to the party and retrieve him, Guybrush noticed the dog by the door was staring at him funny. Its small, black nose was twitching suspiciously.
"What's the matter, boy?" asked Guybrush. "Smell something?"
The dog suddenly raised its head and started barking furiously. The noise alerted the gardener, who came over to investigate.
"Uh... nice doggie..." said Guybrush.
The gardener, looking slightly Asian in his straw hat, reached his hand down to the dog. "What's the matter, Guybrush?" he asked.
So many things were the matter. LeChuck was after him and he was on the lam. This crazy mutt was trying to kill him. And somehow this gardener, whom he'd never seen before, knew his name. But Guybrush was an optimist. "Nothing a big hug wouldn't cure," he suggested to the gardener.
The gardener looked strangely at Guybrush. "I was talking to the dog. Who are you?"
Guybrush was flummoxed. "She named her dog Guybrush?"
"Yeah, I don't get it either," said the similarly mystified gardener. "It's not much of a name if you ask me. She says its because he's dumb and helpless and keeps getting in the way. But he sure can sniff out the Governor's possessions. Maybe you should empty your pockets."
"Try and catch me, old man!" challenged Guybrush. He turned and started running.
The gardener threw his rake. It landed in the grass in front of Guybrush, at exactly the right place for Guybrush to step right on it, smacking his face with the handle. For a moment Guybrush stood upright, frozen still, then he fell backward onto the soil.
"Oh, look out for that rake," called out the gardener, redundantly.

Governor Marley's Mardi Gras Fish Fry was contained to the bottom floor of the mansion. Here, on the first floor, there was relative quiet.
Elaine Marley could just hear faint strains of music as she stood in one of her sitting rooms, looking moodily out the western window. She'd left the revellers hours ago.
The gardener came in from the first floor passageway, crossing the purple rug laid smoothly on the wooden floor. "Governor, I caught one of your party guests making off with your grandfather's map," he said.
Elaine turned, and took the piece proffered by the gardener. She secreted it in her right jacket pocket. "Another would-be treasure hunter, eh?" she said. "Bring him in."
The gardener returned to the passageway. "In here, Guybrush!" he called.
Elaine whirled sharply at the name. "Guybrush? Guybrush Threepwood?!"
In his purple dress, Guybrush appeared at the doorway. "The one and only, sugarbear!" he cried to the one and only love of his life.
Elaine Marley turned in disgust. "Of all the parties in all the houses in all the islands of the Caribbean - he had to crash mine!"
"It's destiny, honeycakes!" said Guybrush.
"Don't talk to me," said Elaine, flatly. She moved away.
Guybrush followed her. "Snugglepuss!"
"Get lost."
"Punkydoodle!"
"I'm warning you..."
"Pooper-dooper!"
The gardener, whose name was Filbert, was getting increasingly uncomfortable with the direction this conversation was going in. He sensed that maybe Governor Marley wanted to be left alone. "Maybe I should go rake the back forty," he said, walking away down the passageway.
Leaving Guybrush and Elaine, alone. "Look at us, together again," said Guybrush, trying to sum up the mood. "Boy. We haven't been like this, since, well..." He faltered, not quite sure how to sum up the eventual end of their relationship.
Elaine did. "Since I quit my job and moved away without leaving a forwarding address?" she suggested, finally turning to look at Guybrush.
"Was that what happened? Gee, I thought..."
Elaine sighed. "Guybrush! Can't you take a hint? We were a mistake! I thought we had an agreement."
Guybrush looked at Elaine, long and hard. She stood before him, wearing perhaps the same clothes she'd worn that night long ago on Melee, when their paths had first crossed. Her auburn hair was as marvellously unkempt now as then, and her use of purple as bold as before. She looked as young and intense as she always had. But yes, something had changed. Maybe it was her voice, slightly harsher and less melodic. Maybe it was this new house, not a patch on her old dwelling. But maybe it was simply the fact that, having now known Elaine for months, Guybrush could no longer look at her through rose-coloured eyes. Maybe, for them, there would be no more 'together again'."
Guybrush didn't know what to say. It would be simply untactful to ask about the map now. And, if as he was now beginning to suspect, they were over as a couple, what more did they have to talk about?
"I like what you've done with your hair," he said finally.
Elaine didn't smile. "Same old Guybrush."
Her coolness seemed to ignite Guybrush. Fair enough, she'd initiated the breakup. But Guybrush didn't think this gave her the right to treat him this way. Did he mean nothing to her?
Guybrush decided he might reciprocate. "Still ignoring fashion, eh? Good for you."
"So much for a pleasant attitude," said Elaine.
"I should warn you - I cancelled the boat insurance," said Guybrush.
"Yeah, right."
It was ending, all right, not with a bang but with a whimper. They were over. "Gosh you're cute when you're pretending to be mad," said Guybrush. "Come on - let me buy you a grog."
"Maybe you'd better leave," suggested Elaine.
"Is that a new blouse?" asked Guybrush.
"Yeah, yeah, yeah."
Guybrush pointed to the door. "That's some party downstairs," he said.
"Give me a break," said Elaine.
"Do you have my red sweater?" asked Guybrush. "I can't find it anywhere."
"Spare me."
"Great to see you again. Is there any food in this dump?"
Elaine drew in breath sharply. "Oooh - it's going to be that way, is it?"
It suddenly occurred to Guybrush that maybe, even if Elaine no longer cared for him, he shouldn't just abandon her. After all, he still needed a lot of help. "I've decided to let you come back to me," he said, switching gear quickly.
Elaine was not fooled. "This is beneath even you, Guybrush.
Guybrush continued on regardless. "LeChuck's alive, and I need your help to fight him," he said, trying to explain his sudden appearance here, now.
"Go tell it to your momma," said Elaine.
He hadn't been expecting that. For a moment the insult stung, but it was quickly suppressed. They were over. He didn't care any more. Nobody cared any more.
Guybrush winked at her. "So tell me... you and the gardener? Eh?"
"I see you're as charming as ever," said Elaine icily.
"Real scorcher outside, eh?" said Guybrush. "And still not afraid to use a lot of perfume, I see."
"Now that wasn't very pleasant," said Elaine in a voice that suggested she wouldn't tolerate him for much longer.
"Don't you like my new beard?" he asked.
"Give it up, Brush," said Elaine dismissively.
"Have you been forwarding all my mail?"
"You know, I do have work to do," said Elaine.
"I'm not sure, but don't you owe me some money?" mused Guybrush.
"OK, you're really pushing it now, buddy," said Elaine.
"Your lonely nights are over, baby," announced Guybrush. "I have returned."
"Sorry, Threep. I don't play those games anymore."
"You're the Governor of my heart, baby," continued Guybrush. He looked around. "You know, I kind of liked your old house better."
"Uh-huh."
Guybrush had given up any pretence of conversation - now he was just paying her out. "Where your sister - the really good looking one?" he inquired.
"I can't believe I actually thought I missed you," said Elaine.
Guybrush was too far into his stride to pay attention to that last sentence. "Why don't you slip into something more comfortable?" he asked, trying to control the leer.
"I'm warning you - you're getting on my nerves."
"Is it my imagination," he continued, "or have you gained weight?"
"And here I thought you were becoming a decent guy," said Elaine. She looked to be barely controlling her anger - some emotion, anyway.
"What I could really use now is a grade-A footrub," sighed Guybrush.
"Can't you take a hint?"
"Those other women meant nothing to me!" exclaimed Guybrush.
"Guybrush - you're really treading on thin ice here. Get out."
"So, who's the father?"
Something in Elaine snapped. "That's it!" she shouted. "I've had enough! Get your mangy hide outta my house!" She pointed at the door behind Guybrush, her face red and furious.
Guybrush took the hint, walking back out the door and away down the passage. There would never be a return.

The passage led past several doors, before coming to the head of the stairs leading back down to the party. At these stairs Guybrush paused.
He'd gotten a fair few insults off in the last few minutes, but he didn't feel well. Something Elaine had said, somewhere around the middle, was still echoing in his mind.
"I can't believe I actually thought I missed you," she had said. Guybrush had ignored it at the time, but he could no longer. The implications were just starting to drive home for him.
Elaine had missed him.
In the lonely months following their separation, Guybrush had assumed his pain was unique. Elaine was the social king, Governor no less, with hundreds of pirates willing to take on the role of boyfriend. Guybrush was a nobody, a once-was pirate who, despite having killed LeChuck, found life had been made no easier, perhaps even harder.
He had never expected to hear Elaine missed him.
And now other details of their conversation, ignored at the time, were bubbling up. That raw expression on her face - Guybrush had assumed it was anger. But anger didn't make your eyes red and watery.
"Oh, Elaine!" moaned Guybrush. Yes, he missed her too. He knew that now. What a stupid fool he had been!
He could only pray there was still time.

Elaine turned as he re-entered the room. "Maybe I wasn't clear enough the first time," she said.
Guybrush, looking into her eyes, confirmed his hunch. But how could he ever return to her good books?
"You were right," he said slowly, choosing his words carefully. "I was a buffoon. And a weenie."
"I guess that's supposed to make up for everything?" said Elaine sceptically.
"I realise now what a fool I've been," he said, in a voice humble and pleading.
"Pathetic," said Elaine. But her face told a different story.
"Life without you is an endless nightmare."
"Do you really expect me to fall for that?" asked Elaine.
Guybrush looked at her. "Elaine, save me from this whirlpool of misery," he said simply.
"If I can't be with you, I don't want to live," he continued.
"You're getting warmer," said Elaine. She sounded like she was too.
"Won't you at least give me a second chance?"
"Well, that's not the most stupid thing you've ever said," said Elaine.
"My life's been meaningless without you."
"That's a little better," said Elaine, obviously glad she was no longer being insulted left right and centre.
"Elaine, take me back," implored Guybrush. "I can't live without you."
"Oh, Guybrush," sighed Elaine. For a moment she turned her head, then she looked back at him, straight in the eye. "I know I shouldn't have anything to do with you, but there's something about your weakness and ineptitude that I find infectious." She moved closer to him.
"Does that mean you're going to let me have the map?" blurted Guybrush in more normal tones, truly a Freudian slip of immense proportions.
Elaine's jaw dropped. "The map! Is that what this is all about? I should have known better!" She strode angrily over to the window, and threw it open. The glass panes rattled. "If the map's all you care about..." She reached in her pocket, withdrew the scrap of parchment, and threw it as far as she could.
She turned one last time to Guybrush. "You better go out and get it," she said. Her tone was not angry, or regretful, or hectic. Neither was her expression - what might once have been rage, or sorrow, was there no longer. Instead, her face was completely unreadable. There were depths there Guybrush didn't want to speculate on, for fear of losing himself in the black gulfs.
Looking at her face, all Guybrush knew was that he had burned his bridges. Irrevocably.
He started to say something, then stopped. He could say nothing without compounding his error. Instead, he simply looked back at her, and left.

As he climbed down the stairs to the party, Guybrush began to feel better. And suddenly he turned and ran back to the sitting room. But it was too late - Elaine was gone. He really must have made her mad this time.
Guybrush looked around the sitting room. On the left, a coat rack and a changing screen. A green coat was hanging here, Guybrush guessing it was Elaine's - she had shoulder pads in everything. Beside the screen was a full length mirror. Guybrush looked at himself for a moment. Zonker Harris in a dress? The thought cheered him up a bit.
Elsewhere in the sitting room, a stone bust was prominently displayed. Guybrush had heard some guys talking about Elaine's bust, and this must be it. It wasn't nearly as impressive as they made out. Also occupying prime position on a dressing table was a large wooden chest. Guybrush averted his eyes - it was impolite to stare at a woman's chest, he had heard.
There was a divan by the window which Elaine had so emphatically threw open. A divan is half bed, half couch, and this particular one looked extremely comfortable, with its sheets and pillows. Hanging above the divan was an oar. It seemed a little out of place, so Guybrush looked closer.
"Central Caribbean School For Governors - Crew '67," it was marked. Evidently a memento of her schooling days. Guybrush reached up to take it from the wall. The wood was well polished, and it felt good and hefty in his hand. With an oar like this, how could she lose?
Still holding onto the oar, Guybrush looked out the window. He could see the map fluttering about in the front yard. It was time to get down there before anything else complicated affairs.
Guybrush looked at the oar. He looked at the place on the wall where the oar would normally go. His eyes switched back and forth a few times. "Well, maybe she won't miss this old thing," he finally decided. Guybrush felt this item would come in very handy over the next few days. It was probably the closest thing he had to a weapon, for instance.
Guybrush, holding the oar close to his body, walked briskly down the stairs trying to look nonchalant. He saw Jojo perched on the rim of the punch bowl and gave a shrill whistle.
Jojo's head jerked up. He chittered, clapped his hands, and bounded over to the doorway, while Guybrush pushed his way through the crowd. They rejoined at the threshold, and walked out into the afternoon sun.
The dog, still sleeping patiently by the door, opened a suspicious eye as Guybrush passed. He sniffed, and started barking loudly. Jojo drew back, hissing.
Guybrush stood his ground. "Ha!" he said. "Bark all you want! Filbert's out raking the back forty."
The dog considered these words. He stopped barking and put his head back down on the ground.
"Good dog," said Guybrush. He walked past and into the front yard. Several feet away, the map was fluttering on the ground. Guybrush went to pick it up. But as he did so, the wind began to pick up alarmingly. The map piece looked like it was about to blow away.
Guybrush got within a foot of the piece, enough to reach down and grab it, when a zephyr of wind sent it out of reach again. "What the..." said Guybrush. He followed the map piece, but it kept moving. "Hey..." Now Guybrush could feel the breeze ruffling his dress - it was warm, humid, and slightly scented - it held the promise of thunderstorms.
"Dang wind," said Guybrush, now walking faster to keep up with the map piece. He almost got it, but fresh breezes came. "Come back here! Help me out here, Jojo!"
Jojo bounded forward, running across the grass with a loping four-limbed gait, but as he drew near, suddenly the wind gusted. The map rose into the air. Higher and higher it rose, rising on newly created thermals. And as it rose, it gained velocity, rolling further and further from the mansion.
Jojo screeched, and immediately climbed up the tallest of the nearest trees. He followed the path of the map with eagle eyes, a hand shielding them from the sun. Back on the ground, Guybrush could do nothing but sigh with frustration as the map vanished to the southeast. "Well, shoot," he said.
Jojo remained in the tree for several minutes, then scurried back down the branches. On the ground, he managed to convey to Guybrush via a series of complicated hand gestures that the map piece had come to earth near the southern tip of the island. Guybrush nodded, and for a moment was motionless as he thought.
He clicked his fingers. Governor Marley's Mardi Gras Fish Fry - he could get a huge fish here and win his bet with the fisherboy. Sure, it might not have much application in solving his current problem, but Guybrush didn't think he'd ever be back, and he really could not wait to see the expression on the brat's face.
Before Guybrush returned to the mansion, however, he hid in a grove of trees and changed out of his stupid costume. This might require a bit of running, and Guybrush wanted his legs to be as free as possible.
Guybrush left the dress on the ground, told Jojo to wait by it, and walked back to the mansion.

