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The Secret of Monkey Island

PART 1: THE THREE TRIALS

It was a long, surprisingly exhausting climb down before Guybrush found himself walking between the first houses. Part of the exhaustion stemmed from the concentration it took to walk down a stone staircase five feet wide, steep, winding, and with sheer drops to either side. Guybrush wiped some sweat from his brow, but was still in good spirits. After all, he was about to talk to the Pirate Leaders. The future seemed filled with possibilities.
The path beneath his feet had widened, and now Guybrush found himself wandering amongst the buildings of the village, lit from within by yellow candelabra light. A poster was tacked to the wall of one particularly large sea shanty, which Guybrush stopped to read. "Re-elect Governor Marley. 'When there's only one candidate, there's only one choice.'" A picture of Governor Marley was provided - she had a thick mane of red hair and looked about thirty. Guybrush liked the poster, he liked the slogan, but most of all he seemed to like the Governor. "With a face like that, how could she lose?" he asked, walking forward again. Now his shoes were clacking over the town pier. The sea beneath was shallow, and placid. Looking forward, Guybrush could see a large double story building, and hear faint shouts. He grinned.
Upon reaching the structure, he found it to be the Scumm Bar. There was a small brown door, which Guybrush opened. Inside was a scene of merriment the likes of which he'd only dreamed about.
The tables were jammed together, and jammed full. The air was at least 80 percent smoke. One pirate was swinging happily on the chandelier a couple of metres above, singing the song about Merlin the Happy Pig. Every now and then someone would thump their fist on the table, and someone else would say "Ar!" In the corners, pirates with eyepatches and skull tattoos were passed out or passing out.
No one had yet remarked on Guybrush's entrance. He looked around for someone to talk to. There were a couple lying on the floor by the door, but they were sleeping, and Guybrush didn't think it wise to wake a sleeping pirate. Eventually, Guybrush spotted a large pirate in a red overcoat, who didn't seem to be talking to or yelling at anyone in particular. Guybrush made his way over and sat down. The pirate raised his eyebrows a little at his entrance, but made no threatening moves. Guybrush felt his spirits rise further.
"Ahoy there, stranger," greeted the pirate in a deep, gruff voice. "New in town?"
Guybrush struggled for something to say. For one thing, his attention was held by the immense, dark beard the pirate had cultivated. That, and the triangular black hat with the yellow band that he wore. "My name's Guybrush Threepwood," said Guybrush. "I'm new in town."
"Guybrush Threepwood?" exclaimed the pirate incredulously. "Ha ha ha!! That's the stupidest name I've ever heard!" He beamed at Guybrush. There was the sudden soft, yet unmistakable, sound of someone vomiting quietly in a corner.
"I don't know ... I kind of like 'Guybrush,'" said Guybrush. "What's your name?"
"My name is Mancomb Seepgood," said the pirate proudly. "So what brings you to Melee Island™ anyway?" He quaffed the remaining contents of his mug.
"I want to be a pirate!" said Guybrush enthusiastically.
"Oh really?" said Mancomb. "You should go talk to the important looking pirates in the next room. They're pretty much in charge around here. They can tell you where to go and what to do."
"Thanks," said Guybrush. "Do you know where I could find the Governor?" Behind them, a large cheer went up - a winner had been found for the quaffing competition.
"Governor Marley? Her mansion is on the other side of town. But pirates aren't as welcome around her place as they used to be."
"Why not?" asked Guybrush, curious. "I'm welcome wherever I go."
Mancomb leaned forward, conspiratorial. "Well, the last time she had a pirate over for dinner, he fell in love with her." Guybrush nodded. "It's made things rather uncomfortable for everybody."
"How's that?"
"Well, there's a whole big story about what happened next. But I don't believe a word of it. Estevan there over at the other table might tell you about it. Yeah, just there. You can't miss him. He takes the whole thing seriously." Mancomb leered. "Very seriously."
"Who was the pirate?" asked Guybrush.
"It was none other than the fearsome pirate LeChuck," said Mancomb. "And it looks like my grog's going flat, so you'll have to excuse me, friend. Nice talking to you. Have fun on Melee Island™."
"Goodbye," said Guybrush, and stood up. He looked around the pub and saw behind a faded and stained pair of red curtains a dimmer room. That must be where the important pirates were.
Sitting at a table in front of the curtains was a pirate in a dark black overcoat, staring into the middle distance and looking moody. Guybrush guessed this was Estevan. He walked over, ducked a couple of inaccurate darts, and sat down at a respectful distance. The pirate looked up, annoyed.
"What are you looking at me for?" he exclaimed.
Guybrush swallowed, his tongue suddenly tied. It wasn't so much the fearsome, Western outlaw look of the man which had floored him, but a vertical scar six inches long which ran through his right eye. Or what would have been his right eye, had his right eye not been made of glass.
"I'd like to introduce myself," said Guybrush slowly. "My name's Guybrush."
"Yeah, so what?"
"Can you tell me the story about this LeChuck guy?"
Estevan's eyes widened, and his jaw dropped. "LeChuck?! He's the guy that went to the Governor's for dinner and never wanted to leave. He fell for her in a big way, but she told him to drop dead.
"So he did. Then things really got ugly."
Guybrush didn't like the sound of this LeChuck guy. "How did things get ugly?"
"He tried to impress the Governor by sailing off to find the Secret of Monkey Island™. But a mysterious storm came up and sank his ship, leaving no survivors. We thought that was the end of the fearsome pirate LeChuck. We were wrong." He took a deep chug of grog.
Monkey Island™ ... the name rang faint bells in Guybrush's mind. A mysterious, far off, deserted island, haunted by ... something he didn't remember. "What is the Secret of Monkey Island™?" he asked Estevan.
"Only LeChuck knows," said Estevan in a low voice. "He still sails the waters between here and Monkey Island™. His ghostly ship is an unholy terror upon the sea." He looked around at his drunken companions derisively. "That's why we're all in here and not out pirating."
Guybrush followed his gaze. He didn't understand Estevan - the pirates seemed to be having a pretty good time. "Where can I get a drink?" he asked.
"A drink?" Estevan considered. "You could wait for the cook to notice you, but that could take all day. Just find a mug and sneak into the kitchen. That's what we all do."
"What happened to your eye?" asked Guybrush innocently.
"Well, I was putting in my contact lenses when - hey, wait a second! That's none of your business!"
"Sorry to bother you," said Guybrush.
"Right," nodded Estevan. Guybrush looked around for a mug, but unfortunately they all seemed to be occupied by hands. He walked past Estevan and pulled the curtain back. A dog was sitting next to the curtain, with a bone in its mouth. It looked at him with a gaze which suggested he was smarter than Guybrush was.