Its windows, reflecting the harsh sun, seemed to glare at him. Guybrush glared back, his hands at the ready. He shuffled closer.
The mansion was circled by a path. Rather than taking the front door in, Guybrush took this path, heading left. It passed by the left side of the house, running under overhanging trees and ferns, and before too long Guybrush was at the back of the house.
This was the less impressive side of the mansion. It had the stock standard empty wooden boxes, and a beat up garbage bin by the back door. Some of the stone work was clearly rushed here, and there were weeds taking root in the cracks.
Guybrush was more interested in the bin, which had several fish skeletons in it. Above the bin was a sign: "Dear Booty Island Waste Disposal Service: Ssshhh! Please don't bang garbage cans. Governor sleeping upstairs."
If this bin had fish skeletons in it, then maybe the back door led into the kitchen. And if Guybrush could find his way into the kitchen, maybe he could also finagle a fish out of there. It was worth a shot.
Guybrush pulled the door. It scraped stubbornly against the stone floor, and Guybrush pulled harder. Finally, there was a crack large enough to fit through.
Guybrush peered around the door. This was, as he had thought, the kitchen. It was an industrial strength kitchen, moreover. A huge fire blazed away in a brick oven, almost a kiln, and Guybrush could feel the radiant heat from here. Huge sacks of flour and sugar lined the walls, along with several disquieting blood stains. A huge barrel in the corner was lined under a water pump, and full to the brim with water.
Along with the heat, the smell immediately hit Guybrush. A smell of butter, oil, and frying fish. It smelt good. And in the centre of the kitchen, standing on a large wooden bench, was a metal bucket full of fish.
Unfortunately, as he saw the fish, he also saw the huge, lanky chef standing nearby, holding meat cleavers in either hand and making severe dents in the metal surface he was using. This was no jolly chef - he snarled visibly with each cutting stroke, as if he'd been personally offended by whatever dead animal he was dissecting. The meat cleavers also had disquieting blood stains.
Guybrush took a few deep breaths. He stepped quickly into the kitchen, trying to make the short trip to the fish without being seen.
The chef looked up as he entered. "Hey!" he shouted, gesturing with the cleavers. "Kitchen staff only!"
"Sorry," said Guybrush quickly, before dashing back outside. He leant back against the door, pushing it shut. Trust Elaine to employ the Butcher of Riga as a chef. He looked to his left at the polite sign. "Sleeping, eh?" he snarled, and gave the garbage bins a huge kick.
The door behind him burst open. "Hey! What's all the racket?" bellowed the chef as he appeared in the doorway, still holding onto his cleavers.
Guybrush looked upward, fearfully, into the angry face a mere foot from his own. Then he legged it.
"Don't mess with the Governor's cans!" yelled the chef as he ran off. The chef followed, waving his arms menacingly. "Who do you think you are? You better just get out of here! Hey! Come back here! I'm not done with you yet!"
As Guybrush rounded the mansion, approaching the front door, he realised the chef, blustery as he might be, was really in poor shape. His cries of rage were growing fainter and fainter. "No good punk! If it's not raccoons it's teenage vandals!" Consequently, Guybrush didn't run for the mainland but instead continued around the mansion, heading back to the kitchen area. "Transient hooligan! Why I oughta... You've got some nerve!"
Guybrush reached the kitchen door, and now he couldn't hear the chef at all. He ducked inside, ran over to the bucket, and took the largest fish he could find. It was wet and slimy, but armed with a sufficient dose of adrenaline Guybrush was able to stuff it into his pocket. He ran outside again.
"Oh, there you are," said the chef as he appeared. "Anyway, like I was saying..." Guybrush started running again, heading this time for the front yard. "I don't have time for this," said the chef. "Go away boy. You bother me. Beat it! I'm going to use this meat cleaver in a second." He sounded visibly annoyed that Guybrush was no longer running at full pelt. "This neighbourhood has really gone downhill," said the chef disgustedly, following Guybrush to the front yard area. "Get a job! Why don't you go down to the dump if you like garbage cans so much!" He raised his voice as Guybrush disappeared into a grove of trees. "SCRAM! Kids today! Does your mother know where you are?" He looked once more into the forest, where nothing apart from the leaves was moving. "Hmpf!" he sniffed, and headed back to the kitchen.
Guybrush raised his head and watched his departure. Then he remembered the fish. He pulled it out of his pocket - it was nearly two feet long, thick, rubbery, and completely unpalatable. "Here," he said to Jojo, handing him the fish. "Take this. You're not carrying anything." Jojo didn't look too impressed, but took it anyway. "Now let's go get that map piece."

Guybrush was able to explain his change of costume to the guard at the gate fairly easily. Probably, having seen Guybrush's pink dress costume, the guard had decided the pirate gear was by comparison fairly tame.
They walked past and into the mainland proper, and now the hard part started.
Guybrush took out Dread's map again. The southernmost tip of Booty Island was not all that far from the Ville de la Booty, which was a little further to the east. Guybrush was thus able to take the path back to the Ville, before turning right and following the coastline as it narrowed.
As it narrowed it also rose. The southernmost extremity of Booty Island was a tall, smooth cliff, well known for its lack of handholds or any other climbing aids. You might be able to get down, but you could never get back up.
As they came closer to the cliff, they scanned the ground. Guybrush on the right, Jojo on the left. They saw nothing.
The sound of the waves crashing below grew louder, and the salt smell in the air became more tangy and cloying. No map.
Finally, Guybrush and Jojo reached the cliff. Guybrush peered over, and stared straight down at the rolling sea two hundred feet below. Wind blew into his face, which was comforting - if it had been at his back Guybrush might have had a crippling vertigo attack.
He very nearly had one the next second anyway, because he suddenly saw a small flapping object, caught on an old, twisted root fifty feet below. It looked like the map.
Guybrush lay down on the grass and slowly edged himself forward until his head was over the chasm. He looked down once more.
It was the map. In a position so utterly remote so as to offer him no hope of ever retrieving it. Down there, his whole hunt was hanging by a thread.
Guybrush stood up again. He needed some way of reaching the map, some kind of hook perhaps, maybe tied to the end of a piece of string or something.
Guybrush suddenly realised that perhaps this fish would come in more useful than he'd thought.

Less than an hour later, helped by the wind, Guybrush stepped off the Jolly Rasta and onto the Phatt City promenade. All the journey over he'd been worrying about the map, wondering if the wind would pick up any more and send it flying into the sea.
Here on Phatt, however, the storm was more distant, and Guybrush was able to forget his worries for a moment. He also had the kid to handle, which kind of sharpened his thoughts a bit.
Guybrush walked along the pier to the kid, who still sat lazily at the end with his pole hanging over the water. He didn't say anything, but showed the kid the fish he'd collected.
The kid's jaw dropped. "Wow!" he said, taking the fish quickly. "This is the biggest-" He suddenly realised what he was saying, and cleared his throat. "Er, it's almost as big as the leviathan I just hauled in," he said, spreading his arms wide to try and hint at the size.
"Really?" asked Guybrush. "Where is this 'leviathan'?"
The kid had no real satisfactory answer, and so he stuffed his corncob pipe back into his mouth and looked around, possibly for a distraction. "Errr..."
"I think you're lying," said Guybrush.
The kid shrugged his shoulders. "Yeah, you're right. It was just a fish story. I guess you win." He hauled the line in, and sat the pole on the pier. "Here, take the pole." The kid got up and started walking away.
Guybrush didn't need a second invitation. He took it (it was a nice pole), and ran back to Dread's ship.
"Booty Island, on the double," he said to Captain Dread. Dread nodded.

It was a longer than average trip to Booty Island, probably because they were sailing into the wind this time. By the time they arrived, the sun was noticeably lower in the sky. It was surrounded by thick cloud on either side, and it would probably be getting dark quite soon.
They had no time to waste. With pole in hand, Guybrush and Jojo ran south along the coastline, quickly reaching the cliffs. With heart in mouth Guybrush looked down, but the map was still there. The overhang must have shielded it from the worst of the wind.
Still operating on nervous energy, Guybrush cast out the pole. The hook sailed outward and downward, until clattering against the cliff with a noise like the fall of a pin. Guybrush slowly wound it in.
The hook drew close to the map, and Guybrush gently manoeuvred it until it was directly below. In a short, sharp motion, Guybrush wound in more reel.
The hook snagged the map, and pulled it free.
That was good. Guybrush had been expecting the map to tear, or stay stubbornly attached to the root. He might actually get this piece.
It was as Guybrush was inching the map up the cliff-face, each foot and foot closer to possession, when a new and entirely uncommissioned actor entered the play. Flying in from his left came a seagull with a yellow beak and white wings. It swooped down on the map, possibly mistaking it for a fish, and took it in its beak.
Guybrush could only watch as the gull banked and flew inland.
Jojo's reactions were faster. He ran down the bluff, which was clear of all vegetation, and made for the treeline. He scampered up the tallest of the nearest trees.
Guybrush was left to watch as the gull headed north. He sat down. A few minutes later Jojo returned. With more complicated hand gestures, he told Guybrush that the seagull had roosted in a huge tree in the northern section of the island, and that if they got running, they might be able to catch it.
Guybrush roused himself and they began the chase.

They ran past the Ville de la Booty (the Spitting competition was still going strong), past the central mountain, through thickets of jungle, past more seaside cliffs, and past naked, jutting rocks. As they drew further north, however, the foliage grew less dense, the trees further apart. It was thus that, even from a long way away, they were able to see the Big Tree.
Jojo jumped excitedly and pointed at it. They hastened. Very soon they were standing under the very boughs of the tree, with Jojo pointing upward and screeching.
Once upon a time the Big Tree had held inhabitants - one, to be precise. His/her legacy was a number of buildings built up in the canopy, and an outhouse a little way from the trunk.
The occupant had devised a way for getting up and down the tree, which Guybrush only got after a few minutes staring. Dotted around the trunk were a series of circular holes, so positioned that if steps had come straight out of them, they would have made a circling staircase leading up the trunk. It would have been a long staircase, as the trunk of the Big Tree was about five metres in diameter. But the staircase was no longer there. Only one single platform remained, a thick plank about a metre long jutting out from the first hole.
"Jojo? Can you get up?" asked Guybrush. Jojo shook his head, and indicated that the trunk was too smooth - no handholds. The circular indentations wouldn't do - these too were smooth, and too shallow to get firm purchase on.
Guybrush thought some more. The heat of the place - the exposed ground was baking hot, and now humid with the storm - and the intense sound of buzzing insects made thinking difficult.
He had the oar. For some reason, he'd brought it with him from the Jolly Rasta. Looking at it once more, he saw the size of the handle was remarkably similar to that of the holes in the trunk. He tried fitting it into the hole next to the plank, and found the fit was snug and tight.
So now he had two steps instead of one. Where could that get him? Guybrush had an idea. If he stood on the oar, and picked up the plank, and put it into the hole above the oar, and then repeated this process, he could probably get to the top. But it would take a while.
"So what?" muttered Guybrush. It wasn't like he had any other pressing engagements. Swiftly Guybrush stepped onto the plank, before jumping lightly onto the oar. The oar, which really wasn't build to withstand such pressures, broke beneath him as his weight was transferred. Guybrush fell, and his head caught the outstretched tip of the plank. The world went dark.

For a while, he wasn't quite sure how long, Guybrush floated in the darkness, not sure where he was, when it was, or even who he was. But slowly the darkness changed, and light came in, light that was hideous and red.
Groaning, with a head that felt like a football, Guybrush finally opened his eyes, and found that something exceedingly strange had happened.
Jojo was gone, which was unusual - he was a loyal and trustworthy friend. But what Guybrush saw first was his surroundings. Either they had really strange sunsets around here, or Guybrush was witnessing some kind of supernatural phenomena.
As if viewed through a special filter, everything was red. The underbelly of clouds, the formerly grey trunk of the tree, even the outside, all were coloured with the most intense, saturated shades of red.
Guybrush slowly got up. Apart from a large, stinging bump on his head, he felt fine. But there was something unsettling about these surroundings. He began to notice other changes - the wind, for instance, had died completely. The air was dead and still. And noise - not a single bird or chirping insect could be heard.
"Something very strange is going on here," said Guybrush finally. The red haze had reduced his field of vision quite a lot, so it wasn't until the two figures were under the loping boughs of the tree that Guybrush finally saw them.
A bald man in slacks and a woman with tight yellow hair - Guybrush gasped.
His parents!
It had been so long since Guybrush had seen them, but he knew them instantly. Instinctively. "Dad!" he cried. "Mom! What are you two doing here?"
"We came looking for you," said Dad. He had a friendly, reliable voice - the kind of voice that belongs to someone who always returns their library books on time and knows how to parallel park.
"Where have you been?" asked Mom, her voice still worried but laced with relief.
"You came looking for me?" asked Guybrush. "But I thought you abandoned me!"
His Mom looked shocked at the idea. "Abandoned you? Why would we do that? We are such loving parents."
"Yes, we are," agreed Dad, his brown goatee bobbing up and down as he nodded.
"So, what do you two want?" asked Guybrush, trying not to wonder how on earth they'd managed to find him.
His Dad looked at him with a small smile. "We have some information for you, son," he said.
"Really? Great! What is it?"
"Well, we're going to give it to you in the form of a song," said his Mom.
"Oh. OK..." said Guybrush, not at all sure where this was heading.
Even his wary mind was not prepared for what happened next. His parents rose slowly into the air, hovering, and as they did so their shape began to change. The colours of their body grew lighter, whiter, as their limbs thinned and lengthened. Guybrush caught momentarily glimpses of ribs and patellas, and then two fully formed skeletons hung in the air beside him. They fell back to earth, as slowly as they came, and Guybrush saw that they weren't tinted red like the rest of his surroundings. In fact, neither was he.
From out of the sky music began to play, a jolly ragtime number. It sounded familiar. And the parental skeletons were starting to dance, knees bending sharply and with a sharp sense of rhythm. They weren't at all hampered by the lack of flesh.
Guybrush didn't think his eyes could boggle any further. They were starting to sing a song.
Dad skeleton pulled out his ribcage and pointed to it. "The rib bone's connected to the.. leg bone!" The ribcage was returned and his right leg pointed to with great emphasis. "The leg bone's connected to the... hip bone!" continued Mom skeleton, similarly taking advantage of her loosely connected calcite residue. "The hip bone's connected to the... head bone!" sang Dad skeleton, and they didn't have bad voices either - Club Flamingo would have been delighted to take them.
The music rose to its triumphant chorus. The skeletons shuffled, breaking their arms and tapping their metacarpals, before breaking back and forth, left and right, in a skilfully executed chorus line. All they needed was a top hat and cane and they might have been on Broadway.
Guybrush rubbed the back of his head. He must have really hit something vital.
Dad skeleton grinned. "The head bone's connected to the rib bone!" he sang as Mom skeleton danced a jig beside him. "The rib bone's connected to the leg bone! The leg bone's connected to the arm bone! Yeah!"
The unbridled enthusiasm of the skeletons was starting to win Guybrush over. "Wow, they're good," he said as the chorus kicked in again. He started to shake in time with the music.
The skeletons still hadn't finished. The triumphant chords and trumpets of the chorus faded, and Mom skeleton took up the commentary. "The arm bone's connected to the head bone! The head bone's connected to the rib bone! The rib bone's connected to the leg bone! Yeehah!"
Guybrush was witnessing something special here. "I've gotta write this down!" he cried as the chorus began a third time, the trumpets strident and glorious. Guybrush reached around in his coat, took out the only piece of paper he had (it was the spit stained one the voodoo lady had given him), and hurriedly began to write down the verses as he remembered them.
The skeleton parents were moving onto the fourth verse. "The leg bone's connected to the hip bone! The hip bone's connected to the arm bone! The arm bone's connected to the head bone! Oh yeah!"
Louder than before, the chorus returned. The horn section rang triumphantly from the heavens. The leaves above shook with the force of the music.
"...arm bone connected to the head bone..." muttered Guybrush. He thought he had it all now. He put the pen and paper back in his pocket, and started to dance along with the skeletons.
But suddenly the music faltered. The skeleton parents turned, at something behind Guybrush, and their jaws dropped. "Yikes!" they yelled, before quickly shuffling offstage and out of view.
"What is it? What's wrong?" said Guybrush as they left. He tried to follow them, but the skeletons were moving too fast. "Why did you leave me again?" he said, suddenly very lonely.
The feeling gradually faded, replaced by one that there was something huge and lurking behind him. Guybrush turned.
"Booo!" said the Ghost Pirate LeChuck.
Guybrush jumped two feet in the air. This wasn't some idiot in a mask. This was the real LeChuck - green, rotting, putrid, and utterly malevolent. LeChuck laughed at Guybrush's shock, covering him in a faint layer of ghost spittle.
"LeChuck!" cried Guybrush when he returned to earth. "But I killed you!"
"You didn't kill me, you little moron!" said LeChuck. "I was already a ghost when you met me!" Guybrush had to concede the point. "You just destroyed my spiritual essence... a favour that I will now return!"
And then, in the second morphing incident in five minutes, LeChuck thinned, shrunk, and lightened. A second later, he had become the Guybrush of six months ago, the beardless, polite Guybrush that had conquered Melee Island, armed with just a seltzer bottle of root beer.
LeChuck/Guybrush shook the seltzer bottle menacingly. He crouched, grinned at the cowering Guybrush, and squirted.
Liquid like acid spurted onto Guybrush's skin.

"AAAAARRRRGGGGHHHHHH!" screamed Guybrush.
Jojo, his face anxious, jumped back from the prone Guybrush as he suddenly jerked, in a single violent spasm.
Guybrush opened his eyes, and looked around. He was lying on his back at the foot of the tree, under skies that, while cloudy and ominous, were completely without traces of red. Normal colour had returned to his surroundings. The music was gone, but the wind was back, carrying with it the normal jungle noises.
Guybrush eased himself into a sitting position, his back against the tree. His head felt awful. "Wow! What a dream!" he said. It was easily the most vivid dream he'd ever had.
Jojo didn't look reassured at Guybrush's return to consciousness. He'd been out for a few minutes, and that scream had completely unnerved the monkey. "I'm okay," said Guybrush. "Really."
A sudden thought struck him. It was a dream, wasn't it? Except his coat was a little wet, and his right coat pocket was open.
Guybrush reached into his pocket, and took out the spit encrusted paper. From it, he read in horror the four verses of the skeleton song. He was silent for a few minutes, then returned it to his pocket. It was just too heavy to contemplate any further, right now.
Guybrush stood up, looking at the shattered remains of the oar. It must have been an antique. He picked them up, because he had an idea that maybe the Scabb Island woodsmith might repair it. But that was a long way away, and it looked like the map would have to wait another day.
"Come on, Jojo, let's go," said Guybrush.

The Spitmaster was getting restless.
Not that the passive onlookers would have noticed. To them, the Spitmaster was as full of manic energy as ever, striding up and down the spitting green (very green - the grass was being well watered) and exhorting them to give it just one try. But the Spitmaster was getting agitated. The sky above was darkening and the wind was starting to pick up. Pretty soon he'd have to pack up for the day - gusts of wind being something of an unfair advantage.
And he still hadn't awarded a single first prize. The Spitmaster glanced toward the small tent he'd erected nearby, wherein was a large box with a number of bronze plaques inside. The Spitmaster didn't want to get a reputation as being overly tough of contestants, and he was really hoping someone would win something soon.
Hmmm. Maybe the first place flag was too far out.
Before the Spitmaster could do anything about this, however, he saw a short figure walking toward the spitting green, with an energetic monkey at his side. The figure was sipping some green drink.
The Spitmaster recognised him. "He's back!" he cried enthusiastically, as Guybrush put away the drink and stepped impassively to the fault line. "Ladies and gentlemen - Captain Loogie!"
The audience clapped as Guybrush cleared his throat. "Let her rip!" cried a female pirate.
Guybrush ignored the audience, concentrating on the swish of saliva inside his mouth. While he'd been walking back, Guybrush had taken the opportunity to drink some more of the green groglike substance from the Bloody Lip. Hopefully, with this kind of assistance he might have a chance of winning.
Guybrush snorted, hocking up as much spit as he could. He chewed on it, the texture something like runny bubble gum. Guybrush puckered his lips, jerked his head forward, and spat.
The loogie sailed from his lips, through the air, and crashed to earth just beyond the third place marker.
"What's this?" said the Spitmaster. "A surprise turnaround in performance? Looks like third place. I think that deserves a little applause."
The audience clapped politely, but Guybrush stayed still at the line. "Hang on a tick," said the Spitmaster, "looks like the Loogster isn't finished yet."
Indeed, Guybrush wasn't. He'd been a little disappointed with third place, but as he saw the spit vanish into the green earth, he remembered a conversation he'd overheard at the Mardi Gras party. The skeleton had gotten second place - and that was with the wind behind him.
The wind that was, even now, picking up.
The pirate who'd cried out encouragement earlier had a kind of red bandanna tied around her waist. It was made from a thin fabric, and Guybrush saw it billowing slightly as the wind came and went.
The audience fell silent, and the only sounds were that of the hastening wind and Guybrush's madly working lips. Even as he drew up saliva, and swished it experimentally in his mouth, his eyes never left the bandanna at the pirate's side.
Guybrush felt the push of wind behind him, and saw the bandanna flutter.
Instantly he spat. The loogie, sailing with even greater force than before, fairly flew through the air, only to crash into second place. It even bounced back up into the air slightly.
"This guy's obviously been working out!" cried the Spitmaster. "Looks like second place. Unfortunately, there are only prizes for first place."
Guybrush stepped back from the line, despondent. He'd put everything into that last spit. He cast a resentful eye to the flags, fluttering at ankle level in the breeze, that marked first, second and third place. They were just too far out.
Jojo put a consoling hand on his left leg.
He looked at the Spitmaster, now parading in front of the crowd, and a thought surfaced that maybe he could shift the positions of the flags. But no, the Spitmaster looked a little too manic and eagle-eyed for that kind of trick.
If only he could make some kind of distraction.

"I'd like to buy this ship horn," said Guybrush to the antique dealer, pointing at a large brown horn hanging near the parrot.
"Alrighty," said the antique dealer. "That'll be forty pieces of eight." Guybrush took down the horn, paid the dealer, and was soon outside.
He wasn't particularly intelligent. But Guybrush, particularly in the last few months, had discovered something of a skill in deductive reasoning. And it always came along just as things looked completely hopeless - funny that.
Back at the spitting green, Guybrush had been considering ways of engendering a distraction. Whatever it was, it would have to be something very distracting, so that not only was the Spitmaster caught unawares, but the crowd also.
Then Guybrush saw the old man and the cannon. The cannon was to be fired when the mail ship arrived, and Guybrush knew it was three days late. Operating on the assumption that the Spitmaster and his audience were all residents, they would naturally be very interested to see the mail ship finally here.
So Guybrush walked over to the old man, making sure he had his hearing aid firmly in place before speaking.
"Hello again," said Guybrush.
"You talking to me?" said the old man.
"Hey, old man," said Guybrush, "how about blowing off the cannon?"
The old man stared at him. "How about just blowing off?" he suggested. "My name is Augustus DeWaat, not 'old man.' And this cannon is for official purposes only." He turned back to scan the sea.
Undaunted, Guybrush continued with his deductive thinking. Obviously he needed to get this cannon fired, otherwise what was it doing here at all? Surely it was more than coincidence that such a ready-made distractive device be available just when Guybrush needed it.
So somehow, he needed to get Augustus to fire the cannon. And since persuasion didn't look like working, he'd have to fool him into firing it.
Guybrush wondered if mail ships had horns...
And this was how he came to be holding a ship's horn in his hand, standing some way behind Augustus (and out of his sight). Guybrush looked to the spitting green nearby where, unseen by the crowd, Jojo was crouching near the flags. Jojo raised a small thumb.
Guybrush nodded, raised the horn to his lips, and blew.
The sound that emerged from horn was low and throaty. It seemed to be coming from all directions.
Guybrush stopped blowing. He hung the horn from his belt in the accepted pirate / hero manner. Would it work?
There was a sudden explosion nearby, followed moments later by a distant splash. "Sounds like old Augustus spotted the mail boat!" yelled the Spitmaster, rushing toward the dock.
The audience turned their heads to likewise watch the dock area. As they did so Jojo scampered underfoot, pulling the flags out of the ground. The first place flag went in second place. The second place flag staked out third place. And the third place flag was given a new position, a foot closer to the fault line.
Guybrush grinned at Jojo as he scurried to safety. The Spitmaster was returning, shaking his head at the crowd. "False alarm."
Guybrush cleared his throat. It was time.
The Spitmaster smiled broadly as he saw Guybrush approach for a third time. He really had to admire this kid's persistence. To be honest, he didn't look like a big spitter, but as Guybrush stepped up to the line, the Spitmaster, by some unconscious cue, made sure he stood a little further behind first place than usual. "Spit away, Loogboy!" shouted the Spitmaster.
Silence descended on the crowd. Guybrush stood still, taking in deep breaths, then suddenly he snorted. To the crowd, the sequence of sounds went like this-
"Swish-swish." (come on, Captain Loogie!)
"Hoooooookkkkkkk!" (You can do it!)
"Chwwwwwwwkkkkk!" (Ozzie ozzie ozzie! Oi oi oi!)
"Ptooie!"
The green wad of saliva bulleted past the tall pirate in a black hat, past an Arabian pirate in a red fez, past a French pirate with black beret and red hair, past a pirate / dwarf, and past the female pirate, her red bandanna fluttering wildly.
Past the third flag, past the second flag, and past the first flag.
"He's cleared first place!" shouted the Spitmaster, jumping into the air. The audience applauded enthusiastically. Someone whistled. "That was truly awe-inspiring!" continued the Spitmaster, running over to congratulate Guybrush. He put an arm around Guybrush's shoulder. "Sports fans, we have seen something incredible here today. Here, let me congratulate you and give you this fine commemorative plaque." The Spitmaster reached into his voluminous pockets. He took out a small bronze plaque, making sure the audience got a good look at it.
Guybrush took the plaque gratefully. "I salute you, Captain Loogie," said the Spitmaster solemnly. "Come on, let's give him a hand!" Guybrush smiled, and walked away to the sound of cheers and applause. "Of course, there are plenty more prizes for the rest of you," said the Spitmaster. "So how about it?"
Guybrush rejoined Jojo, who was jumping up and down, completely uncontrollable. He looked at the plaque, which was fairly blank except for a golden, odd-looking lump of something in the middle.
Guybrush wondered if the antique dealer would be interested in this.

He was sceptical.
In response to the question "How much will you give me for this plaque," the dealer quickly said, "I'm not interested."
Guybrush really couldn't blame him - the only thing this plaque looked good for was paperweight duty.. But he pushed on anyway.
"What do you mean?" he cried, indignantly. "It's worth a mint!"
"For a lump of pus on a shingle?"
"That's not just any lump of pus," said Guybrush vigorously.
"Oh yeah? What's so special about it?"
Guybrush leaned over, as if confiding a great secret. "The spit of the person who killed LeChuck is on it," he whispered, drawing his head back and nodding. This was mostly true.
"Really?" asked the dealer, and now he sounded interested. "That would make it very valuable!" Right on, thought Guybrush. "And I do like bronze, anyway. I'll give you six thousand pieces of eight for it."
Guybrush had to stop himself from beaming. This was beyond even his expectations. He handed over the plaque, and in return the dealer gave him a large sack of cash the size, and weight, of a bowling ball.
"Nice doing business with you," said Guybrush, walking to the door. Outside, he immediately strode over to Kate Capsize.
Kate had stuck out the day here, despite not getting any charters. But it was getting late, there was an evening storm on the way, and she was just getting ready to pack it all up and head to Phatt Island to try her luck tomorrow.
She narrowed her eyes as Guybrush approached. The kid who couldn't afford anything.
"I'm interested in chartering a ship," said Guybrush.
Kate would have replied with something sarcastic, but at that moment she saw Jojo coming up behind Guybrush, and some of her wires fused. "As mentioned, my fee is six thousand pieces of eight," was all she could manage.
"OK, I'll pay you the six thousand pieces of eight," said Guybrush, meaningfully holding up what could have been a bowling ball bag, except for the coin sized dimples on the surface. He gave the bag to Kate, who took it with a wide smile.
"You've chartered yourself a ship," she said. "Are you ready to leave now?"
"Uh, no, I think I need to take care of a few things first," said Guybrush.
"Let me know when you're ready to head out," said Kate.
Guybrush walked to the dock, and came to Captain Dread's ship. He threw the remains of the oar inside, and then looked down at Jojo. "Sorry, old chum," said Guybrush, "but you'll have to wait here. I shouldn't be long." Jojo looked at him disapprovingly, but allowed himself to be hauled on board.
Guybrush was moving fast now as the sun westered. He looked at Great Shipwrecks of Our Century, and saw the Mad Monkey had sunk at 38N, 88W. He looked at Captain Dread's map, and found the point referenced was fairly close to Booty Island. Then he jumped back onto the dock, and walked briskly to Kate. "I'm ready to set sail!" he announced.
"Have you got a course planned or anything?" asked Kate, leading him along the docks to the far side.
"I can show you where I want to go on this map Captain Dread gave me," said Guybrush, gesturing at the thinning parchment with a finger. "So, where's your boat?"

Half an hour later.
"Well, here we are," announced Kate, standing by the rails close to Guybrush.
She didn't have much choice. The overriding feature of Kate's ship, something that Guybrush was still amazed by, was its size. If you were being generous, the measurement of the deck was four metres (width) by eight metres (length). It gave the ship a little speed, but that was about it. The ship was clean, and finely decorated, but the effort was a little wasted - it was like spending more effort on a scale model of the Eiffel tower than building the real thing.
"What now?" said Kate.
"What did you do, order this ship out the back of a comic book?" asked Guybrush.
"Very funny," said Kate.
"I've seen bigger ships in bottles!"
"Ha ha."
"Whose bathtub did the ship come from?"
Kate smiled humourlessly. "Did you think that up all by yourself?"
"I've seen coffee cups bigger than this ship!" continued Guybrush with a grin on his face.
"Gee, your lines are almost as funny as your tailor."
"This ship is so small, the rats leaving it are humpbacked!"
"Can we get on with it?" asked Kate.
Guybrush supposed so, and reluctantly dropped the insults. "I'll dive in and look for the sunken galleon," he said. He put one foot on the rail, looking into the choppy water below.
"Are you sure you can swim?" asked Kate, not looking very sure at all.
"Hey, I can hold my breath for ten minutes!" boasted Guybrush. Having answered Kate, he stepped over the rail and dived into the sea.

The water he dove into was warm and salty. For a moment Guybrush was buffeted by the motion of surface waves, the roaring of the water in his ears, then he passed through the turbulence, head down and spiralling slowly.
About forty feet down, Guybrush managed to right himself, using his arms as aerofoils. The water around him, which at first had been pale blue, was gradually growing cooler and darker. There was still enough light, however, to see the shoals of fish, orange squids, and even the odd pufferfish.
Small bubbles streamed out of Guybrush's mouth. He hadn't been kidding when he said he could hold his breath for ten minutes underwater, but he'd never been this far below the surface before. But the sea was so serene down here, and the colourful fish so placid, that feelings of panic somehow bubbled away with his remaining air.
The water around him grew darker still, fading from royal blue through progressively inkier shades. Still Guybrush coasted down, unworried, his coat billowing slightly in the shallow currents.
Suddenly Guybrush, looking down, saw the broken, rotting hull of a ship, half buried in the ashy white ocean floor. He nearly drew in a sharp breath, but remembered where he was just in time.
Using his arms, Guybrush guided himself past higher outcrops of rock, dotted with faded coral and bright anenomes, over a gully that drew narrower as he descended, and finally he touched the ocean floor. White clouds of sand came up from the floor, spreading slowly in the thick water.
Guybrush looked to his right, and up, at the skeleton of the Mad Monkey.
The death-throes of the shipwreck had been immense. The decrepit hull now resting on the ocean floor had split in two, fore and aft. Almost without exception, the timbers were broken or cracked. And the sand, in only a short century, had managed to cover the greater part of the ship. Only the fore and aft bows, and the main mast, remained in sight. Soon, perhaps, they would disappear underneath.
Guybrush kicked off the ocean floor and swam up to the prow of the Mad Monkey. Here was the strangest figurehead he had ever seen.
Most ships had some kind of sea creature as a figurehead. The mermaid was particularly popular, but kraken and sea dragons were also popular. This animal, however, was different, even by figurehead standards. It had the body, wings and talons of a large eagle, and the head of a big, fat, monkey, wearing an eyepatch.
Guybrush didn't think it was that splendid an artwork, but then he was no artist himself. What he did see, and didn't like much, was that this figurehead looked very heavy.
Guybrush gripped the head - if he strained he could just reach the ears with his hands. With his grip in place, Guybrush braced his feet on the prow and pulled.
It came back slightly, as if caught on elastic, then broke free. Bubbles cascaded upward as Guybrush was carried back from the ship. The weight of the head pulled him quickly back to the seabed.
The conclusion was inescapable, and he really should have thought of this before - the head was too heavy to carry to the surface.
Instead of trying to carry it to the surface, Guybrush did something else. He walked in slow, loping strides across the seabed, to a spot several metres away where Kate had cast the anchor. Guybrush stood on the anchor, and reached one hand up to grasp the anchor chain. He gave it three quick tugs - not because this was a predefined signal with Kate, but operating on the assumption that Kate Capsize had something of a brain and would be able to work things out for herself.
It seemed she did, for moments later Guybrush found himself rising from the deeps.

"Well, you got the monkey head," said Kate finally. It had been something of a struggle to get it into the boat, and now it sat on the deck, glaring at them.
Guybrush was wringing the water out of his clothes. It was warm and steamed when it hit the deck. "Let's get back to Booty Island," he suggested. He was feeling pretty good. Normally, at this point he'd be freezing cold because the wind, regardless of the temperature of the water, would be chilling his limbs off. But the storm was near, and humidity had risen to such an extent that even the timbers of Kate's boat had a thin sheen of condensed water.
"Agreed," said Kate. She looked at the distant, mountainous island. The sky behind it, above it, and all around it was blue/black, and the wind that blew at them carried the faintest echoes of thunder.
She started to tack, and now they could see the lightning.