The room behind was smaller, but much less crowded. Here there was just the single table, and a fireplace in the corner. Occupying the table were three loud, well dressed, important looking pirates who were drinking a steady supply of grog. Guybrush wandered over.
The middle pirate, a short rotund fellow with a beard and a green coat, stopped him with a fierce glance. "What be ye wantin', boy?" he bellowed, his head shaking with either some kind of muscular stutter or the advanced stages of alcoholism.
"I want to be a pirate," said Guybrush firmly.
The three pirates looked at him. The left pirate, a coarse, dirty man with a sodding big beard, looked sceptical. "So what?" he asked, his dreadlocked beard waving wildly in the smoky air.
"Why bother us?" asked the short pirate.
The pirate on the right, a taller, more manicured person who had the air of someone more highly cultivated, begged to differ. "Hey, don't forget we're short on help because of this whole LeChuck thing." His head whipped around as he spoke, like a trapped ferret.
For a group of pirates sitting down for some serious drinking, they were a surprisingly energetic bunch. Either that, or they had some kind of nervous tic virus.
"So?" said the dirty pirate.
"So," continued the aristocrat, his upheld mug shaking like a mosquito in a hurricane, "no pirates means no swag, and no swag means no grog, and we're getting dangerously low on grog."
"Hmmm," said the dirty pirate. He looked at Guybrush through a pair of jiggling eyes. "Do you have any special skills, boy?"
Guybrush puffed out his chest proudly. "I can hold my breath for ten minutes!"
"Well," said the dirty pirate slowly, "all right. But you don't become a pirate just by asking."
The aristocrat spoke up. "You'll have to go through-
"THE THREE TRIALS!!" roared the pirates in unison, heads shaking wildly. Copious quantities of grog spilled onto the table where, Guybrush observed, they started to smoke.
"Er - what three trials are these?" asked Guybrush. He hadn't been prepared for this."
"There are three trials every pirate must pass," intoned the middle pirate, his neck looking dangerously unstable.
"You must master the sword," said the dirty pirate.
"-and the art of thievery-"
"-and the quest," finished the aristocrat, whose collar was getting more soaked with every gulp of grog he tried to swallow.
"The what?" yelled the middle pirate.
"Treasure huntin', ya sea urchin!"
"Right," said the middle pirate. There was a pause as he got his head on an even keel. "You must prove yourself in each of these three areas: swordplay, thievery, and, er, treasure huntery; then return with proof that you've done it."
The dirty pirate fixed a gimlet stare on Guybrush. "And then you must return and drink grog with us!" he said emphatically.
"GROG!! GROG!! GROG!!" roared the pirates, thumping their mugs on the table. Some of it spilled on Guybrush. It felt strangely tingly.
"What's in that grog stuff anyway?" he asked, rubbing his skin.
"Grog," said the middle pirate," is a secret mixture which contains one or more of the following: kerosene, propylene glycol, artificial sweeteners, sulphuric acid, rum, acetone, red dye #2, scumm, axle grease, battery acid, and/or peperoni. As you can imagine, it's one of the most caustic, volatile substances known to man."
"The stuff eats right through these mugs," said the dirty pirate. "The cook is losing a fortune replacing them."
"HAR HAR HAR!!" roared the pirates, slapping each other on the back and thumping the table.
"You're a bunch of foul-smelling, grog-swilling pigs!" exclaimed Guybrush.
The dirty pirate looked at him pityingly. "To be a pirate ye must also be a foul-smelling grog-swilling pig."
Guybrush nodded. This seemed reasonable. He started to make for the exit, then realised he didn't know what to do. "Tell me more about mastering the sword," he said.
"First, get ye a sword," said the dirty pirate. "You must seek out and defeat the Sword Master. O'course, you'll be wanting to find someone to train you first. Someone in town can probably direct you."
"Ha!" shouted the aristocrat, his head wobbling furiously. "Imagine someone trying to take on the Sword Master without any training!"
"HAR HAR HAR!!" roared the pirates. Hair and dandruff flew into the air, disappearing into the smoke.
"Tell me about mastering the art of thievery," asked Guybrush breathlessly. Breathlessly because the smoke was getting still thicker. There must be something stuck in the chimney.
"We want you to procure a small item for us," said the middle pirate. "The Idol of Many Hands -"
"-in the Governor's mansion!" said the aristocrat.
The dirty pirate took a huge swig of grog. "The Governor," he gurgled, "keeps the Idol o' Many Hands in a display case in the mansion outside of town. You'll have to get past the guards, naturally."
"The tricky part will be getting past the dogs outside," nodded the aristocrat violently.
"They're a particularly vicious breed," agreed the dirty pirate. "You might be able to drug them or something."
"Tell me about treasure hunting!" gasped Guybrush. He really was getting short of air.
"Legend has it," said the aristocrat, "that there's a treasure buried here on the island."
"All you must do," said the middle pirate, "is find the Legendary Lost Treasure of Melee Island™ and bring it back here."
Guybrush waited for further instructions, which didn't come. "Should I have a map or something?" he prompted.
"Ye can hardly expect to find treasure without a map!" chided the dirty pirate.
The middle pirate leaned forward, a big cheesy grin on his face. "And don't forget - X marks the spot!"
"HAR HAR HAR!!" roared the pirates.
Alcohol blew into Guybrush's face. "I'll just be running along now," he said.
"Leave us to our grog," said the dirty pirate.
"Come back later and tell us how ye're doing."
Guybrush stepped back and made his way slowly to the far wall, where he paused and got some of his breath back. He looked down at his white shirt, or at least what had formerly been his white shirt. It was now a light brown smoke colour.
While he was crouched in the corner, the door to the kitchen opened a few feet away. The cook marched out and past the important pirates to the main pub room. Guybrush peered around, and saw a door leading to a small jetty outside. And the air here was clearer.
Guybrush slipped inside. Not only was the air cleaner, but also the floors and walls. You could even see the original paint, although the sickly blue colour wasn't really worth the effort. Guybrush looked around. In one corner, a large barrel with a skull painted on it was obviously the grog. Guybrush sighed - he'd forgotten his mug.
A large wooden table occupied the main wall, and occupying the large wooden table was a thick hunk of meat. Underneath the large wooden table were a number of shelves, boxes, and a sturdy metal pot. Next to the large wooden table, a stove burned merrily. On the stove, a thick black pot bubbled happily. The kitchen, as a whole, was rather a nice place, provided you liked red.
There was a door on the far side, which opened on a small jetty. Guybrush walked outside onto the wooden planks, and gulped in the night air. He noticed a red fish lying on the far end of the jetty, and a seagull plucking determinedly at it. An idea formed in his mind.
Guybrush kicked at the seagull, trying to scare it off. Instead, the seagull looked up and clacked its claws, succeeding in scaring him off. But Guybrush wasn't to be outdone. Noticing a faint wobble in the plank, he strode to the other end and jumped on it hard. The plank leapt up in the air. The seagull followed it, startled, and while its mind was still distracted Guybrush leapt under, picked up the fish, and ran inside. He looked at it. It was a herring.