By the time they finally reached Booty Island dock, the first fat droplets of rain were falling. Kate didn't bother even hauling herself to the pier, but simply floated as close as she could, leaving it up to Guybrush to jump the water to the dock, and safety.
For a moment he was fearful the combined weight of him and the head would send him crashing through the wooden dock into the sea, but he was fortunate enough to land on a thick, supported beam, which creaked but stood firm.
He looked left and right - the dock was lot less crowded now. He couldn't see anyone. What he could see, though, was the wind blowing window shutters open, the waves undulating across the dock, and the pronounced bob in the ships still tethered here.
Kate's boat was already floating away, on its journey to Phatt Island. "Congratulations on your find!" she called out. "Be sure and tell any friends you might have about Capsize Charters!" The boat drifted further away, running the wind, and soon was a speck in the distance. As she sailed away, she thought how strange it was that she'd never actually gotten his name.
Guybrush put his head down and ran along the dock. The monkey head was being unexpectedly helpful here - it was preventing him from being blown into the sea. Guybrush ran on, off the dock, and crossed the Ville de la Booty square, now deserted.
The door to the antique dealer's was shut, but Guybrush had too much momentum to pull up in time. He struck the door at a fair clip, or more precisely the metal head he was carrying hit the door at about waist level.
The door flew open, crashing against the wall. Guybrush walked into the antique dealer's shop, now lit by candlelight, and behind him came the winds, rattling the displays on their hooks.
"Shut the door!" said the antique dealer angrily. Guybrush turned back, found that the door wasn't broken at all, and did this. The wind died away. But only as Guybrush came forward once more into the thin, delicate light did the expression of ire on the dealer's face change.
He looked on in a kind of ironic wonder as Guybrush deposited the monkey head on the counter with a hefty clank. "Well, well, well," mused the dealer. "I didn't think anyone would ever get the Mad Monkey's figurehead." He ran a narrow hand over the metal skull.
"Can I get the map piece now?" asked Guybrush.
"Sure, it's yours," said the dealer, words that quickened Guybrush's heart. The dealer took a key from his pocket, and opened the map display case. With reverent hands Guybrush took it from the case. He held it in the candlelight, staring down at a quarter of the map to Big Whoop.
It was tattered and creased, but the details were intact. There was a small green patch in the corner, obviously part of the island, and a large north arrow. On the green patch was part of a red, curving path - a pathway to the treasure?
Guybrush stood there, studying it, for several minutes. Finally he pocketed it in his deepest, most secure pocket, and walked to the door. He wasn't particularly big, and when he opened the door the sudden suction pulled him out into the street.
Guybrush fell in a heap in the dirt, and struggled up. All around him the air was thick with whirls of dust, and visibility had dropped so much he couldn't see five metres distant. Still, he could remember where Dread's ship was, and the wind was gusting again, pushing him in the same direction.
Guybrush half ran, half flew to the docks, where the huge, dirty hulk of Dread's ship suddenly loomed from the dust. Jojo was hanging onto the side rail for dear life, screeching at him. Too late, Guybrush realised his momentum was going to carry him straight over the dock, crashing into the side of the Jolly Rasta and falling into the heaving seas below. So he did the only thing he could - he jumped.
Whatever the long jump record was at the time, it would have been broken by Guybrush, catapulted forward by the gale force wind. He flew upward, easily clearing the front side rail of the Jolly Rasta, and crashed into the far side rail. As he came to a stop, Jojo screamed and latched onto his right leg.
The rain started pelting. It came from all angles, in huge teardrops that felt like ball bearings. In seconds Guybrush was wet through, even before he could get to his feet. Jojo had a tight bearhug on his leg, and his eyes were screwed shut.
The deck bucked and rolled, throwing Guybrush forward into the cabin. He collapsed in a corner near Captain Dread, who held the wheel in firm hands, staring intently forward. He might have been muttering something, but the noise and commotion made it impossible to hear. Occasionally he took a swig from a small, flat bottle.
Above the screaming wind, Guybrush now heard crashing, splintering sounds from the dock. Moments later the Jolly Rasta was lifted by a fierce squall, and pushed out to sea. Risking the wind, Guybrush peeked around the corner of the cabin. He saw (with difficulty, through the driving wind and rain) a line of ships, bobbing up and down like corks in a sea of champagne. Loose timbers, pulled free from the pier, floated alongside them in waves that rose several metres high.
The pier was wrecked. And with it, the rope that had tethered the Jolly Rasta to shore had been ripped in two. They were adrift, in stormy seas.
They receded fast, and soon the pier and the ships docked their were lost behind a grey curtain. Guybrush stayed there a moment longer, long enough for a huge wave to curl over the rail and smack him in the chest. Guybrush was thrown back onto the deck, soaked through. He spluttered up again, a wet and bedraggled Jojo clinging onto his leg for dear life, and fell into the cabin.
The storm was tossing the Jolly Rasta around like a nymphomaniac on a waterbed. Guybrush curled up in a corner and awaited the worst...

Deep inside LeChuck's fortress...
Largo was wandering through the labyrinth, no clear destination mind. This was not his normal mode of behaviour, but he had unsettling news, and he didn't particularly want to see LeChuck at the moment.
Unfortunately for Largo, the very next turn took him straight to LeChuck. He stood there in the centre of the corridor, glaring at him, as if he'd been expecting him.
Largo came to a halt, just out of LeChuck's spitting radius. "Ah," he began, stalling until he could think of a way to break this nicely. "LeChuck sir..." He swallowed. "I regret to inform you that Guybrush has found a piece of the map to Big Whoop."
LeChuck growled. "You will regret a lot more if he finds another. Stop him at any cost. But remember - I want him alive." With these last words, LeChuck's normally brown eyes flashed a deep red.
"Yes sir," said Largo. Not mollified, but as close as he ever came to it, LeChuck turned and shuffled toward the exit.
"Creep," muttered Largo.

The next day.
Normally at this point in the story, after Our Hero's ship has been battered by a fierce storm, they spend the next day becalmed in the middle of nowhere, absolutely no land in sight. The Jolly Rasta, however, was doing quite good time as it made its way toward Scabb Island.
The sun was low in the sky, having just risen, and there was a comfortable, fresh breeze coming from the south. The weather invigorated Guybrush, who was going through his pockets and seeing if anything was missing. Remarkably, everything seemed to be intact. The map was safe, and dry, in his inner pockets, along with the spit encrusted paper and Captain Dread's map.
As for the Jolly Rasta, it was a little battered, a little tumbledown, but not so you'd notice the difference. They'd lost the fishing rod and the ship's horn, but had gained an empty box of parrot chow with a big parrot on the front, so it wasn't all bad.
Jojo, the twenty inch pianist, was leaping around the Jolly Rasta deck, full of vim and vigour now he was no longer waterlogged. He was also happy because they were sailing for Scabb Island, his old hunting ground.
Guybrush paid him little attention, partly because he was absorbed in study of the map piece, and also because he was thinking about that maverick pirate, Rapp Scallion.
As the owner and proprietor of the Steamin Weenie hut, Rapp had been something of a reasonable success. But the flash fire which had killed him sounded ominous. Had the map gone up in smoke as well? Either way, Guybrush thought he had to somehow get into the hut and have a look around.
Then there was the question of his remains. If Rapp had died in the Steamin Weenie hut, presumably he would have been buried in the Scabb Island cemetery. But Guybrush couldn't remember seeing his name there. There was just one place in the cemetery he hadn't explored - Stan's Kozy Krypt. Stan, Guybrush now knew, owned the Previously Owned Coffins store on Booty Island. And in that store, under a large label reading CRYPTS, was a small key.
Guybrush wanted that key.
The big problem would be to get it without Stan knowing, and that'd be hard. There were fewer salesman slicker than Stan. Nothing got by his eagle eyes. Guybrush thought of the time Stan jumped in the coffin - Guybrush shut the lid, and mere seconds later Stan hopped out, fresh and lively. Could he trap Stan in the coffin? Holding down the lid probably wouldn't work, and anyway he couldn't hold down the lid and get the key at the same time. Guybrush wished he had a decent hammer and some nails, but the only carpentry implement Captain Dread kept on board the Jolly Rasta was a rusty saw.
Guybrush sighed, and folded the map with careful hands. He stood up, leaned on the deck, and saw they were getting close to Scabb Island.
"Hey, Captain Dread!" he called out. "Can't this bucket of nails go any faster?"
"Blow it out your ear, mon," replied Dread from the cabin.

They docked not far from Woodtick. Guybrush didn't want Jojo to come, and tried to explain that he'd only be a few minutes, but Jojo was so shot full of energy that no argument would sway him. So it was that Guybrush found himself walking, almost trudging, along the path to Woodtick while a hyperactive simian bounded around him, like a jolly, gormless dog.
It was still early morning, but Woody was still working away at his toolbench when Guybrush entered, slowly. He always felt uncomfortable in here - the sawdust somehow made him sneezy.
Guybrush held out his hands to the woodsmith. In them were the remains of Elaine's rowing oar. Guybrush didn't want it mended so he could give it back, as giving it back would probably cause more problems than it would solve. He wanted it mended because the handle had a very specific shape, one that fitted into the grooves on the Big Tree perfectly. The tree in which, should Guybrush have a phenomenal run of luck, the map might still be found.
"Excuse me, could you take a look at this?" said Guybrush politely. Woody put down his tools and regarded the oar splinters. He took the oar from Guybrush's hands and turned it over, looking at it in the new morning light.
"Hmmm... looks like a massive fracture," he said. "If you're going to be using this, I'd better reinforce it for ya. Hang on a moment." Woody put the oar on his workbench, assembled various tools and bits of metal, and got to work.
He was fast, and efficient. Guybrush could barely follow the path of his hands as they worked, tapped, hammered and taped. Even Jojo managed to stop bounding around and became interested in the work. Only a minute had elapsed when Woody wiped his brow and handed the newly mended oar to Guybrush.
"Here ya go, boy," he said proudly. "Steel shank, alloy splints, better than new." Guybrush took the shinier, and slightly heavier oar gratefully. Woody immediately turned back to his work.
Hmmm... no charge. Guybrush decided he could live with that. Woody was putting some of his tools away now, and one particularly caught his eye - a large, hefty, silver sheen hammer. Beside it, nails you could crucify someone with.
Guybrush's eyes narrowed, and he quickly left the room.

It was a microcosm of the problem that faced him at Stan's - to finagle something from a room, while being unobserved by the occupants. What he needed to do here was create some sort of distraction.
It would probably be difficult. Guybrush was amazed at this guy's drive. Morning, noon, night - all hours of the day, Woody was in there hammering away. Guybrush doubted if he even left the place. If he ever did, it was probably on business.
On business...
With a flash of intuition, Guybrush had another idea. One so devilish he just couldn't help but grin wickedly.

Inch by inch, arctangent by arctangent, the sun rose gently in the sky. Its warm, pale rays caressed the ground of Woodtick, serving to show that the village was best viewed at night-time, or preferably total darkness.
In the sun, the ship timber that had once looked polished and sturdy was revealed to be wormridden, rotting and tinder dry. Paint flaky and thin. The windows clouded over, dusty and stained.
The ship becalmed on the rocky rise, home to Marty and three malcontents, fared no better than others. But these pirates, like most of the inhabitants of Woodtick, were not worried in the slightest. Like everybody else, they were asleep. Woodtick was a true nocturnal dwelling - people slept during the day, and lived during the night.
This was not compulsory, of course. However, what with revelry, copious grog consumption and badtempered, drunken pirates, it just wasn't safe to sleep during the night. And after all the violence, dancing and drinking of the previous night, nobody was in any condition to spend the day awake.
Thus pirates of Woodtick slept. But there were, as always, exceptions. One of them, of course, was Woody. He never drank, fought or swore, and it was thought by some he wasn't a pirate at all. But Woody was always just too large and menacing for people to actually find this out for themselves.
Then there were the three performance pirates. They formed a small, but acceptable variation to the normal pirate lifestyle - they slept all the time. Day, night, rain, sun, all were dutifully, and blissfully, ignored.
Frank, in particular, had been like this ever since he gotten a wooden leg. That had naturally put a bit of a dent in any aspirations of his vis-a-vis running, and then walking had become something of a struggle, and from that point on Frank had acted on his years of pirate training and given up. His companion pirates had gone along with this, opting for a life of slumber in high places mainly because they'd given up on life as well.
In a sense, it was a performance - and the essential futility of man's endeavour came across very well.
But now something strange was happening. Entirely of his own accord, undisturbed by any small, annoying, stupidly named people, Frank was waking up. A rather inconsequential dream he'd been having about llamas was interrupted by the warm pressure of sunlight on his eyelids, and the memory of a faint noise.
Frank raised his arms and yawned. His legs swung involuntarily with the motion, and suddenly Frank was seized by the fiercest attack of vertigo. His eyes burst open, and Frank felt sure he would tumble off the ledge. He was terrified. He'd never had any problems with his balance before - what was wrong now? Quickly, with his heart in his mouth, Frank looked down.
He started screaming.
The two pirates were stirring. They looked at Frank with bleary, questioning eyes.
"My leg!" Frank was screaming. "My leg!" The two pirates looked down.
Frank's leg had been sawn off at the knee.
"Help!" screamed Frank. "Someone get a doctor!"

Guybrush, crouching down in a shady hiding place, heard the screams and grinned. He lowered the saw, and waited. From here he had a clear view of Woody's hut, and surely enough Woody emerged moments later, carrying a pegleg and some small, intricate tools. Guybrush waited (sitting on Jojo to make sure he didn't bound out and ruin everything), and when Woody was out of sight he dashed to the hut.
Quickly he took the hammer (labelled Woody), a handful of nails, and was out in a flash. Guybrush and Jojo hared along the path, across the bridge, and were finally out of Woodtick.
The hammer was just the right size to fit in his pockets, which allowed Guybrush to shift his grip on Captain Dread's saw. In it, light brown sawdust from Frank's leg was trapped on the teeth. It hadn't been hard, although the scraping noise had been putting him on edge a little.
Captain Dread's ship was now coming into view, and Guybrush's spirits rose further. Things really were going well.

They sailed for Booty Island, under skies that just got bluer and bluer.
Guybrush had been expecting wholesale destruction at the docks - loose timber floating in the sea, the pier torn and shattered, boats capsized and scuttled. There was some of that. But a remarkably large section of the pier was unharmed, and here Captain Dread docked.
He didn't have much competition. Most of the boats seemed to have sailed for other climes.
Guybrush waited until the Jolly Rasta was secure, then stepped onto the pier with Jojo. They wandered into Ville de la Booty.
It was quiet here. Kate had gone - she was at Phatt Island. Augustus the cannon man was gone. Even the spitting competition had packed it in.
The shopfronts were dirty and tattered from the previous night's storm, and suddenly Booty Island didn't seem so festive anymore. Guybrush and Jojo walked slowly up the main street, and saw no-one. The place felt deserted.
They hurried through.

Otherwise, it was a short, pleasant walk to the Big Tree, nestled comfortably in the northern quarter of Booty Island. It was still morning and the air wasn't humid yet, a definite improvement on yesterday.
Insects buzzed and cicadas chirped as Guybrush slotted the reinforced oar into the second hole along the trunk. It was, again, a perfect fit.
He took a step onto the first plank, and paused, taking in deep breaths. Jojo looked tense.
Guybrush tried resting one foot on the oar. It held. He shut his eyes and stepped completely onto the oar.
The oar stood fast - it didn't even creak. After a short while Guybrush opened his eyes again, and exhaled. Jojo grinned and clapped, a sound like two leathery palms being slapped together.
From there it was easy. Keeping his stance on the oar, Guybrush pulled the plank out of its hole, putting it into the hole above the oar. Then he stood on the plank, pulled out the oar and slotted it into the hole above. Then he stepped on it.
Guybrush was several metres above ground, and about five around the trunk, before Jojo realised he was being left behind. He squawked urgently at Guybrush, jumping up and down.
"Sorry Jojo," said Guybrush, waving at him from above. Jojo gave him a grumpy look, and stamped off toward the outhouse.

Not long after, Guybrush stepped from the final hole to the main platform. Luckily he didn't have a fear of heights, or he would never have made those last few metres. He looked around.
Guybrush didn't know what sort of tree he was in. It wasn't a pine tree, because their branches went straight up. The trunk of this tree went straight up for about five metres, then split into four thick branches that went off in different directions, almost horizontal.
Here at the fork, the main hut had been erected. It was constructed from grey timbers that were dry, and covered in deep rills, but still looked strong. The roof was a shallow conical shape, and made from thatched straw.
Guybrush looked up, and to his left. Small steps had been carved out of one of the gently rising branches, leading to a smaller hut built where the branch forked again. It had a small balcony, and tiny windows with faded blue sheets doing the job of curtains. Guybrush walked up the steps to the hut and peered inside, but it was completely bare. He walked back down the steps.
The main hut was completely ringed by a wooden balcony, complete with rails to stop people falling off. Around this Guybrush now walked, and as he reached the back of the hut he saw another building.
It wasn't really a building. Instead, a steep ladder led from the balcony up to a tiny open air hut. Inside it, Guybrush could just make out a metal telescope. Obviously, some kind of lookout post.
The stairs looked strong, so Guybrush climbed up, passing through a thin canopy of leaves and up to the precarious perch of the ledge. At the top he straightened up and looked around.
The view was magnificent. Guybrush turned slowly, his mouth open, and beheld Booty Island in its entirety. Ville de la Booty was a small, squat collection of buildings to the south, and the interior of the island was revealed as thick jungle. And all around, ringing the horizon, was an ocean of perfect blue. He could even see some of the nearby islands, like Phatt.
Guybrush peered through the telescope. It had been trained on the Governor's mansion, and Guybrush could make out the small green figure of Philbert the gardener amongst rows of cabbages. The picture was astoundingly good.
Guybrush straightened up. Whoever had lived here must have really liked to look at Booty Island. He stood there for a moment, indecisive. It was a really nice telescope.
Guybrush took the telescope. What he could do with a magnifying instrument like this... It was just the thing for peering from the crow's nest, searching for Land Ho. Pity the Jolly Rasta didn't have a crow's nest.
Guybrush could have stood there a lot longer, just looking down at the island below, but suddenly he remembered the business at hand.
The map piece. Quickly Guybrush climbed down the ladder, telescope in hand. He walked around the side of the hut to the front entrance. There was no door, but a door frame in which a tattered dark blue sheet hung, fluttering in the breeze. It was the only sign of life Guybrush had seen here. He pushed it aside and walked into the hut.
Inside the hut was a chair, upended in a corner, and a huge pile of paper. Guybrush walked in, slowly, looking over every inch of the dirty timber floor.
There was a landscape window in one wall, affording yet another magnificent view of Booty Island, but Guybrush had no time for it. He was looking at the pile of paper, and a horrible suspicion was starting to dawn.
There was a seagull sitting contentedly on the papers. It looked familiar. There was a nasty expression on its face. It looked at Guybrush as if deciding to bite it or not.
It was sitting on maps. Hundreds and hundreds of maps.
Many years ago, although Guybrush was not to know this, the resident of this hut had been a noted cartographer. Hence the lookout post and telescope, which he often used in its observations. In his lifetime the cartographer had drawn thousands of maps, many of which he'd kept at home. Some had blown away after he died. However, the majority had stayed here, piled into a corner, and this was because the wind, combined with the natural structure of the hut, tended to push the maps into this position.
Guybrush stood there, looking despairingly at the pile. Hundreds and hundreds of maps, and he had no way of telling which one was the Governor's. The bird was another hazard - he looked dangerous.
Guybrush walked back outside to have a think. There was probably no way he, an untrained cartographer, could pick out the Governor's map. Wally might be able to, but he wasn't seeing too well at the moment and didn't like travelling.
Was there any way to distinguish the map? Elaine might be able to do it, but Guybrush didn't feel like asking her for a favour at the moment. Besides, she might keep the map for herself.
Ha! Guybrush could just imagine himself walking those long yards back to the Mansion, coming under the watchful stare of those windows, passing that dolorous bloodhound Guybrush, which would probably smell out the residue of the stolen oar on him and bark to all and sundry, enter the door...
Guybrush suddenly stopped, and went back a bit on his train of thought. The dog. The one Philbert said was so good at smelling out the Governor's possessions.
Could he...
Guybrush peered over the edge of the balcony, and saw Jojo looking bored below. "Jojo?" he called out. "We're going."

The guard house was unmanned, so Guybrush and Jojo just walked on over the spit and to the Governor's private island.
The mansion had been spared much damage, mainly due to the thick jungle growth which surrounded it on all sides. A few branches had fallen, but that was about it. Still, there may have been damage deeper in the island interior, as Philbert the gardener was nowhere to be seen in the front yard.
Guybrush and Jojo walked quickly to the front door. The windows looked unoccupied, but it was best to hurry.
Guybrush the dog was here, as expected, sleeping by the front door. Guybrush tugged on his tail.
Guybrush (the dog) looked at Guybrush (the pirate) with bloodshot, watery eyes.
"OK, Guybrush," said Guybrush (the pirate). "You're coming with me." He kicked him, just a gentle reminder, in the ribs. Guybrush (the dog) appeared to give this several seconds consideration, before slowly getting to his feet.
"Come on, then," said Guybrush (the pirate). They started to walk away from the mansion. Jojo looked reasonably happy to have a dog as a close companion, and Guybrush hoped none of this got out to the other pirates - he'd never live it down. Guybrush, Animal Friend. Guybrush Threepwood And Close Relatives. Guybrush Threepwood - Primate Playmate. The possible derisive titles were endless.
Fortunately, they made it out of the Governor's land without being seen.

It took longer getting back to the tree, mainly because Guybrush (the dog) was so slow. But finally they stood below those towering boughs, and here had their first problem.
Guybrush (the dog) was fairly large, and heavy. As Guybrush (the pirate) stood on the first plank, he realised he'd have to carry him to the top. Almost immediately his arm began to ache.
Jojo wasn't that happy either. When he saw the dog getting a free ride up, he immediately wanted to come along too. Guybrush was forced to explain that the load on the steps was too much as it was, and to have any further weight might crack it all together.
Jojo made a face, and sulked off. Carrying Guybrush (the dog) in one, strained arm, Guybrush (the pirate) soldered on upward.

It was a few good minutes later, with the sun high in the sky, when a hotter and redder Guybrush reached the hut. He put the dog on the balcony, where it immediately fell asleep, and collapsed beside it, his arm screaming and wobbling like mad. He sat there, panting, for a while.
Eventually he roused himself, picked up the dog, and walked inside the hut. Everything was the same as they had left it - even the seagull was still nesting there.
Guybrush stopped in the middle of the room, and held the dog in midair. He looked at its face.
The nose was twitching, but the eyes were closed. It looked like the dog was dreaming.
It was time to say the magic incantation. "'It's a million-to-one chance,'" recited Guybrush, "'but it just might work.'"
The dog's eyes suddenly flashed open. Hind legs pushing off Guybrush's chest, it dived headfirst into the pile of maps. The bird flapped into the air, squawking, and flew out the window.
Gentle breezes blew in, fluttering the outer maps on the pile. Otherwise, it was motionless. Guybrush (the pirate) moved a little closer to the pile of maps, and heard a frantic rustling sound coming from deep within. "Hello?" he said. "Little Guybrush?"
The head of Little Guybrush suddenly emerged from the pile. He was holding a rolled up map in his mouth, and panting contentedly.
"Good boy!" congratulated Guybrush (the pirate). Before the mutt could run anywhere he jerked the map from its mouth and stuffed it in his pockets. Guybrush (the dog) looked at him, but didn't start barking. It was evident that he was trusted.
"Run along home now," said Guybrush (the pirate). Guybrush (the dog) didn't need a second invitation. He burst out of the pile and jumped out the open window. There was silence for several seconds, followed by a faint thud, barks, squeals, and the sound of rustling undergrowth.
Guybrush went to the window, and watched the small, arrow-like path of the dog as he ran for the Mansion. "Now that's a good dog," he said. Then he went for the stairs and started climbing down. Two map pieces! The hunt was going well.
He got to the bottom fairly quickly. Jojo was sitting with his back against the trunk, glaring at him. Guybrush sighed. He was getting a little sick of the monkey's temper tantrums.

A short while later, and Guybrush and Jojo were back in Ville de la Booty. Some life was returning - a few people were out and about, and there were more ships docked at the pier.
Guybrush had been trying to think about Big Whoop, but something else kept intruding. That dream he'd had at the base of the tree - he'd never realised how much he missed his parents. Guybrush had only the vaguest knowledge of his parents. They'd left him at an early age - abandoned him. He'd been lost ever since. Guybrush had hoped to fill this void with Elaine, but that hadn't worked out either. Now there was only one thing left within his grasp - Big Whoop.
He knew it contained unimaginable wealth. The voodoo lady said it contained the secret to another world. Either way, it had better live up to its reputation, or he'd be shattered.
As he mused on these thoughts, the dream continued, and now Guybrush saw LeChuck, green and grinning. Guybrush regretted the day he had first heard of this monster. He'd only ever spent five minutes, at the most, in his presence, but their lives seemed intertwined like two strands of spaghetti. But what did the most evil person in the world and a young innocent have in common? Guybrush knew he shouldn't have kept that beard.
These, and other undeveloped thoughts, were all banished as he saw the blinking storefront. They had arrived. Patting the hammer and nails he kept in his pockets, Guybrush and Jojo entered Stan's.

Stan, standing at the back of the showroom, saw them the moment they entered. "Well, well, well," he said, rushing out to meet them. "I knew you'd come back. My customers all do... eventually!" Stan laughed heartily. "And brought a friend, I see! Well don't worry, we cater to all sizes here at Stan's."
Guybrush coughed, and pointed at the large display coffin. "Could you show me that coffin again?" he asked.
"Heck, why not?" said Stan. He guided Guybrush and Jojo over to the coffin with a professional hand. "Now this isn't just your average sixty gallon coffin. This has the full seventy five gallons you need to avoid unsightly bone readjustments. If you should ever need to turn in you're grave, you'll be able to here in comfort and ease. I don't want to scare you or anything, but anything smaller and we might have to cut off your loved one's feet."
Jojo, who hadn't met Stan before, was looking interested. He bounced up and down, trying to peer inside.
"Could you get in and show me how big it is again?" asked Guybrush.
"Sure!" beamed Stan, as if Guybrush had made the most reasonable request in the world. Stan had something of a hunch here. He could remember a Guybrush, long ago, who'd come to his shipyard, broke as a whistle. The second time he came, he was flushed for cash and loose to boot. Maybe history was about to repeat itself, right here.
Stan leaped in. Jojo, taking this as an invitation, did likewise, nestling comfortably near Stan's feet.
Guybrush took a short, tense breath, but said nothing.
Stan was waxing lyrical. "Look how freely I can wiggle my toes," he said, demonstrating. He lay back, as if relaxing in a bath. "This is truly the casket of captains. When you've spent your life on something as big as the ocean, how can you spend your death in anything smaller? There's enough room in here for a pirate and his parrot... or a salesman and a monkey, heh heh." He gestured at Guybrush. "Feel free to join me. There's room for both of us! Take it from me - I'm as claustrophobic as they come, and I love it in here!" He fixed an eye on Guybrush. "You know, a person's coffin should reflect their station in life. If you're thinking about one of those cheaper models, first ask yourself: 'Isn't my loved one worth the best?'" He sighed with pleasure. "This baby's so nice, it should be illegal. It makes people want to die. And extras!" Stan sweeped broadly with his arm, nearly knocking Jojo out. "Take a look at the built in beverage holder! We also stock an excellent worm repellent that I might just throw in for free."
Guybrush looked to be considering this.
"You gotta admit," said Stan, not wavering for a second, "it's cozy in here. Do I not look cozy?"
Guybrush could wait no longer for Jojo. He reached over and shut the lid. Jojo squawked and sounded a little anxious, but Stan's voice was easy. "Sure, sure, try out the lid operation," he said from the coffin, his voice a little muffled.
Guybrush suddenly moved in a flurry of activity. He pulled the nails from his pocket and scattered them on the lid of the coffin. In his right hand he held the woodsmith's hammer. One by one, he hammered the nails into the coffin.
"I hear you knocking up there," said Stan pleasantly. "That's solid oak you're hearing!"
The last nail socked home. Guybrush stood back, and now a faint grin appeared on his face.
"Yes, it sure is nice in here," continued Stan. There was a moment's pause, then several short thumps against the lid. "Hey!" said Stan. "I think the lid's stuck!"
The smile widened.
"Uhhh.... excuse me, friend..." said Stan nervously as Guybrush walked to the back of the showroom. "I seem to be stuck... Hello?" Jojo was chirping madly. "Is there anybody out there? Yoo hoo? Anybody?"
There was a cash register here, and a bell. It only took Guybrush a moment to raise the hammer up and smash the register open.
"Dang, looks like it's empty," he said, disappointed.
"Of course it's empty!" yelled Stan. "I just went to the bank! Now get me out of here!"
Guybrush looked at the wall behind the cash register. Here, under the CRYPTS label, was a small gold key. He reached for it, ignoring the thumps coming from the coffin.
"Help!" shouted Stan. "I can't get out of here! OK, a joke's a joke, now GET ME OUT OF HERE! Open this coffin right now!"
Guybrush didn't have anything else to do here, but he stayed put behind the counter anyway. He was enjoying this. There was something poetic about Stan being stuck in a coffin with a smelly primate.
"I'm not dead!" Stan shouted despairingly from his wooden casket. "I really am claustrophobic, though. Someone's going to pay for this. I'd bust out of here, but the dang thing's built too well."
There was a moment's pause. "Well, if I had to be stuck in a coffin, at least it's the deluxe model," said Stan in thoughtful tones. Jojo wasn't nearly as reflective, judging by the frantic scratches coming from the tail end of the coffin. "It really is pretty roomy in here," said Stan, almost wonderingly. Perhaps he was shocked some of his merchandise might turn out to be good quality. "Maybe I'll take a nap - I hope this thing's not airtight."
Another moment of consideration. "I'm losing valuable business!" said Stan, regaining some of his vigour.
Guybrush tapped the bell. It rang out clear and light.
"Uhh... be there in a minute," said Stan. He banged the lid again. "Let me out - I need to go to the bathroom!"
Guybrush had had enough. He walked past the coffin and out into the street.
He heard Stan's voice, faint behind him, as he left: "Are you still out there? Hello?"

LeChuck's Fortress, once again...
Largo wished, sometimes, that his spies weren't so completely well informed. This was one of those times, as he was just coming back from the entrance area with news. Bad news. LeChuck would not like this news.
He reached the main staircase, but LeChuck was already standing there, waiting for him. How does he do that? wondered Largo.
"Ah..." he began. "LeChuck sir..." He remembered some good news, and tried it first. "I just wanted to report that we have finished building the new torture chamber you requested."
"Very good," said LeChuck. "Do you have anything else to report?"
Largo didn't like the menace in that sentence. It was almost as if LeChuck knew what he was going to say before he said it.
"Ah... no..." he said slowly. He turned as if to leave, then stopped as if remembering something. "Well, there is this one other small thing..."
"I assume this has to do with Guybrush's capture?" said LeChuck, in tones that suggested no other news would be tolerated.
"Well... sort of..."
LeChuck glared at him. "You've allowed him to find the second map piece, haven't you?" he shouted accusingly.
Largo started to say that it was hardly his fault, but stopped. He liked living. Instead, he nodded gingerly.
"YOU FOOL!" bellowed LeChuck. "You are to ready your ship and sail after him yerself! FIND HIM OR DIE!!"

They sailed for Phatt Island. Captain Dread hadn't asked where Jojo was, and Guybrush thought that this was because he'd gotten a little sick of him as well.
It was getting into the early afternoon when they docked at Phatt City harbour. It was not as hot as yesterday, which was something to be thankful for.
Guybrush debarked, and saw Kate standing in a corner, handing out leaflets. He walked over, and asked, "Are you sure I can't have any near grog?"
"You're not having any," said Kate.
"Please?"
Emphatically: "No."
Guybrush wandered off, annoyed. What did a pirate like Kate need with near grog? Couldn't she handle the real stuff? His path took him by the entrance to the jail, and Guybrush saw his poster was still here. For a moment he felt a little panicky - he didn't want to get thrown back in jail.
Strangely, there were more crimes added to the list. Guybrush read them: he was now wanted for "Trespassing, larceny without a permit, disturbing the peace, illegal gambling on a sporting event, use of falsified identification for the purchase of alcohol, premature entombment of a non-dead individual, reckless tampering with city-maintained plumbing without prior acquisition of an environmental impact report, transportation of animals not in a mental state to give consent, vandalising a historical miniature, reckless use of gardening tools, and mixing drinks without a liquor licence."
Guybrush liked the way his charge sheet was building up. One day, he'd be able to show this to all his pirate friends and laugh.
And suddenly he had a brilliant idea. He took out the leaflet Kate had given him, with her face prominently displayed, and spat on each of the corners. He stuck it to the poster, and it obscured his face completely. Then he walked off, hands in pockets and whistling nonchalantly.
He went to the Phatt City library, which was as crowded as ever, ie empty. The librarian was behind the counter, and Guybrush gave Great Shipwrecks of Our Century back to her.
"Thank you," she said, returning to the bookwork.
Guybrush walked to the card catalog, and opened up the drawers. He'd been thinking. It was probably pretty unlikely the map would be in Rapp's coffin, wherever that was. But Rapp's rotting (or charred - he did burn to death) remnants would be there, and they could be resurrected and stuffed into a zombie. The voodoo lady on Scabb Island would be the person to consult here, but Guybrush wanted to know if it was possible.
The Voodoo section, which Guybrush tried first, referred him to Recipes: Voodoo. Guybrush tried this, and found the single volume, "The Joy of Hex - 101 Essential Voodoo Recipes." Everything else he tried - Raising The Dead, Black Magic, Witchcraft - came up blank.
Guybrush decided he might as well try the book. "Do you have The Joy of Hex?" he asked the librarian. Instead of answering, she wheeled her chair out into the bookshelves, pulled a volume out, and wheeled back.
Guybrush was handed a large, thin, black bound volume. He sat down on a vacant chair and started reading. To his disappointment, the book was obviously intended for the advanced voodoo practitioner. The writing was way too technical for him.
Skimming through the pages, however, he came across an interesting recipe - Ash2Life. Apparently, it was a way of resurrecting the ashes of a corpse into a living human being.
Guybrush tucked away a mental note to visit the voodoo lady, who would know more. He decided to keep the book - voodoo had always interested him, and it might yet come in useful.
He got up, and walked to the door.

Kate was not having much luck on Phatt Island either. Nobody seemed interested in her pamphlets, let alone chartering a ship. Maybe I should have tried Scabb Island, Kate thought.
There just weren't enough people around. Kate walked up and down the pier area, coming to a set of concrete steps. At the top of the steps, a huge guard in a Spanish metal helmet was staring at the wall.
Kate didn't see what the fuss was about - some poster with her face on it.
The guard, who was a little concerned at the escape of Guybrush, looked at the short woman by his side. He looked back at the poster, and back at Kate.
Kate became aware she was being looked at. She looked up uncomfortably at the guard.
"Excuse me," said the guard. "Aren't you Guybrush Threepwood?"
The name meant nothing to Kate. "No, my name is Kate Capsize," said Kate. "You must have me confused with someone else."
"Kate, eh?" said the guard nastily. "That's an unusual name. Perhaps you have some identification?"
"My ID is on my ship," said Kate apologetically, pointing over her shoulder. "Wait here while I go and get it."
Before she could leave, the guard had drawn a huge black pistol and was pointing it at her head. "Nice try, Guybrush," said the guard. "I don't know how you got out of jail, but I'm taking you back in."