Guybrush reached under the large wooden table, picked up the pot, put the fish in the pot, looked at the meat, thought, and put it in the pot. He picked up a lid and closed the pot. He smiled. With this, he could distract the guard dogs long enough to slip past and into the mansion.
Concealing the pot about his person Guybrush pushed back through the door, strode past the pirates, tiptoed past the general throng, and finally was out once more in the main street.

Meanwhile...
Deep beneath Monkey Island™, the ghost pirate LeChuck's ship lay anchored in a bed of lava, occupying subterranean caverns larger than any known to mortal man.
LeChuck stood to attention in the Captain's room, staring out the window into the seething red landscape. His beard waved in the nether winds. The walls, beams and floorboards around him had a strange, blue, ethereal quality - to make the point clearly, they were ghostlike.
The door behind him opened, and in walked a nervous ghost pirate with a wooden leg. He was light blue from head to toe, wore a green hat, and was draped in a chequered coat. Most people would be hard put to find his presence comfortable. But LeChuck, to his mind, was worse. Most ghost pirates were at least solid - but LeChuck was completely transparent: you could see right through his blue outline.
"Captain LeChuck ... sir ... I ..." he quavered. The heat wasn't helping affairs.
"Ah," breathed LeChuck, or, more precisely, didn't breathe. He stared out the window in satisfaction. "There's nothing like the hot winds of hell blowin' in your face."
"No sir," agreed the ghost pirate hurriedly. "Nothin' like it. Ah...sir...I..."
LeChuck turned to him and strode into the centre of the room. "It's days like this that make you glad to be dead."
"Oh yes sir ... glad to be dead..."
"Ye are glad to be dead, right?" asked LeChuck in an utterly humourless way.
"Oh yes sir," said the ghost pirate quickly and as emphatically as possible. He let just a little bitterness into his voice. "I feel so glad that you happened to capture my ship, then murdered me and everyone on board. Yes sir, lucky."
"Glad to hear it," said LeChuck, who was impervious to irony. "Now what was it you disturbed me for?"
"Ah...yes sir ... well, you see, we might have a problem on Melee Island™".
"PROBLEM??" roared LeChuck angrily. The ghost pirate's heart leapt into his mouth. Or, more precisely, failed to do so. That was one of the negatives about being a ghost - you had to go with a whole new set of axioms. "What possible problem could there be?" continued LeChuck. "I've got those sissy pirates so scared of the sea they're afraid to take a bath!"
The ghost pirate swallowed, at least mentally. "Well, there seems to be a new pirate in town. Actually, he's a pirate wannabe. Young. Inexperienced. Probably nothin' to worry 'bout. Don't know why I bothered you with it. I'll have him taken care of myself." He turned to leave.
"Wait!" said LeChuck. "I'll handle this personally. My plans are too important to be messed up by amateurs."
"Yes sir," said the ghost pirate politely, and left as quickly as possible. LeChuck turned to face the raging maelstrom once more, his face set.

Guybrush looked around, getting a feel for the air. The night was still young. He took a left, further into the town centre and away from the shore. The path wound past several houses, ran through a brief tunnel, then emerged into a busy thoroughfare. A number of pirates were milling about, but several seemed to have found their place for the night.
Guybrush came to a short balding man who was standing on the street corner, looking from left to right in a furtive manner. He had a long black overcoat and a parrot on his shoulder. The man saw Guybrush. "Excuse me, do you have a cousin named Sven?" he asked.
Eh? thought Guybrush. "No, but I once had a barber named Dominique," he answered.
"Close enough," said the man. "Let's talk business." He pulled open his overcoat revealing, apart from a large potbelly, a number of parchments taped to the inside of the coat. "You want to buy a map to the Legendary Lost Treasure of Melee Island™? Only one in existence." He removed a piece of paper from his coat and held it to Guybrush's face. "Rare. Very rare. Only one hundred pieces of eight."
Guybrush's heart sank. He didn't even have one piece of eight. "No thanks, I don't have any money."
The man shook his head in irritation. "Well then, buzz off kid, it's bad for business." Guybrush walked off, feeling slightly depressed.
On the other side of the road, three pirates were lounging around. One was sitting on a keg and rocking back and forth. The other two stood, making the height differential between them fairly plain. In front of the rocking pirate, was a small pink rat. Guybrush looked at it.
The rocking pirate didn't take this attention too well. "Hey, don't mess with my rat!" he exclaimed. Guybrush walked over. "I said don't pester the rat!" said the pirate. Guybrush looked at the rat again - he couldn't see what the fuss was about. "Hey man!!" shouted the pirate. "Frank, make him quit it!" Frank, the tallest of the pirates, looked at Guybrush but said nothing.
The rat was looking nervous - it didn't like the attention. It sniffed the air and ran.
"Aww, now look what you did!" shouted the rocking pirate.
Guybrush nodded. "Now that fearsome beast is gone, we can talk," he said.
The pirate looked at Frank angrily. "Frank, this bozo scared away my rat! Let's saute him now!"
"I think you'd best leave, boy," said Frank.
Guybrush became aware he may have made an error. "Sorry about the rat," he said to the pirates.
"Do you like rats?" asked the rocking pirate, who still looked mad.
"Yes, I love rats!" enthused Guybrush.
The rocking pirate was starting to work off a little of his anger. "They're very intelligent creatures!" The middle pirate, a short stout figure who looked like a barkeeper, started laughing sarcastically. Frank hit him on the head. "More intelligent than him," said the rocking pirate. Why, there's a story around these parts that a bunch of rats actually crewed a ship here from fabled Monkey Island™."
"No, that's not right," interjected Frank. "It was actually a group of monkeys."
"I find that hard to believe," said Guybrush. "No way could a group of stupid monkeys sail a ship!"
"Actually, they were chimps," corrected Frank. "And they weren't stupid. When they arrived, they sold the ship for a pretty penny. Only time I've ever seen anyone get the better of Stan in a business deal."
"I thought it was rats," said the rocking pirate.
Guybrush decided to reroute the conversation. "Are you guys pirates?"
The pirates looked at each other. The middle pirate started laughing. "No, we're a travelling circus troupe," said Frank.
"Only some idiot scared our trained rat away," said a bitter rocking pirate.
"Shut up!" shouted Frank, and hit the middle pirate again. "Of course we're pirates!" he said to Guybrush. "You can't buy clothes like these just off the rack!"
"Wadda ya want?" asked the rocking pirate.
Guybrush still wasn't convinced they were pirates. "How come you're on this street corner and not on a ship, looting, pillaging, sacking, that sort of thing?"
Frank spoke. "Well, pirating hasn't been panning out too well for us..."