Guybrush heard it all, standing motionless at the library door. It had never occurred to him that Kate might actually get put in prison. And he remembered that he still had the prison key.
But first things first. Guybrush ran to Kate's ship, boarded it, and searched it from head to toe. This didn't take long.
There was no near-grog.
Guybrush jumped back down to the pier, and ran back to the jail. Now, he supposed, Kate might be so grateful at being let out that she would give him the near-grog. If she even had any.
Inside, Kate was pacing the lengths of her short cell, fuming. "Idiots!" she cursed. "They can't keep me locked up!"
Guybrush walked into the jail, unnoticed, and came to her door. As he pulled out the key, Kate spoke again. "Who is this Peepwind character anyway?"
The rattle of the key in the lock was loud in the confined space. Kate looked up at Guybrush as the door swung open. "Hey!" she said. Guybrush's brain suddenly caught up, and he backed away from the door.
Kate strode out, and for a moment Guybrush thought he was going to be hit. "I can explain, I-" he blurted.
Kate's excited voice rode over him. "Thanks for letting me out of there! You'll have to excuse me if I don't stick around. I've got to find out who framed me!" She brushed past Guybrush and departed.
Guybrush wiped a thin film of sweat from his brow. She hadn't put a name to his face. Then he remembered he'd forgotten to ask about near-grog.
But all was not lost. On one of the shelves in the cupboard was a vanilla envelope. It had a nice large bulge in it.
Guybrush took it: "Guybrush Threepwood. Arrested for infractions too numerous to list. Claims she was framed," and opened the envelope. Inside was a plastic recyclable bottle of near-grog, full to the brim.
Yes.
Guybrush thanked whoever seemed to be looking over him. Things had gone wrong, that much was certain, but things were starting to go right. That third map piece was as good as his.

After a lot of walking, both above and below ground, Guybrush had finally reached the former offshore residence of Mister Rogers. Guybrush enjoyed coming here - the sea view was good, there was always a cool breeze gently ruffling the vegetation, it was peaceful. What a fat pirate with a drinking problem saw in it he had no idea.
Said fat pirate was not pleased to see Guybrush as he pushed the door open and stepped inside. "Back again, eh?" he said. "Let's get this over with."
Guybrush took a seat at the table. "I'll get us set up," said the pirate. He waddled into the kitchen.
Guybrush took another look around the squalor of the bachelor pad. In the corner, the dead, black skeleton of a tree growing in a barrel suddenly seemed perfect for what he had in mind.
"Excuse the boxes," said the pirate as he poured Guybrush's drink. "I haven't had time to put them all away. Especially with all the people trying to get into my house," he added pointedly. "I wish I'd never moved in. All these treasure hunters coming in all hours."
He appeared with the first mug. "Well, I guess you're serious about this contest," he conceded. "Here's your drink." The pirate waddled back into the kitchen.
Guybrush picked up the mug, tiptoed to the tree, and poured it onto the soil. "You ever tried booze from the West?" asked the pirate, his voice wafting in from the kitchen. "Tastes just like chicken, but it hurts as it goes down."
Guybrush quickly unscrewed the cap of the near-grog bottle, and poured in the near-grog. He put the cap back on, his fingers working overtime.
"Never could get enough of that stuff," said the pirate wistfully. "Then my supply ran out, and my girlfriend with it. So I started drinking rum to fill the gap in my life. I could guzzle it with the best of them."
Guybrush sat down at the table. Just in time, as the pirate reappeared with his mug. "Are you sure you don't want to back out?" he asked.
Guybrush was. "No, thanks. I'll be fine."
They stared at each other across the table, like chess players considering a move. "You drink first," said the pirate.
Guybrush picked up the mug, and raised it to his mouth. He smiled at the pirate, then started to drink.
Three gulps, four gulps, five gulps, and the last of the near-grog was gone. Guybrush thumped the mug on the table and stared back at the pirate. That the best you got? the stare said.
The fat pirate was unnerved. He'd never had a contest who could stomach his grog before.
"Now it's your turn," said Guybrush.
With an arm that trembled slightly the fat pirate took the mug and raised it to his lips. He started to drink.
The only sound in the room was that of liquid sloshing down his throat. All else was still. Even the sun had halted.
The fat pirate drained his mug and placed it, less forcefully than Guybrush, back on the table. He stared back at Guybrush.
Something happened to one of his eyes. It twitched, and suddenly his head smacked into the table, nosefirst. The pirate pulled his head back, a hand to his forehead. It slumped back down to hit the table, and he pulled it back once more.
For a moment there was equilibrium, as he held his head up in his meaty palm, then everything collapsed. The fat pirate fell off his chair, landing sprawled on his back on the floor. He was out cold.
Guybrush stood up, the triumphant winner. He stood there a moment, soaking up the imaginary applause, then took a look at the fat pirate to see if he really unconscious. He was. Guybrush dragged him into a corner, near the dead tree, and sat him against the wall. Now he could start searching the place.
The fat pirate said he didn't know of any treasure maps, and Guybrush was inclined to believe him. Mister Rogers wouldn't leave part of the map to Big Whoop just lying around. No, it would be concealed in some secret passage - in the floor, walls, or even ceiling.
Guybrush started at the bottom. He prowled through the cottage, staring at the floor, moving boxes and cupboards when he had to. The floor was a simple lattice of unvarnished two by four, and you could have easily fitted a concealed entrance into it.
When Guybrush finally found a trapdoor, it wasn't concealed at all. Near the liquor cabinet, there was a square in the floor about two feet across, built of narrower timbers. Just like the trapdoor he'd had when he was a kid - it looked like it belonged in a treehouse, not a cottage.
Guybrush tried to open it, and found he couldn't.
It wasn't only that it was built flush with the floor and there were no handholds - a decent crowbar could have sorted that out. No, something seemed to have wedged the trapdoor in place, something from below. Getting down wouldn't be so simple, after all.
Guybrush looked at the wall behind the trapdoor. This cottage was constructed of bricks. And yet, here the bricks seemed somehow more defined, regular, prominent. Guybrush traced the outline of one, near head height, with his finger, then pushed it.
The brick slid back a little into the wall. At the same moment, the trapdoor he was standing on suddenly gave way.
Guybrush fell into the space below. He caught a glimpse of a skeleton in a bathtub, wearing a pirate hat and holding a scrap of parchment. Then his body struck a plank of wood and was flung backward into the open mouth of a tunnel leading down.
Down the tunnel Guybrush tumbled, striking his flailing limbs on stone and dirt. It was utterly black, and just as suddenly Guybrush was flung back into the light, onto a pile of sand. He could hear the sea.
The pile of sand sloped down from the tunnel mouth, and Guybrush slid down, rolling. Not before he was within several feet of the incoming waves did Guybrush finally come to a stop.
He lay there a moment, spreadeagled on his back, and reflected how often he came to be in this position. Then he got up and looked to the tunnel mouth.
It emerged from the rocky bluff, almost directly below the cottage. Unfortunately for Guybrush, it was some distance up from the beach. The slope of sand would be hard enough to climb as it was, and even if he did manage to make it to the tunnel, climbing it would be pretty close to impossible.
But there had to be a way to get into that room with the skeleton. The plank of wood, for instance, almost seemed to have been put there to shoot him into the tunnel. Maybe he'd pressed the wrong brick.
But which was the right brick? Guybrush thought about this as he walked up the path to the cottage. He didn't know.

Walking to the front door, Guybrush glanced at the grotesque monkey statue. The plaque read, "When I see far, you are near." Guybrush could remember thinking: was this a clue? Now he thought a little more.
He had the telescope, Guybrush suddenly realised. He looked once more at the statue, and saw one of the outstretched arms was held up, curled, almost as if scanning the heavens.
Guybrush decided to try his hunch. He climbed onto the statue, using the bony legs as support, and levered the telescope into position in the monkey's hand, placed so that the monkey would be looking through it the correct way.
Out of the narrow end of the telescope came a narrow, bright beam of light, visible even in the early afternoon. It went in a straight line toward the cottage, and came to a stop at one of the closed window shutters. The placement of the beam had nothing to do with the sun - it was on the opposite side of the sky, for one. No, something reflective elsewhere was causing this.
Guybrush walked to the window to open the shutters. The light beam was allowed inside, and it got as far as a mirror frame.
Guybrush went inside, curious. Surely mirrors reflected light. Soon he saw the answer - the mirror frame was empty.
He needed some sort of reflective surface. Not only that, but a smooth reflective surface (curved reflective surfaces were not in short supply here). Guybrush trawled through the hut, and finally found a shiny tin tray. After a bit of buffing with a cloth, he could just about see his face in it.
Guybrush held the tray in the mirror frame, and found it would stay there upright. The light beam bounced off it, reflecting itself to a small brick in the wall behind the trapdoor.
Guybrush walked over, suddenly feeling the thrill of anticipation.
There was a faint scorch mark in the dust on the brick - sunlight hadn't been seen in a while. Guybrush hesitated, then pushed the scorch mark with his palm.
He had to stand on the trapdoor to do this - there was no other way. And as the brick slid smoothly into the wall, once more the floor gave way.

As before, he fell into a small antechamber. But this time, the plank was orientated so that instead of flinging him backward, it pushed him forward, toward the bathtub and the skeleton. He came to a rest in the ankle-high dust, and rose, coughing.
It was close and dank in here. The light, wavering in thin and grey from above, hardly penetrated the dust that had just been kicked up. Guybrush was left to speculate what lay on the opposite wall. It looked like large barrels, but he didn't feel like going over and investigating.
Here, however, directly under the trapdoor, he could see things a little better. There was a small chest with empty bottles on it. And, as he had seen before, a bathtub with a skeleton in it.
There was something familiar about this - a feeling of deja vu. Guybrush had no idea why.
Whatever, it was clear the skeleton had been there a long time. However he had died (Guybrush thought that this was probably Mister Rogers), if through alcohol abuse, stroke, whatever, there was no longer a trace. Not a scrap of flesh remained. There was something about the way the skull grinned, however, which suggested maybe alcohol had had something to do with it.
Guybrush wondered if this was the bathtub used to brew Mister Roger's grog. And suddenly he had a horrible idea as to why the grog was so hard to drink around here.
Abruptly Guybrush was thankful he had only drunk near-grog. Then he remembered the drink he'd taken yesterday, and nearly returned it to the surface then and there.
It eventually went down, but his stomach now felt uneasy, rolling and gaseous. This dust wasn't helping either. More was rising up, reducing his visibility still further.
Guybrush took a hesitant step toward the skeleton, and blew the dust out of his way. It cleared a little, and then Guybrush saw it.
His stomach troubles were forgotten. Guybrush took another, less hesitant step forward, and pulled the rolled up parchment from the clutching hand of the skeleton. The skeleton, despite being dried and rotten, didn't want to let go. So Guybrush was left holding the third map piece, still clutched by the remnants of Mister Roger's right hand.
Guybrush decided to let the hand stay there. It would make a good conversation piece.
Now it was time to get out of there, and Guybrush saw with dismay that it would have to be the tunnel. The trapdoor was just too far above to reach, even with the aid of the sloping wooden plank, which Guybrush now saw was painted red, and slightly bendy. It was fixed to a large metallic axle in the wall (obviously that was how it rotated), and was marked with faint, precise writing as being a Butt Slide�.
Guybrush walked past the Butt Slide� to the open tunnel. The surface, now he had time to see it, was smooth, and he could probably get down fairly easily if he slid down on his back.
Guybrush slid down on his back.

The third map piece! thought Guybrush as he walked back to the City. Nobody had ever gotten this far on the quest for Big Whoop - not even one piece. This would surely go down as one of the greatest feats of pirating ever.
The WANTED poster by the prison only raised his spirits further. To a list of infractions that took up the greater part of the page, had been added: "Obscuring important civic notices, impersonating a woman in order to evade prosecution, and two counts of unauthorised exiting from a penal institution." The way this was going, he'd soon be the most wanted pirate in the Caribbean, and that would do absolute wonders for his reputation.
His spirits high, Guybrush boarded the Jolly Rasta and told Captain Dread they were sailing for Scabb Island. "Now I know how the Tower of Hanoi feels," said Dread, walking morosely into the cabin.
Guybrush scratched his head. He didn't quite get that one. Eventually he decided it didn't matter a lot, and found a comfortable spot to have a nap.

Deep inside LeChuck's Fortress, blah blah blah blah...
Large doors. The fortress was full of large doors, but fewer were larger than the large door Largo was currently walking toward. It was so large that the doggy door, which was actually built on, was big enough for Largo to walk through without ducking his head.
Size was the general theme here. The passageway leading to the door was high, wide, and larger than most others in the fortress. The skeletons, hanging at regular intervals along the walls, were those of particularly large, and badtempered looking, people. Even the eldritch symbols and satanic writings had been carved in large print.
There was a reason for this size, and it had to do with authority. Just as the more money you make, the larger office you can afford, so here on the fortress space came with position. This part of the fortress was larger than any other because behind that door was the throne room of Captain G. P. LeChuck.
Largo was starting to wish he'd taken a less hazardous occupation, something like lettuce farming. Being part of LeChuck's fearsome entourage wasn't a problem per se, but just lately all he seemed to have was bad news.
He had nearly reached the door, and was reaching for the doggy door within, when he heard a shuffling noise behind him. Largo froze. He turned, like an ugly doll impaled on a turntable.
LeChuck was there, behind him. Creeping up on him, even. "Largo!" he barked.
Largo, his back to the door, felt very uncomfortable. Large as the corridor was, it seemed LeChuck filled it from side to side. He became aware he had very little room to manoeuvre. "Er," said Largo, stalling.
This was ridiculous. It was LeChuck who had summoned him, after all? Why summon someone to your presence then ambush them outside the door?
Afraid as he was, Largo was still a pirate, and he knew he had to assert some authority. He walked toward LeChuck, simultaneously taking territory and signalling submission - a difficult act to pull off. "You called for me?" he asked.
LeChuck did, and he looked annoyed. "Is it true that Guybrush Threepwood has found the third piece of the map to Big Whoop?"
So the old fool had his spies. Largo had always assumed this, but the lack of trust being shown in him was a little disturbing. "Ah... Yes, sir," he said. "I was about..."
LeChuck wouldn't let him finish. "Why did you not come and tell me yerself?"
"Well..." Largo had his reasons, but none he could possibly share with LeChuck. "I was trying to confirm that he really..."
LeChuck saw he wasn't going to get an honest answer. "Largo," he said in a voice that suggested he wanted to smile, but was having too much trouble controlling his temper. "You have been my trusted henchman for many years. But I won't hesitate to DRAG YOUR DISTENDED ENTRAILS FROM BEHIND MY SHIP IF YOU DO NOT BRING ME GUYBRUSH BEFORE HE FINDS THAT TREASURE!"

Scabb Island was the most isolated of the islands Captain Dread knew how to get to, so it was getting into late afternoon, the sun noticeably lower in the sky, when they finally made it to Woodtick. Guybrush was just waking up from his nap, so it was perfect timing. He told Captain Dread to wait for him, waved farewell, and walked happily along well-worn paths into the interior of the island.
His destination was the cemetery, on the opposite side of the island. Stan's crypt key bulged reassuringly in his back pocket.

It was still daytime, so technically the cemetery should have been less spooky. However, the sun had disappeared behind the trees that grew on the stony bluff overlooking the cemetery and the sea, and all the headstones were cast in a twilight shadow.
Guybrush walked under the gate, with its ship's anchor erected upside down, and passed the headstones before reaching the crypt. The doorway, covered in dust and cobwebs, looked old and thick.
Guybrush tried the crypt key in the bronze lock. At first it wouldn't move at all, so Guybrush tried shaking it around. Rust flakes dropped out of the keyhole, and finally the key turned. Something metallic clanked inside the door, and it slowly swung open.
Air came from the crypt, in misty threads that smelt of old paper. Guybrush pulled the door open - it creaked accusingly. This was another one for the infractions list.
The bluff's shadow made it impossible to see inside the crypt. All Guybrush saw were wide, smooth stone steps leading down into darkness. He hesitated, standing still at the doorway, head leaning in. There was no sound of movement.
Guybrush took a step in. The thick dust padded his movements, so there was hardly any noise at all. Slowly his eyes were adjusting to the gloom, and he could see that the crypt was much larger underground than the small hut indicated.
The steps stopped eight feet underground. Guybrush could see coffins all around him - on the floor, stacked against the wall, even suspended from the ceiling. One such coffin was open slightly, and two pallid feet hung from it, near Guybrush's head. Talk about your slipshod interments, thought Guybrush, moving quickly on.
The first coffin he came to was a short, squat coffin seemingly placed upside down. The quote, read Guybrush, "Old Bill the acrobat, he lies in here dead. He died like we buried him, propped up on his head." Not Rapp Scallion.
Guybrush stepped away from the coffin, away from the steps, and out into the open floor. The shadows were thick and menacing, and on all sides. Guybrush had the horrible sense that they were inhabited, by rats, spiders or assorted nasties. In the light, however, were five reasonably well-kept coffins, clustered in a group. These were the only coffins Guybrush could reach while staying in the light.
They all had inscriptions. The first, "'Happiness is a warm manatee.'" Next, "'Kiss me, I've got scurvy.'" The rest were, "'Aaaarrghh!', 'Mouthwash? We don't need no steenkin' mouthwash!', and 'Violets are blue, roses are red, we're coming aboard, prepare to eat lead.'"
Not a single name in sight. They all sounded like proper pirate quotes, and probably anybody who knew Rapp when he was alive would have been able to recognise them instantly. But this didn't help Guybrush much. He supposed he could open each coffin until he found the charred body, but what if more than one pirate here had died in flames? It wouldn't do to bring back to life the wrong pirate.
Guybrush remembered the voodoo lady's Big Whoop volume. He climbed back up the stairs, glad to get into the light, and outside searched through for all Rapp Scallion references.
None of them mentioned what he liked to yell running into battle, or said at the tea table. He did find, however, that "Aaaarrghh!" was a fairly common pirate saying. This was qualified in the bibliography, and Guybrush checked the references - a book called Famous Pirate Quotations.
Guybrush looked up. It looked like a trip to the Phatt City library was in order, and it was already getting dark.
He shut the book and started running.

It was dusk by the time Captain Dread made it into the Phatt City harbour. Guybrush didn't wait for the boat to be secured, but simply jumped onto the pier and dashed toward the library.
There weren't many people about, and yellow candlelight came from the windows. Yet, for some reason, Guybrush found the library was open. Swinging open the door, Guybrush walked inside. The light here came from candles, set on the top of shelves, and several small chandeliers. Even now, the librarian was lighting the last of them.
It gave the library a warm, cozy atmosphere, like curling up in front of the fireplace with a mug of cocoa and a good book. If he wasn't in such a hurry, Guybrush would have liked to spend a bit of time here.
As it was, he didn't even bother with the card catalog. "Do you have 'Famous Pirate Quotations?'" he asked the librarian as she lit the final candle. The librarian looked thoughtful as she recalled the normal place it was stored, then wheeled off into the shelves.
She was gone longer than usual. When she returned, it was empty handed. She wheeled to the front desk, and checked the records. "That book has been checked out by Governor Phatt," she said apologetically. "Anything else?"
"I guess not," said Guybrush, walking to the exit. He moped outside, but suddenly remembered who he was, and the list of infractions by the jail.
Governor Phatt had the book? Well then, he'd just have to go over there and take it.
Guybrush straightened up, with a grin on his face. That poster would be overflowing by the time he was finished.

Guybrush remembered well the path to the Governor's Mansion. It led him through tamed forests, tilled fields, and small settlements. As he drew near, however, the evidence of habitation thinned.
The Governor liked to be separated from the riffraff.
Guybrush was in the southernmost reaches of Phatt Island when he came to the gate. The gate, two tall bamboo doors, was set in a tiled, cream brick wall that ran all around the Mansion, from beach to beach, creating Phatt's own private seafront. Not that he ever used it.
The sign by the gate was fairly unequivocal: "Trespassers not bringing foodstuffs will be prosecuted." With mock disappointment, Guybrush realised he didn't have any food. All he had was the near-grog. Speaking of which, Guybrush took out the bottle, pulled off the cap, and chugged the remaining contents. Then he threw the empty bottle over the wall, and smiled an antisocial smile.
The bamboo gate was heavy, but not barred. Guybrush pushed it open, and walked inside the Governor's grounds. Governor Phatt was able to afford a gardener a lot better than Philbert, and the exquisitely manicured lawns were just one testament to this. Here at dusk-time, the sky view behind the mansion varying shades of purple and coconut-white, Guybrush could have been looking at a postcard.
He walked along the cobbled, polished stone path which led to the mansion. Governor Phatt didn't deserve a place like this. When he got Big Whoop, the first thing Guybrush was going to do was move in here.
There was a surprising absence of people, and security. Guybrush wandered up to the front door unseen, and found it unlocked. He entered.
Guybrush remembered this part of the mansion. He walked into the lobby, with its plush red rugs, pink velour couch and Renaissance portraits. There were passages on his left, and a winding staircase on his right. Guybrush wanted the staircase. And he would have taken it, but the tall guard with the stupid helmet was standing at the foot of the staircase, looking at him suspiciously.
You could almost hear the mental cogs ticking over. You could certainly see the lips move as he thought. Finally the guard spoke. "Hey, aren't you supposed to be in jail?" he asked, puzzled.
Guybrush had long ago worked out that the guard would never make the finals of the All-Caribbean Brains Trust competition, and decided to have a little fun. "Yes, but I broke out," said Guybrush.
The guard laughed. "That's a good one. Walt would have chewed you to bits."
Guybrush grinned. "All right, you got me. You must have confused me with my cousin Guybrush."
The guard agreed this sounded plausible. "The resemblance is uncanny," he commented.
Guybrush looked longingly at the staircase behind the guard. "Can I go upstairs?" he asked.
The guard shook his head. "I'm sorry, the Governor doesn't want to be disturbed while he's eating."
"When will he be finished eating?"
The guard laughed heartily. Guybrush took the hint. It seemed he'd have to get the guard out of the way through more devious means. "Look behind you - a three headed monkey!" he suddenly shouted.
The guard swung his head around. "Really?" There was, of course, nothing there. But the guard had been spurred into action by the possibility of obtaining more food for Governor Phatt. "I'd better fetch the cook!" he announced, striding away from the staircase and taking one of the many passages.
Guybrush walked up the staircase.

He said he'd be back. And he was.
Contrary to the guard's experience, Governor Phatt wasn't eating. He was, however, sleeping. Even as Guybrush watched him, the bell rang for another meal. Not even opening his eyes, Governor Phatt craned his head and opened his mouth. Food squirted into it, he chewed halfheartedly and then swallowed.
A Pavlovian nightmare, thought Guybrush. He walked into the room. It was dusk outside, but the interior was well lit by numerous lamps. Guybrush approved of this, as it would make his search so much easier.
There was a bookcase one side of the door. Guybrush looked at the titles, but they were all recipe books. The other side of the door was a bed table, with narrow drawers and laden with smelly, grey sheets that looked like they'd been unwashed for ten years.
There was something darkly comic about this place. By the bed was a washbasin, and a thick black hose that looked more suited to a fire extinguisher. There was food or something clogged in the basin. Everywhere, food. Even the Governor's massive four poster bed was covered in crumbs and condiments. One thing stood out, however - a red book lying on the blankets near Governor Phatt's feet. The cover said "Famous Pirate Quotations."
Guybrush smiled. The Governor was sleeping like a baby, or a baby elephant, and he'd be out of here with the book in seconds. Guybrush took hold of the cover and lifted it.
The Governor stirred a little. "And I promise cheese and chocolate sprinkles in every pot," he mumbled, nose twitching. Gradually he fell back into slumber again, but slowly, like a dinosaur sinking in a tar pit.
The near awakening of the Governor had unnerved Guybrush a little. He'd almost woken him up! It was as if the Governor had nerves in his leg so sensitive they could sense the removal of pressure three layers of blankets removed.
Guybrush wasn't stumped for long, however. He crossed to the Governor's bookshelf, took out a book which looked about the same size and weight as Famous Pirate Quotations, and returned to the bedspread. On reflection, it was perhaps too heavy, so Guybrush tore a few pages out. Holding this new book in his left hand ("101 Things To Do With A Chicken," of which 92 remained), Guybrush quickly snatched Famous Pirate Quotations in his right, transferring the weight smoothly.
The Governor stirred, almost imperceptibly, then slumped back into sleep.
Guybrush didn't feel like hanging around. He concealed the book and made for the door.

The sun had fully set by the time he got back to Phatt City. Fortunately, there was enough background light for Guybrush to have a look at his infractions list. Now he was charged with "Possession of library books not specifically checked out to oneself, and littering." He really had to frame this poster. It'd go well in the mansion's living room.
But he didn't have time now. Instead, Guybrush went for the Jolly Rasta, and told an unshaven Captain Dread to set sail for Scabb Island.
It was fully dark by the time he made it back, and the moon was even fuller than before. In the blue/white glow of the beach, Guybrush debarked and started walking south. The eventual destination was again the cemetery, but he had to make a halfway stop at the voodoo lady's.
The storm had deposited a lot of rain on Scabb Island the previous night, and merely getting to the coffin through the boggy ground was difficult. Once he was inside, however, things were made much easier by the thinner, less congealed swamp matter.
Through the grove of swamp trees he paddled, to the giant monkey head that was completely invisible from the shore. Not only had the rain increased the level of water in the swamp, but the tide was in, and small wavelets lapped the roots of mangroves.
The monkey head, glowing green from the torches in the swamp, dropped its jaw to allow his entrance. This never ceased to amaze Guybrush. In the coffin drifted, and up he was carried to the display room.
Guybrush stepped out of the coffin. He was intending to head straight to the voodoo lady, but looking at the display case a memory resurfaced. Ash2Life - he'd seen a jar of that in here, hadn't he?
Sure enough, there it was on the bottom shelf. A thin jar containing some grey dust, and marked Ash-2-Life� - The Uncremating Cream. Guybrush picked the jar up and took a closer look.
"Hey! That's just a display model!" said the voodoo lady. Guybrush put it down guiltily and came through the thick curtains to her presence. Such deference was universal practice in the Caribbean - the voodoo practitioner was the closest thing to royalty here.
"I've got the real stuff back here," she continued. "That's one of my most powerful potions. Brings the dead back to life."
"That doesn't sound quite proper," said Guybrush.
"Hey, I got a licence!" protested the voodoo lady.
It was enough assurance for Guybrush. "I'll take it!" he said. "I could do a lot of cool stuff with that."
The voodoo lady dampened his anticipations a little with her next comment. "There are some complications. It only works on ashes, and the resurrection is only temporary. Plus, you need to bring me a sample of the subject's ashes before I can whip up a batch."
"Boy, voodoo's complicated," said Guybrush. He didn't have a sample.
"Rules are rules," said the voodoo lady.
"Well, that's enough voodoo for me," said Guybrush, making his way back to the coffin. "I'll be back later."
"Maybe sooner than you think," said the voodoo lady. Guybrush paused.

Eventually, he was back at the cemetery. Guybrush was seriously considering buying some kind of motorised transport - all this walking was playing hell with his arches. Guybrush was glad he had gotten a nap in earlier this afternoon.
It was night-time here in the cemetery, like it was everywhere else. There are those who will argue that night-time in a cemetery, under a full moon, is more dangerous and terrifying than spending time there in pitch black. Guybrush disagreed with this notion - he liked plenty of light, especially where he was headed.
The crypt door had been left open by Guybrush, and some of the musty smell had dispersed. He descended the moonlit stairs into the quiet of the tomb.
Guybrush had memorised the Quotations before coming in - before leaving the Jolly Rasta, to be precise. There were thousands upon thousands of quotations, but fortunately an index was provided, and Guybrush had been able to track down all five.
"Happiness is a warm manatee," belonged to Captain Buttonhead. "Aaaarrghh!" was the pet saying of Barney Gout. "Violets are blue, roses are red, we're coming aboard, prepare to eat lead," was the labyrinthine callsign of Old Skunk-Eye. Fester Leach was often heard to exclaim "Mouthwash? We don't need no steenkin mouthwash!" And ownership of "Kiss me, I've got scurvy," was claimed by Rapp Scallion.
Guybrush knelt down in the grey dust and examined the coffins. He couldn't read in this light, not precisely. But he could gauge the approximate length of the inscription. Soon he was left with two coffins, which probably contained Captain Buttonhead and Rapp Scallion.
Guybrush peered closely at the inscriptions for several minutes, eyes bare inches from the coffin inscription. Finally, he decided the coffin nearest the stairs was Rapp's.
He told himself not to be afraid. He'd done far worse to Largo's grandfather two days ago.
Guybrush gripped the lid of the coffin, and heaved upward. It slid aside, with a sound like two stone blocks scraping over each other. The sound cut through the dead crypt air, and there were small chittering and fluttering sounds from the cracks in the walls.
"Hmmm," said Guybrush as he looked inside. The fire had been intense. Not even a skeleton remained. All that was left of Rapp Scallion was about half a kilogram of brown ash, dumped on the base of the coffin.
Did he have to do this? Yes, he did. Guybrush reached a hand into the silty mass and took a handful of ash. He slipped it into his pocket and made for the exit.

After a lot of walking and rowing, Guybrush was back in the lofty reaches of the voodoo's lady monkey head hut. He walked straight to her. "Back again, Mr Threepwood?" she queried.
"Hey, I've got some ashes for that potion," said Guybrush, taking his hand from his pocket. It held the grey silt of Rapp Scallion.
"Bring them to me," said the voodoo lady. She took them in her hand, and tipped them onto a square of paper. "Now, there's only one small problem." Lesser characters would have looked sheepish at this point, but the voodoo lady was higher bred. "I forgot the recipe."
"What?!" said Guybrush.
"It's been a long time," she said. "I don't have that cookbook anymore."
Guybrush to the rescue. He knew that book at the Phatt City library would be useful. "I've got a book of voodoo recipes!" he cried.
"Good!" said the voodoo lady. "How many crab scalps does it say to use?"
Guybrush took out The Joy of Hex and found the recipe. "Thirteen!"
"Good," said the voodoo lady with satisfaction. She reached behind her chair and brought out a small thin jar with gold ashes in it. "That's just what I thought when I whipped up this experimental batch." She unscrewed the lid and tipped Rapp's ashes into the jar. The lid went back on, and she shook the jar fiercely above her head, muttering in a low, dark tongue.
She stopped, and gave the jar to Guybrush. "Thanks," said Guybrush.
"Remember, just a dab'll do ya," said the voodoo lady, obviously a warning not to use too much. Guybrush took that to mind as he walked back to the coffin.

Back at the cemetery, after more walking...
Guybrush stood above Rapp's open coffin, the jar of Ash-2-Life� open and ready to spill. He didn't often feel nervous, but right now he felt like an elastic band stretched to its limit. Lawbreaking was one thing, but this was going against Nature. The consequences of such a dire action could be very dramatic indeed.
He was momentarily indecisive, then decided that if he was going to die, he might as well die rich. He tipped the jar.
Small scales of gold floated down on the coffin, like snowflakes from another dimension. Where they struck the ashes the flakes simply vanished into the brown silty mass, like bubbles bursting.
The last of the golden flakes disappeared. For a moment nothing happened at all. Then protuberances started to appear on the ashes, small and ephemeral at first, as if something was inside and kicking at the barriers. Suddenly, like a proving loaf extended a hundred fold, the ashes expanded, upward and lengthward. It was soundless.
The next stage happened extremely quickly. One moment there was a long loaf of brown ashes in the coffin, the next a short, stocky skeleton was grinning at him, its arms resting on the sides of the coffin. For a moment the metamorphosis paused, then the next stage rocketed forward. The skeleton writhed, and flesh somehow curled onto it. The flesh was green, and looked rubbery. Clothes followed, first a pair of orange and purple boxers then a yellow shirt and a brown cook's apron, which puffed out as the grog gut materialised. Last of all, a white chef's hat curled out of Rapp's skull.
He wondered if this would go on his list of infractions, maybe, "Reanimating dead persons within city limits."
Guybrush became aware Rapp Scallion was looking at him - how he could do this without eyeballs Guybrush didn't know. But the gaze was very uncomfortable. "Whew!" said Rapp. Guybrush had expected the voice to resonate with dank, grave overtones, laden with the weight of ages uncountable, rendered incomprehensible by the passage through the gateway of death, and similar appropriate effects. But the voice coming from Rapp's resurrected body was perfectly normal, and somewhat relieved. "That was a close one!" he was saying. "If I didn't have my flame-resistant apron on, I would have been killed!"
Guybrush started to say something, and stopped. How could he break the news to Rapp that he was dead? Bringing someone back from the dead merely to inform them gleefully of the fact sounded like something satanic psychopaths did in their spare time.
"Uh... where exactly did you buy that apron, Rapp?" asked Guybrush gently.
"Stan's Previously Owned Restaurant Supply, of course," said Rapp. "Why do you ask?"
"No reason," said Guybrush hastily. "Close one, alright. Say, about that Big Whoop deal..."
Rapp perked up at the mention of Big Whoop. He laughed. "Big Whoop? I'll take that secret with me to the grave!"
Guybrush sighed. "I got some bad news for you, Rapp..." he said.
"Huh?" said Rapp.
"Look, Rapp - you're dead."
"What?!" said Rapp.
"You're deader than dirt," elaborated Guybrush. "Your life is well done. You've shivered your last timber. You're the pre-cook at the pearly gates. You're two weeks past the expiration date. You're-"
"I'm... dead?" said Rapp, shocked.
"Cold as leftover pork chops," continued Guybrush. "Stiff as a frozen foot-long. Green as year-old pickle relish. Crusty as a stale bun. Sealed up and covered with goo like a canned ham. Brown-"
"But, I'm not ready to die!" wailed Rapp. "I feel my soul is not at peace. There is something I must do before I pass on!"
"Pass along your part of the map to Big Whoop?" asked Guybrush hopefully.
"No," said Rapp bluntly. "I have this nagging feeling I left the gas on in my restaurant. It's driving me crazy."
"Did I mention I'm looking for Big Whoop?" asked Guybrush.
Rapp considered his options. "You can have my piece of the map to Big Whoop-"
"Oh, you have it with you? Great!"
"But," continued Rapp, "only if you do me a favour first. Could you check the gas in my weenie hut for me?"
"What do you care about it?" asked Guybrush. "You're dead!"
"Pleeeease?"
"But it's on the other side of the island!"
"Pleeeeeeeeeeeease?"
Guybrush shrugged his shoulders. "Okay, I'll check the gas for you."
"Thanks. Here's the key." Rapp reached into the folds of his apron, and took out a small gold key. He held it up to Guybrush, resting in his green palm.
Guybrush had never touched a dead person before. As he took the key, the hand felt a lot like rubber.
With the key in Guybrush's hand, Rapp suddenly evaporated. His body vanished, leaving behind the silty ashes that were there in the first place.
Somehow, Guybrush had always thought his first conversation with a dead person would be more interesting. He started climbing the steps, a little puzzled.