"...there are some unnaturally talented pirates in the area right now..."
"...operating out of Monkey Island™," finished Frank.
"So, we've been pursuing alternate means of self support. We're trying to start up a circus."
"It was working out real well, until the rat scared off the elephant..."
"...and now some jerk scared off the rat!" The rocking pirate was not willing to let go of this point.
There was a pause. "Now you've depressed us," said Frank.
Guybrush pointed at the man on the corner, still surveying his surrounds alertly. "Do you know the sneaky looking man on the opposite corner?"
"Wanna buy a map, eh?" asked Frank. He opened his jacket to reveal a set of parchments, taped to the lining. "Our maps are top quality, not like the birdcage liners you get from that clown across the street." They looked at each other for a moment.
The middle pirate started laughing. "No, just kidding," said Frank. "These are actually copies of the minutes of the last meeting of the Melee Island™ PTA. Can't even give them away. Want one?" He didn't sound hopeful.
"No, but I'll take one if you give me two pieces of eight," said Guybrush.
"OK, that's fair," said Frank. He handed a piece of paper and two gold coins to Guybrush.
"I'll just be running along then," said Guybrush. He walked a little way down the street and looked at the minutes. There was nothing of note, except a lot of spelling letters. He sighed and folded the paper. Walking down the street, most of the doors and shops seemed to be shut. He came to a sign - "Ye Olde Rubber-Chicken-With-A-Pulley-In-The-Middle Shoppe ... serving your rubber-chicken-with-a-pulley-in-the-middle needs for over 50 years." Even they were shut.
Guybrush crossed the road, looking at the large clock which adorned archway ahead. It was ten o'clock. The shops here was just as deserted as those on the far side, save for a single, plain wooden door which opened at Guybrush's touch. He looked around the jamb, saw nothing, and edged into the room. He ducked his head as he passed under a pair of red robes, and now he could see the merchandise.
"A voodoo shop!" he breathed. He looked around in wonderment. There was a strange tang to the air - a scent of rotted spice. Hanging from the rafters were the dead carcases of chickens. Poor chickens, thought Guybrush. Large wicker baskets littered the floor. He thought about opening them, before realising he wasn't all that curious to find out what was inside. By one wall, a plush red leather couch reclined. It looked comfortable, in a spooky kind of way. Next to it, a shelf of voodoo miscellany. Jars of bat drippings, a box labelled "Assorted scales", a shaker full of monkey flakes, and some cat knuckles. "Cat knuckles?" wondered Guybrush aloud. "How barbaric!" A single lone trunk occupied a far corner. "Probably got a body in it," mused Guybrush darkly. On it sat a chalice, a simple crockery affair which could have been the work of a carpenter. Next to it, a pile of tiny bones from an unidentified animal. Next to these, was a chicken. Or, as Guybrush discovered when he looked closer, "a rubber chicken with a pulley in the middle. What possible use could that have?" Intrigued, he examined it closer, but could find no clues as to the purpose of the construction. Guybrush picked it up and walked deeper into the shop.
Lights suddenly flicked on, revealing a large black woman sitting in a large stone chair. In front of her, green fire coursed up from a circular hole in the ground. "What may I help you with, son?" asked the woman in an ancient, learned voice. She wore a large, bright red garment, and had a number of rings and circlets on her person. In keeping with much of the population of the town, she wasn't wearing any shoes.
Guybrush was about to open his mouth and ask how much for the chicken, but the woman spoke first. "Ah," she said knowingly, "I sense the guilt of stealing my chicken grows." She nodded. "Take it. It's yours."
"Why don't you want it?" asked Guybrush. "Is it jinxed with an ancient voodoo curse?"
"No, the pulley squeaks."
Guybrush nodded, his soul somewhat mollified. He opened his mouth to tell her his name, but she beat him again. "Wait...don't say anything. I can sense your name is... is... Guybrush. Guybrush Nosehair. No! wait... Threepwood. Guybrush Threepwood. Am I not right?"
"Wow, that was amazing! Do you know any other tricks?" he exclaimed. Lucky guess, he thought.
"I do not deal in tricks," said the woman reproachfully. "What I know is the truth."
At this point Guybrush was about to ask a question about palm readings and whether he would be rich. The voodoo woman answered before he could ask. "So, my mindreading skills tell me it is your future you are interested in. Are you certain this is something you really wish to know?"
"No!" exclaimed Guybrush, with sudden decision. "Don't tell me a thing. Life should be unexpected and exciting."
"Suit yourself," said the woman.
On the other hand, a little foresight might help if he was going to become a pirate... He was about to say so when the voodoo woman spoke. "Changed your mind, I see. I am getting a vision." She raised her arms and waved them in a complicated gesture. The green pool at Guybrush's feet rose. The room flashed blue as the pool was revealed to be seated in the skull of a giant monkey. The red eyes of the skull bored into Guybrush.
"I see you taking a voyage, a long voyage," said the voodoo woman, staring into the pool. Green liquid swirled and bubbled within. "I see you captaining a ship."
"Yeah!"
"I see..." She paused.
"What? See what?" Guybrush was getting quite interested.
The voodoo woman waved her arms once more. "I see a giant monkey."
"Yikes!"
"I see you inside the giant monkey," continued the voodoo woman.
"Gross."
"Wait!" she said sharply. "It is all becoming clear. Your journey will have many parts. You will see things better left unseen. You will hear things better left unheard. You will learn things better left unlearned."
"What kind of things?" asked Guybrush. "I hate surprises."
"NO!" shouted the voodoo woman. "The time is not right to know. When you know your purpose, come see me - I will let you know then." The monkey head sank back into the ground. Evidently the reading was over. As it clicked into place there was a sudden green flash. When it faded, the voodoo woman had vanished.
"Yikes!" said Guybrush. He walked back the way he had come and opened the door.

In the main street, he turned right, toward the giant clock. He passed under, walking through a short tunnel which emerged in another, more suburban area of the town.
The dwellings in this area looked even more precarious. Many had double or even triple storeys, and looked to have been thrown together with about the same organisation as a typical medicine cabinet. Rooms, attics, upper levels and cul de sacs had been slotted in wherever there was room. Many clung onto the town wall as a backbone. Guybrush took a turn right down one of the streets, but soon realised any navigation off the main street would get him totally lost.
He looked down a particularly narrow and dark alley, and heard a small voice whisper "Psssssst!" Guybrush looked around guiltily, but no one was watching him. He paced down the alley, between cardboard boxes and overflowing rubbish cans, and found himself in a small enclosed square, hemmed in on all sides by towering houses.
"Hello?" he called out. "Anybody in here?" He walked further into the cobbled square. "HELLO??"