As Guybrush knew, Rapp Scallion's Steamin Weenie hut was right on the other side of the island, on the northern beach near Woodtick. It was a long walk, but Guybrush was starting to get used to these treks. Plus, there was something about Scabb Island that invigorated him. It was a pirate island, and pirates were always at their best at night-time.
He didn't see too many people on his journey. He didn't see anybody. Everyone was probably in Woodtick, partying away because Largo was gone. He could almost feel the vibe from here.
The beach, when he finally reached it, was calm and secluded. And there were two familiar figures sitting on logs round a campfire...
Guybrush sat down, toasting his feet by the crackling fire, and looked at Bart and Fink.
"He's back," said Fink.
Guybrush knew where this story should start. "Well, you guys can stop worrying about Largo," he said modestly. "He's history."
"Oh, really?" asked Fink. They hadn't been into Woodtick recently. "He must have finally got that nasty letter I wrote."
"You sure can write a mean letter, Fink," said Bart.
"Any marshmallows left?" asked Guybrush.
"Marshmallows?" asked Bart. "We don't have any marshmallows."
He could have fooled Guybrush. What was that white, fluffy thing he was roasting over the fire on a long stick, then?
"That's the stuffing for under my eyepatch," said Fink.
"We're just sterilising it," said Bart.
"We're pirates, Guybrush, not girl scouts," explained Fink evenly. He took another swig of grog.
"Do you guys know any piratey songs?" asked Guybrush. Yes, he did have another Big Whoop map piece to find, but it felt good sitting here by the fire with his pirate friends. They could almost have been on a voyage.
"Sure!" said Bart. "Fink here knows a million! Go ahead, Fink! Sing that one about Scabb Island."
"Oh, all right," said Fink, smiling. He started tapping his foot, and sang.

'Oh, I'd rather be a pirate on Scabb,
Than a scab on a pirate.
And if you listen to me gab,
I'll tell you why I admire it.
Oh, the people aren't too friendly,
And the weather's not the best.
The lodging's too expensive,
And Largo was quite a pest.
But the thing I like about Scabb
Is what it hasn't got:
No mayor or police force,
Or jail in which to rot.'

Bart was sniffing. "That was beautiful," he said, reaching for a hankie. Guybrush nodded his approval. It certainly resonated with his experiences of the island.
And Fink didn't have too bad a voice. There was no music, but Guybrush could just imagine the jolly accordion and harmonica backing he deserved. He'd started tapping along with Fink halfway through, the song was so infectious. Like Scabb, you might say.
"Know any more piratey songs?" he asked.
"OK," said Fink genially, "here's one about a pirate, his parrot, and a tragic day at sea..."
Bart looked apprehensive. "You're not going to sing 'Polly the Squawker lives in Davy Jones' locker,' are you? You know that one always makes me cry."
Fink nodded, remembering. "Sorry, Bart."
Bart brightened. "Hey, let me try one!"

'Oh, I wish I could par-lay
Some French with Governor Marley
I'd say to her, "Voo-lay-voo?"
She'd say-'

"Okay, that's enough," said Guybrush sharply. "No songs about Governor Marley."
"Looks like Guybrush is still carrying a torch for the Governor," said Fink with a sly expression on his face.
"Too bad he can't even talk to her in English!" laughed Bart. Guybrush looked at them, a little hurt, then worked out they were just having fun. He had a laugh as well.
"Know any other piratey songs?" asked Guybrush when the mirth had calmed down.
"Sorry, Mr Sensitive," said Fink. "The only other songs I know are dirty ones about Governor Marley."
"Me too," said Bart. He thought. "Well, except for..."
Bart launched into the quintessential pirate song.

'One hundred bottles of beer on the wall!
One hundred bottles of beer!
You take one down, pass it around,
Ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall!'

Bart continued down the choruses, smiling broadly. He had a strong, hearty voice, which suited the song down to a tee. Every now and then Guybrush or Fink would call out a new number, like 62 or 4352, and Bart would start again. It was almost like being at the pub.
Time passed. Slowly, the orange embers of the fire disintegrated. Guybrush didn't want to tear himself away, but it was getting well into the night. Fink and Bart were by this stage singing through the verses together, and Guybrush had momentarily been forgotten. He stood up, and walked behind the two pirates to the Steamin Weenie hut.
The Steamin Weenie hut, as Guybrush had noted earlier, looked like a thin lighthouse which had broken off about ten feet up. It was made from wood, possibly the washed up remains of sunken ships. It also had a precarious location amongst the rocks out in the bay, only reachable by a short, narrow strip of sand.
There were barrels around the side of the hut, and signs laid out on the sand. The place looked in urgent need of repair.
The front of the hut contained a ledge and the order window, which was barred shut. Guybrush tried around the side near the barrels, and found a door. The key fitted into the lock perfectly.
The door swung open, the hinges creaking furiously. Guybrush walked inside, and saw Rapp was correct.
One side of the hut, where the brick chimney had been constructed, contained a large oven and fat fryer. The oven itself was gummed shut with pork fat and grease, but the fat fryer and the pipes leading to it burned with a steady yellow flame, which smelt like rancid butter melting. There was a faint hissing noise.
Guybrush walked across the chequered black and white lino to the oven. There were four control knobs here, which governed the temperature of the stove elements, and all four were turned up. Underneath them was small writing, exhorting Rapp to "Remember to Turn Off!!" Guybrush shut them off, one by one.
The flames flickered, shrunk, and winked out. The inside of the hut, which had been lit with yellow and warmed from the flames, started to cool gradually. Guybrush walked back outside and locked the door.
He hoped Rapp would be pleased.

Somehow, each time he returned to the crypt the stench of death had lessened. Perhaps the fresh air had something to do with it.
He resurrected Rapp a second time. The process took five seconds, and this time Rapp immediately knew where he was. "Well?" he said.
Guybrush wasn't quite sure what to say - the stakes were high here. If he told him he'd turned it off, Rapp wouldn't have any incentive to give him the map. But if he held back, Rapp might get suspicious and not give him the map.
"You were right," Guybrush finally admitted. "The gas was on. I turned it off."
"Thanks," said Rapp gratefully. "I guess where I'm going I won't need this map anyway."
Guybrush instantly admitted Rapp into the All-Caribbean Genius Hall of Fame.
Rapp opened his mouth wide, and from it came the curled end of a map. The map flowed out of his mouth like water, uncurling into a square as it did so. It came to a rest on his chest. Rapp picked up the map and handed it to Guybrush.
Guybrush took it, grateful he didn't have to touch dead flesh again. "Thanks."
"Now I can rest in the folds of the earth," said Rapp reverently. "Like a Steamin Weenie in a soft, fresh bun. Ahhhhh...."
Guybrush liked the metaphor.
Rapp did too, for he grinned at Guybrush and gave him the thumbs up. And as he evaporated back into the ashes from whence he had come, the thumb was last to go.
Guybrush closed the lid of the coffin, and walked up the stairs. He felt strange.
Outside, he could bear it no longer. Guybrush knelt down in the dirt, and took out the four map pieces. The light wasn't good, but soon he was able to make a coherent image out of them.
He was breathing hard and the heart rate was high. The complete map to Big Whoop! These pieces of paper hadn't been in contact since they were first split up. Their coming together was like a conjunction of planets.
Unfortunately for Guybrush, some essential information was missing. There was the requisite dotted black line, and a pleasingly large X. However, nowhere was the name of the island given.
This was an unexpected complication. Guybrush had seen quite a few islands in the Caribbean. But none seemed to match this outline he had before him. If only he had a map expert with him.
Guybrush remembered Wally. He did have a map expert, at least one based in Scabb Island and readily available. And Wally was looking for Big Whoop too - he'd be glad to help.
Immediately Guybrush gathered up the map pieces and set, at full speed, for Woodtick. He didn't want to have to wait a second longer than necessary...

LeChuck's Fortress, etc.
Once again, Largo had bad news. He was really getting annoyed with this Guybrush fellow. He should have chucked him in the sea when he had the chance.
Still, at least LeChuck hadn't ambushed him in front of the throne room. Largo had been allowed to enter, to see LeChuck standing by the throne, brooding.
Largo looked around. He always felt small in here, but perhaps that was the point. An example of this showiness was a huge key hanging by the throne, perhaps two feet long. It was the main key to the prison cells and there was no need for it to be so big, but there you go. Showiness.
"LeChuck, sir..." began Largo obsequiously. "I've got good news and I've got bad news." This was always a good way to break bad news to somebody - pretend it was evened out by a bit of good news. "The bad news is that Guybrush has found the last part of the map to Big Whoop."
LeChuck took a menacing step toward Largo. Largo realised he'd brushed into things too quickly, and took a fearful step back. "Ah... the good news is that I've got a plan that can't fail."
This was the trick. Having a plan was not news at all, it was a plan. But if LeChuck believed it was news, then all to the good.
LeChuck was not completely fooled, and took another shuffling step of dread toward Largo. Largo backed away, not willing to get any closer to LeChuck. "Ah... you see... He must take the map to a cartographer to have it deciphered. I'll head him off before he gets there."
At last, LeChuck spoke. "If your plan fails..." he spluttered angrily.
Largo almost visibly sighed with relief. LeChuck was behind him. "It will not, your voodoo lordship," he said vehemently.

Woodtick.
Walking over the bridge into the town, Guybrush could hear the newly reanimated life of the town. Windows were being broken somewhere. People were singing. Grog was splashing on wooden bridges and cobblestones, and burning holes in the floor. Just Guybrush's luck to have to visit one of probably five people not joining in.
The noise was dampened somewhat inside Wally's hut, despite the open air roof. Guybrush was immediately stricken with pity, and a little guilt, to see Wally was still sitting at his table, groping feebly for his monocle. There was something cute about little carrot-top, that just made him feel good.
Guybrush recalled taking the lens from the Phatt City library lighthouse model, and now he gave the small round thing to Wally's probing hand.
Wally immediately took firm hold of it, and put it in his left eye. He squinted, blinked, and then looked relieved. "Ah, that'll work. Thanks." He bent his head to the table and started working on his maps again.
Guybrush had been hoping for a little more thanks than that. Then he realised he'd taken the monocle in the first place, so things cancelled out.
"Hi Wally," prompted Guybrush.
Wally looked up. "Oh. Hello, Mr Brush."
Guybrush had been anticipating this moment all the way back from the cemetery. He reached into his coat pocket, and showed a piece of the map to Big Whoop to Wally.
Wally took in his small, stubby hands and stared at it. "What's this?" he asked evenly. "The map to Big Whoop? Hmmm... only looks like part of a map."
"I've got the rest right here," said Guybrush, tossing the three other parts onto the table beside Wally. Wally's unflappably calm reaction was a little off-putting. Right now, he was flattening the map and sliding the pieces into place.
"Hmmm," he said. "Very interesting..."
Guybrush could only guess at the details Wally was observing - himself, he wasn't good with maps. "Could you put it all together into a map for me?" he asked.
"I'll do it for you if you run an errand for me," said Wally.
Guybrush was getting a little sick of these assignments. He was a pirate, not an errand boy.
"Go to the International House of Mojo," instructed Wally, "and ask the fortune teller if my love potion's ready."
Guybrush should have smelt trouble then and there. Rule one - never, ever, ever, and not even then, split up. They'll cut you where you stand if you stand alone. It is well known that life imitates art, and for that reason groups should never split up to explore a dangerous, unknown area; you should never start babbling about how you're really looking forward to retiring, settling down and spending more time with the family at your beach hideaway in Maui to your Special Forces friend, sitting in a bar with a shady fellow in a leather jacket and wiry moustache; never be the black guy in a party of five; and never ever go outside in a swimsuit, because you're bound to be attacked.
Guybrush should have known this. He should have recalled the vast shadow of LeChuck, and realised that if they didn't stick together they didn't stand a chance. And even if all this escaped his mind, he should at least have considered the possibility that Wally might do a runner with his map.
But no such thoughts troubled his mind. Truth be told, Guybrush was so used to carrying out orders and requests from others that he no longer thought about it much. "Okay," said Guybrush.
"I'll try to have this done for you when you get back," said Wally as Guybrush left.

It was midnight, a portentous time, when Guybrush found himself once more paddling the coffin into the giant monkey. This hidden entrance was all well and good and very impressive, but occasionally he found himself wishing for a nice paved path.
Inside, he got out of the coffin quickly and entered the voodoo lady's room.
She sat on her throne, staring evenly at Guybrush (did she never sleep?). "Back again, Mr Threepwood?"
"Wally sent me to pick up some love potion," said Guybrush. He'd been confused about this. As far as Guybrush had seen, the only woman on Scabb Island was the voodoo lady. Female pirates, for some reason, didn't come to Scabb. Then Guybrush realised that with competition that fierce, Wally would probably need some sort of magical advantage.
The voodoo lady, luckily, knew what he was talking about. "Oh, OK." She reached for a pale pink bag sitting by the throne, and gave it to Guybrush. "Tell him I said to enjoy, but be careful. It's powerful stuff."
The contents were a small black bomb, and a book of matches. Guybrush wondered, idly, if it would work on Elaine.
"Wouldn't want that little guy getting hurt-" continued the voodoo lady. Suddenly, she stopped. "Wait!" she cried, staring into the middle distance intently. "I just felt a sudden disturbance in the Force. As if a tiny, tiny voice just called out in fear - and then hastily scratched a message on a table. I think Wally's in trouble, and I think LeChuck has something to do with it!"
"Uh-oh," said Guybrush. He realised, much too late, that they should never have split up. "I'd better go check." Quickly he ran to the coffin. Down they descended, into the swamp, and then Guybrush was paddling furiously, pushing through the hanging boughs and thick bulrushes.
He reached the shore in record time, and jumped out of the coffin. Here he noticed something unusual. On the shore, near the edge, was a large wooden crate. Guybrush walked over (it came up to his neck) and read the label.
"To: The Ghost Pirate LeChuck.
c/o LeChuck's Island Getaway & Spa�
Contents: Misc. Voodoo Supplies."
The label was deeply puzzling. The voodoo lady wouldn't send LeChuck miscellaneous voodoo supplies, would she? They were sworn enemies, surely.
He couldn't spend any more time thinking about it. He had to get to Wally.

The feeling of dread, which had first come as the voodoo lady had her vision, had intensified as he neared Woodtick. But it was one thing to feel dread, and quite another to see it confirmed.
When he rushed inside Wally's hut, it was empty. Wally was a map nerd - he would never have left it on his own.
"Where'd he go?" said Guybrush. It was a stupid thing to say, but he was in no fit mental state for witty commentary.
His hastily searching eyes saw no Wally. But they picked up, as if by magnetism, some small dark scrawls on the table. Guybrush walked toward them, sick with apprehension.
It just said, "LeChuck."
"Oh, no!" cried Guybrush dramatically. "LeChuck's kidnapped the cartographer! The poor little guy..." The real import of what had happened struck home. "Hey! He has my map!"
His first instinct was that he go to the voodoo lady's for help. It was enough to get his feet moving. None of these revelling pirates would be any good. But that wasn't the main problem - the main problem was that Guybrush had no idea where LeChuck was. It was no good getting help together if he couldn't track down Wally.
Maybe the voodoo lady would know where he was, he thought as he dashed along the path to the swamp. But even if she did, how could he get there? Captain Dread didn't know the way. And voodoo magic, good as it was, wasn't hot on matter transfer.
His mind was so occupied with this trauma that it wasn't until he finally reached the swamp that he remembered the crate. Of course - there had been something on the label about LeChuck, hadn't there?
The crate, which Guybrush investigated, was apparently destined for LeChuck's island. How had it gotten there? And how was it going to be taken?
Guybrush had an idea on how to get to LeChuck. It wasn't a good idea. He didn't like it. But it would have to do.
Guybrush gripped the lid of the crate. It wasn't fastened very securely, for he was able to open it easily. Guybrush tried to look inside and see the contents, but the moon wasn't bright enough. Just a dark shadow which could contain anything.
Guybrush was only partially consoled by the fact that, if the contents had anything to do with voodoo, they were probably dead. He swung his legs over the lip of the crate and fell into the box. The lid slammed shut, casting Guybrush into darkness.
He landed on something soft, and squashy. Guybrush lay there on his back, frozen with terror. Something seemed to be moving below him.
Worse than that. It was slithering.

Fred and Rich, two otherwise completely unremarkable labourmen, were pulling together the last of their transport run to LeChuck's Island.
There was only one more crate to get on the truck. Fred, the one with the absurd red hair and brown overalls, was a bit concerned with the size. "Hey, Rich!" he called out. "I could use a hand with this one."
Rich, a guy in the same brown overalls but with less conspicuous black hair, joined Fred on the other side of the crate.
"Looks like another box of live snakes," said Fred.
They could hear muffled thumps coming from inside the crate. "Sounds like it, too," said Rich.
"Well, let's get it on the truck," said Fred. They bent down and lifted it into the air.

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