There was a movement of air behind him. Guybrush turned to see a large mean looking bald man with a long cutlass. "You know," spoke the man in a nasty voice, "bad things could happen to a person in a dark, deserted alley like this one. And at this time of night, no one would be around to see it." He looked pointedly at Guybrush.
"Yeah," agreed Guybrush. "And bad things happen to people who sneak up on other people from behind."
The man moved a little closer. "So you're going to give me a little attitude, eh? I better get your name."
"I'm Guybrush Threepwood, and I'm a mighty pirate," said Guybrush proudly.
"Listen Peepwood-"
"Threepwood," corrected Guybrush. "Guybrush Threepwood."
"Whatever your name is, listen: I'm the sheriff around here. Sheriff Fester Shinetop. Take it from me - this is a bad time to be visiting Melee Island™. A very bad time. My advice to you is to find somewhere else to take your vacation. Somewhere safer." He strode off purposefully.
Guybrush watched his exit, relieved. "Boy, I feel much safer knowing there's an officer of the law around," he said. Guybrush looked around the square, a fairly desolate place in all, and saw a poster tacked to the wall. "SEE YOU AT THE CIRCUS," proclaimed the poster. "Oh boy, a circus!" exclaimed Guybrush. "I love a circus." He looked at the address given - it was to be held on the west coast of Melee Island™.
He followed Fester Shinetop, who had disappeared elsewhere, back out to the main street. Here he saw a large shop by the tunnel entrance, which moreover appeared to be open. Guybrush wandered over and went inside.
The room within was capacious, stacked, and deserted. Above him and on the left wall, a second storey housed sails, a safe, and numerous boxes. By the stairs leading up, another shelf of merchandise held a long sharp sword. The owner's desk had a sign on it - "Ring bell for service."
Guybrush looked at the sign, and looked at the sword. Fundamentally, he was a honest person. But employment opportunities seemed a little thin on the ground at the moment. And when needs must...
He reached out a hand to grip the sword. It felt nice and weighty in his grip. The label identified the sword as the "Slashmaster™ - When you want a sword as sharp as your wit." He didn't yet know where to find the Sword Master, but this looked like just the equipment to tackle him with.
Holding the sword in his left hand, Guybrush climbed stealthily up the stairs to the landing, where he saw a shovel propped up in the corner, just the thing for a good ol' treasure hunt. The label: "Digmaster™ - The only shovel for serious treasure huntin' enthusiasts." He picked it up and ducked quietly down the stairs. He tiptoed quietly over to the door and had just made the handle when a voice cried out "Ah-ha!" behind him.
Guybrush turned, stricken with guilt. The owner, an old guy with a white beard and a cane, had appeared from the back room. "Caught you, you little thief!" He wandered behind the counter, followed by a contrite Guybrush. "Maybe you'd like to pay for these?" He put the sign under the counter.
Guybrush looked at his sword - it really would be a shame to lose it. "About this sword..."
"What about it?"
"I want it."
"That'll be one hundred pieces of eight," said the owner evenly. "Take it or leave it."
"I don't have enough money," said Guybrush sadly.
"Figures."
Guybrush put the sword back. He thought about asking about the shovel, then put it back too. "How else do you want to waste my time?" asked the owner politely.
Guybrush thought. "Er ... I'm looking for the Sword Master of Melee Island™."
The owner peered suspiciously at him. "The Sword Master of Melee Island™? Hmmm... I don't know... Nobody knows the whereabouts of her secret hideout - nobody except me. I'll have to go and ask her if its okay to show you the way." He rubbed his chin. "Hmmm... I guess I could hike all the way over there ... once." He put the sign back on the desk. "Be right back."
Guybrush watched him walk out, surprisingly brisk for someone relying on a twisted cane. At the doorway the owner paused. "AND DON'T TOUCH ANYTHING!!"
The door closed.
Guybrush waited. It occurred to him that, as brisk as the owner was, he still wasn't that fast. That it would probably take quite a while to 'hike all the way over there' and back. And who was to say the Sword Master wanted to see him? Decided, Guybrush opened the door, saw the old man just coming out of the tunnel, and began following him stealthily.

It was indeed a long hike. The owner led him under the tunnel, past the three pirates, past Scumm Bar, up the long and winding staircase, past the lookout who was looking out and paid them no attention, and into Melee Island™ proper.
Melee Island™ was a large island, if you wanted to explore it fully. From above, it looked like a lower case 'c', with the main town on the outer side. The principal route of transport on Melee Island™ ran the length of the c, from the upper right hand corner to the upper left hand corner. Tracks branched off from it, leading either to the coast or further inland. The old man took the coast road, before turning inward and coming to a fork in the road. There was a sign here, but Guybrush had no time to read it because the old man suddenly left the road and walked into the dark underbrush. Guybrush followed.
Here the moon was nearly shielded from view by the cover of trees above. The illumination they had came from large swarms of fireflies, which darted in amongst garish yellow and red flowers. The old man made left and right turns with complete confidence, although Guybrush couldn't even see his feet. They passed small gurgling streams, where crickets chirped loudly, and thin ravines. Occasionally the cover would break open, and Guybrush would catch a welcome glimpse of the starry night sky above. These grew less as they wormed their way deeper into the forest. The crickets were left behind. The fireflies were thinning. The trees suddenly seemed closer, crowding together. And it was deathly quiet.
Finally the old man reached a ravine. There was a small stake in the ground, which the old man pushed forward. Twin halves of a log, hung on opposite sides of the ravine, swung up and joined in the middle, creating a makeshift bridge. The old man nimbly walked over.
Guybrush swallowed, and followed him with his eyes half shut.
Here the forest was at last thinning. The old man was headed toward a small hill, where a house had been erected. Lights shone from the window. In front of the house, a tall colourful figure was standing and looking restless. The old man crossed a tiny stream, and made his way up the hill. Guybrush decided to hang back and eavesdrop.
"Hello again, Carla," greeted the old man. Guybrush suddenly realised the Sword Master was a woman. For no easily divinable reason, this made him nervous.
"I thought I told you to get lost," said Carla in a loud voice that indicated a rather large lung capacity. She had her hands on her hips.
"Actually, I'm here on business. This kid came into my store, see..."
"Face it, you crusty old letch, you'd make any excuse just to come out here and bother me."
"Yeah, I guess so," said the old man in a voice which clearly indicated he wasn't going to pursue the argument.
"Well, cut it out. I'm sick of it." Carla had long, wavy brown/black hair and wore earrings. With her chocolate complexion, she could have been a distant relative of the voodoo woman. Probably she was. "Take a hike and don't come up here again. Someone might follow you, and then I'd become another Melee Island™ tourist attraction."
"Hey, it's your loss, baby," said the old man.
"Yeah, right," said Carla. "Now scram."
The old man hung his head, then wandered off past the house. Guybrush stood up from behind the bush he had been crouched under, and took a deep breath. It was now or nether. Plucking all the courage he could, he walked over the bridge, up to the house to challenge the Sword Master.
She watched his approach with disdain. "How dare you approach the Sword Master without permission ... which I surely didn't give you." She looked him up and down, and the expression on her face was an eloquent enough summary of her reaction.
"I beg your pardon, I must talk to you," said Guybrush as forcefully as he could.
"I doubt that," said the Sword Master. "Everyone who comes here is prepared to fight. Let's be honest: you're here to prove yourself to the Pirate Leaders, in hopes of one day being as immoral as they are."
Guybrush found himself nodding. "Yep, nailed it on the head ... gee, you're smart."
"But as you have no sword," pointed out the Sword Master, "I doubt you're really serious." She dismissed him and wandered inside, the door closing in an emphatic manner.
"Darn," said Guybrush. Things hadn't gone as well as he'd hoped. He wandered off to the right, in the direction the old man had gone, and found that only a few minutes walk separated the Sword Master's house from a narrow path leading north. Guybrush followed it, finally emerging at the main path. Guybrush started the long hike back.
Some minutes later he found himself back at the fork. Now that he wasn't chasing somebody, he had time to read the sign. Turning right would take him to Stan's Used Shipyard. Turning left would take him to the-
"Fettucini Brothers Circus!" exclaimed Guybrush. He immediately took the left road. A circus felt like just the thing to take his mind off his troubles.
The path was short, flat and straight, and soon Guybrush found he was at the edge of a large clearing. Parked in the clearing were several wagons. Towering over them completely was a bright red and yellow circus tent. Golden light spilled out through the flaps.
Guybrush walked down, slightly awed, and slowly peeked inside. Unfortunately, the tent seemed to be virtually deserted. Most of the equipment had been packed away, save for a cannon, a box filled with hay, and several stands. Guybrush looked up, and saw the trapeze wires hanging high above, strung tight. He took a deep breath and smelled the oiled sawdust.
Two brightly dressed moustachioed gentlemen were standing by the audience seating. They seemed to be arguing about something.
"I'd get in the cannon," said the one in the purple jumpsuit and blue underwear, looking a little like a colour blind Italian Superman, "but the gunpowder makes me sneeze."
"Well I can't do it," said the one in the green jumpsuit, also with blue underwear worn over it but clean shaven, "I hurt my hand taming the lions last week."
"I hardly think that little scratch compares to my chronic allergy. You get in the cannon."
"You don't have any allergies, you faker. You get in the cannon."
"No, you get in the cannon!"
"No, you get in the cannon!"
"Slacker!"
"Loser!"
"Ruffian!"
"Fop!"
The two circus men, who by the similarities in their voices seemed to be brothers, continued arguing at a heated pitch. Guybrush raised a hand. "Excuse me.."
The two brothers spotted him, and ran over with surprising speed, flanking Guybrush on both sides. "Say there, son," said the purple brother in a slick voice," how'd you like a chance-"
"-a once in a lifetime chance-"
"-To perform an amazing feat-"
"-a death defying feat!-"
"-well, not so death defying, really-"
Guybrush's head revolved as the conversation spun from brother to brother, like a spectator at a tennis match.
"-a dangerous feat-" corrected the green brother.
"-no, not so dangerous at all-"
"-an easy feat!"
"-but exciting!-" enthused Purple.
"-With the Amazing-"
"-Adventurous, Acrobatic-"
"-And Exceedingly Well Known-"
"-Fabulous, Flying-"
"-Fettucini Brothers!" finished Green.
"That's us," said Purple.
"My brother Alfredo-," indicated Green.
"-and my brother Bill," said Alfredo.
"Sound good?" asked Bill
"Good," agreed Alfredo.
"It's very simple, really-"
"-see that cannon over there?" Guybrush looked at it - it was long, black and had a bore the size of the average person's shoulders. Guybrush nodded. "All you have to do-"
"-is get in the cannon-"
"-and we'll shoot you out of it-"
"-across the room-"
"-quite safe, actually-"
"-so, what do you say?"
Guybrush looked across the room, where the box of hay had been stacked next to the main tent pole. He wasn't so sure. "How much will you pay me?" he asked.
"How about 478 pieces of eight?" asked Alfredo.
Guybrush liked the sound of the payment. "OK, sounds good," he said.
"Have you got a helmet?" asked Alfredo.
"Er..."
"You've got to have a helmet," said Alfredo.
"-can't do the cannon trick without a helmet-"
"-nosiree!"
Guybrush thought desperately. He couldn't stand the prospect of those 478 pieces of eight slipping from grasp.
He got an idea. "Of course I have a helmet. What sort of idiot do you take me for?"
"Well, let's have it."
"We want to be sure-"
"-that it's safe-"
"-wouldn't want you hurt-"
"-nosiree!"
Guybrush pulled out the pot and showed it to them. "Ah, that will work as a helmet!" said Bill.
"Now we can do the trick!"
"Step right over here, son."
Guybrush followed Bill to the mouth of the cannon.
"Now, put on your helmet-"
"-and get in the cannon-"
"-and we'll take care of the rest!"
There was a small step stool at the mouth of the cannon. Guybrush mounted it and looked down the barrel. He breathed into it, and a small puff of dust was blown out.
Guybrush took one final look at the circus tent, then removed the pot lid, and nearly fell off the stool as he saw and remembered the meat. He raised the pot slowly to his head, grimacing.
Actually, once the initial squishiness of his hair in the blood was out of the way, it was a fairly comfortable fit. Guybrush ducked his head and crawled into the cannon.
Instantly the cannon exploded. Guybrush was hurled out the barrel in a cloud of smoke and fire. He tumbled through the air, watched by the Fettucini brothers below.
The aim, if they had been aiming for the tent pole, was impeccable. Guybrush hit it about two thirds the way up, his body upside down. It hung there for a moment, then gravity remembered him and he slid down to the bottom. Here his helmet might have been useful, but somehow it had fallen off midflight, so his head was left to take the blow. He didn't fall over, but somehow his head wedged in the sawdust so firmly that he remained upright, legs sticking into the air.
"It works!" shouted Alfredo.
"I'm so relieved!"
They ran over to Guybrush to congratulate him. Alfredo noticed something might be wrong.
"Hey..."
"Are you okay?"
"Where's my helmet?" asked Guybrush in a feeble voice, kicking his legs.
"He's all right!" cried a triumphant Alfredo.
"Hooray! We are spared an embarrassing and financially debilitating lawsuit!"
"Here's your money, sir," said Alfredo, pulling out a small bag. He looked at Guybrush, and stuffed it into one of his pockets.
"Just recompense for aiding us."
There was a pause. Guybrush kicked his legs further, trying to wriggle himself out of the ground.
"We just need to change the aim a bit."
"I'll try it next!"
"No, I'll do it next."
"No, me!"
"No, ME!"
"Slacker!"
"Loser!"
"Ruffian!"
"Fop!"

After several minutes of argument from above, Guybrush was finally able to get himself out of the ground. He looked around the tent floor, and finally found the pot nestled against the tent wall. The Fettucini brothers were still arguing, so Guybrush left and walked quickly back to the path.
He was bruised, but happy. He had 480 pieces of eight - and you could do quite a lot with that money. For one thing, buy a sword.
All the same, his joints were aching a bit, and the walk back wasn't helping.
At the fork in the road, Guybrush stopped, and rubbed his back. He looked into the forest, and could see a clump of bright yellow flowers. Guybrush had a hint of an idea about those flowers. He left the path, wandered over to the flower bush, and picked a few petals. He sniffed them. They smelt sweet, somehow aromatic. Guybrush picked a few, and rubbed them on the skin where the pain was worse. He picked a few more and stuffed them in his pockets. Then he rejoined the path back to the main town.
Soon he felt his muscles loosen, and the pain deaden. The journey back went considerably faster. Guybrush fairly sped through the town, except for a moment while he stopped at the Elaine Marley poster. There was something strange about her picture which held his attention. He could see how LeChuck had fallen for her so quickly. Finally he came to the pirate store again. He walked inside.
The owner looked at him irately. "Hey, where'd you go? I hike halfway across the island to try and get you a reservation with the Sword Master - who, by the way, says you can go jump in the lake - and when I come back, you're gone! See if I ever do you a favour again!"
Guybrush walked in and picked up the sword. "How much for this sword?"
"I already told you, it's a hundred pieces of eight! Did you bring enough money this time?"
"I'll take it!" said Guybrush.
"Great!" said the owner as Guybrush handed over the cash. "Best hundred pieces of eight you ever spent. Anything else?"
Guybrush noticed a roll of breath mints on the desk. After the fairly horrendous meat experience in the circus tent, he could use a little freshener. "I could really use a breath mint."
"You're telling me!" said the owner. "Here take one, please. Take a whole roll! One piece of eight." Guybrush handed over the coin. "Anything else?"
"I think I'd just like to browse," said Guybrush, slowly swishing the sword through the air.
"Be my guest, fancy pants. Wake me up if you need anything."
Guybrush looked around at a few items, for the owner's sake, then left.

He stood in the open air, watching the citizens scurry about on their business, and decided it was time to visit the Governor's mansion. It was on the far side of town, relative to the Scumm Bar, so Guybrush took a right along the main street, passing a large church with bright stained glass windows. Next to it was a grimmer looking building with bars over the windows. Guybrush wandered over to the door, curious as to what this place was.
Inside, he could fairly quickly tell it was a prison, if a surprisingly lit one. Two cells were immediately adjacent to the door. One contained a rat. The other, a short scruffy pirate wearing a purple bandanna.
Guybrush walked over to introduce himself. The prisoner leaned forward, gripping the bars. "You've got to get me out of here!" he whispered. "I'm a victim of society."
Guybrush was blown back by the gust of bad breath. "Not to mention halitosis," he said. "Yuck!"
"Hey," said the prisoner, "it's hard to keep my breath minty-fresh when there's nothing to eat in here but rats."
Guybrush reached into his pocket. "Here, have a breath mint."
The prisoner took it gratefully. "Oooh! Grog-o-mint! How refreshing! Thanks!" He put it in his mouth and gradually the foul stench subsided. "So, have you come to release me?"
"Who are you?" asked Guybrush.
"My name is Otis," said the prisoner. "At least, I think it is. I've been in here so long I can hardly remember. You've got to get me out of here before I lose my mind completely! Can't you see I'm innocent?"
"You don't look innocent to me," said Guybrush uncertainly.
"You wouldn't either if you'd been in here as long as I have."
"What did you do to wind up in there?"
Otis rattled the bars furiously. "I didn't do anything. Especially not to those dumb flowers."
Guybrush's mental antennae pricked up a little at the mention of flowers. "Flowers? What flowers?" he asked, not quite yet nervous but in a voice suggesting he might soon be.
"The yellow Caniche Endormi flowers in the forest - it's against the law to pick them." He was not willing to elaborate any further.
"So who framed you?" asked Guybrush. The flowers in his pocket seemed to be screaming out to any local constabulary who might be around.
"I don't know," admitted Otis. "I think it was a conspiracy. And if there's one type of piracy I don't like, it's a conspiracy."
Otis was strangely interesting companionship. "I've never talked to a prisoner before," said Guybrush. "How's the food in there?"
"Oh, you know, the usual..." He made seesawing motions with his hand. "Slop, grog, gruel ... rats, bugs and body lice if I can catch them. I have a carrot cake my Aunt Tillie made, even though she knows I detest carrot cake. Actually, the cook at the bar is an old friend of mine, and sometimes he sneaks me food. Like pork trimmings - mostly feet and lips - but once in a while ... he brings this really odd rump roast."
"What was so odd about the rump roast?" asked Guybrush.
"Well, it's the only rump roast I've ever seen with a prehensile tail."
Otis lapsed into silence. Guybrush decided to show he was on his side. "That Sheriff Shinetop sure is a jerk, isn't he?" he asked.
"No kidding," agreed Otis. "Fester Shinetop is the meanest man on Melee Island™. Luckily, the Governor keeps him in check most of the time." Otis looked up, remembering. "We used to have a fair, decent man for a Sheriff - but he recently died under mysterious circumstances. If you ask me, I think the new Sheriff had something to do with it."
"I think you've said enough, Otis!" said a gruff, sharp voice from the door. Guybrush turned to see Fester Shinetop blocking the exit. Simultaneously, the temperature in the room dropped a few degrees.
"Whoops," said Otis, and drew back into the shadows of his cell. Fester Shinetop strode into the prison. He looked like the kind of person who strode, or marched, everywhere.
"I hope you haven't been taking this vagrant too seriously," he said to Guybrush, who had put his hands in his pockets. "He'd say anything to avoid paying his debt to society."
"He IS filthy," conceded Guybrush, not wishing to get on Fester's mean side. "And he smells bad, too."
Otis returned to the front of the cell, hands on hips. "Hey, thanks a lot!"
Fester Shinetop wasn't much impressed either. "You've got a lot of nerve coming into this town and passing judgement on the locals. If there's something you don't like about the way we smell, you're welcome to leave anytime."
"Sorry," said Guybrush. He looked at Otis. "Sorry." He turned back to Fester, who was starting to get on his nerves a little. "Do you mind? We were having a private conversation."
"Don't take that tone with me, monkeyboy," said Fester nastily, "or I'll gladly lock you up in there with Otis - then you'd have plenty of time for private conversation." He spat the last two words out contemptuously.
"He seems innocent to me," said Guybrush, indicating Otis. "Why don't you let him out?"
"Maybe you should mind your own business, stranger," suggested Fester. "I'll decide who's innocent and who's guilty around here." He looked meaningfully at Guybrush, his moustache drawn up in a mirthless sneer.
"Sorry," said Guybrush.
"Look, I don't know what you're up to, but whatever it is, it's probably illegal. So forget it." He strode to the door, whereat he turned once more to face them. "Wherever you go on Melee™, I'll be watching." It sounded more like a threat than a promise of vigilant law enforcement to Guybrush. "And if you try any monkey business, you'll end up in here for good." He left.
"Man, is he a pill or what?" said Otis. "You see what I have to put up with? You'd better go before you get us both into trouble."
Guybrush walked outside. He looked both ways for Fester, then drew out the yellow petals. He turned them over in the moonlight, and sniffed them again, deeper. They did seem to have an effect - somewhat ... soporific. Guybrush returned them to his pockets and walked further along the road, boots tapping on the cobblestones.
The prison was nearly the last building before you came to a giant stone archway, rearing several storeys high. The archway was cut from the town wall, a thick construction once used to defend the city, now used to support further apartments. Guybrush walked under, and found the road turn into a winding path leading along the coast. After several turns, suddenly the Mansion came into view.
It was two storeys high, and seated very close to the edge of a cliff. Drawing nearer, Guybrush found himself walking on a thick growth of manicured grass. Now, where were these guard dogs?
He saw them as he neared the front entrance. There was a peg jammed in the ground about a foot from the cliff. To it about five leashes had been attached. Attached to the leashes were five small but homicidally maniacal dogs, which looked like crosses between poodles and bull terriers. They snapped eager jaws at Guybrush, who was careful to stay out of reach. The leashes had been well chosen - exactly the right length so that there was no room to slip past and reach the door.
Guybrush took out the pot. This was the plan. He would reach in, throw the meat to the dogs, they would be distracted, and he'd slip past. Easy. Guybrush looked at the meat, or meatlike substance, still with a few hairs jammed in, and pulled it out. It came in half as he did so.
Guybrush looked at the dogs. Hefting the half of meat in his right hand, he left fly right into the middle of the pack.
It is said that a pack of piranhas can reduce a cow to a skeleton in two minutes. These dogs must have been distant ancestors, because two seconds later not a single shred of meat could be seen. The dogs were jumping up and down and slobbering again, worse this time because now they'd gotten the scent of blood.
"That didn't go too well," said Guybrush. He retrieved the other half of meat and looked at it - it was even smaller. No way would he be able to slip past in time - the dogs were too quick.
But if he could slow them down a little...
Guybrush pulled out the yellow petals and sniffed them again. He looked at them, at the meat, and at the petals again. He nodded.
Guybrush mashed the petals into the meat, and lobbed it to the dogs. They tore in with ferocious appetite. The meat was demolished, and now the dogs started looking a little woozy. They stumbled around, fell over on their sides, and were still.

Guybrush tiptoed around the fallen dogs and was finally clear. He took a deep breath, and knocked on the door. No response.
He tried the knob, and found it was unlocked. This was strange - usually an unlocked door meant someone was home. Guybrush opened the door and entered.
He beheld a room of stunning opulence. Velvet red curtains draped the walls. Portraits were hung. Greco-Roman columns supported the roof. The floor was timbered with fine mahogany, and covered in exotic woven rugs. Guybrush walked through the lobby and to the main downstairs room. A long, wide, curving staircase covered in red carpet led to the upper levels. Guybrush took it. Here there were several doors, each inset with a grille window, but all the handles were locked. Guybrush returned downstairs. The place was too grand to be going around knocking doors down.
He looked around in wonderment. A small bookshelf under the staircase, containing many large and colourful volumes. Plush red couches. Pedestals supporting examples of the fine arts. One particular item, near the entrance, was a priceless Ming vase. Guybrush picked it up, thinking that if he couldn't find the Idol of Many Hands this should interest the Pirate Leaders.
There were a pair of doors by the vase, which, Guybrush found, were unlocked. He opened it, and disappeared from the view of Fester Shinetop, who was watching from the shadows with an evil smile on his face. He strode out purposefully into the light, saying "This looks like a job for Fester Shinetop." He opened the door, and entered after Guybrush.
Guybrush turned, and Fester hit him on the head. "Ouch!" cried Guybrush, nearly dropping the vase. He ducked the next blow, and ran back to the doors. He slipped back into the lobby, and returned the vase. "Better leave this here." He returned to the room, which had suddenly become a scene of utter chaos.
Guybrush hypnotised the quarrelsome rhinos. He dodged the attention of Fester's fist, which struck the wall behind. "Ow!" screamed Fester. Guybrush ran to the security console, and raised a stabbing finger. "No!" cried Fester. "Not the red button!"
Guybrush pushed the red button.
There was a large Kaboom. Plaster rained down from the ceiling. The console imploded. The windows exploded. Several shards hit Fester, who screamed and dived at Guybrush. They rolled down a steep incline, exchanging blows. They struck bottom, and Guybrush found himself looking at a tremendous yak. It was a big, ugly, hairy yak with some ugly wax lips, and it was preventing them from getting up. While Fester tried to throttle Guybrush, he tried pushing the yak. He couldn't move it. Pulling it gave a similar effect.
Guybrush ran an arm around the ground, his face going purple. His fingers grasped a staple remover. He brought it up and struck Fester in a roundhouse motion, knocking him off. Guybrush quickly stood up and used the staple remover on the yak. The staples came out, and at the same time Fester walloped him from behind. Guybrush was thrown forward, through the tremendous dangerous-looking yak, through the somewhat fragile wall, and into the lobby of the mansion, near the stairs. He landed on the portrait, which had been knocked over and now formed a ramp up to the small hole in the wall. Quickly Guybrush rose, dusted himself off, and dashed over to the bookshelf. He picked up the Manual of Style and quickly browsed the contents. It had a number of helpful illustrations.
He returned to the hole in the wall. "I must be nuts!" he exclaimed, then executed a tight commando roll up the portrait, through the hole in the wall, and right into Fester, who collapsed to the ground. Guybrush picked up the wax lips, which were yak sized and covered in slobber.
Fester got up, and threw a saucepan at Guybrush. It missed, striking a hidden lever in the wall. Suddenly there was a munching sound and brown hairy animals started running across the floor. "Accck!" screamed Guybrush. "Gophers!" He picked up the gopher repellent and took out a gopher. He shook it and took out another. A gopher horde was descending on them, so Guybrush took it out too. He ran up the stone steps, leaving Fester to deal with the remnants of the rabid throng.
There was a funny little man at the top of the stairs, but Guybrush was not in the mood for nonsense and used the gopher repellent on him. Here at last, was the fabulous idol. "It's beautiful!" he gasped. And sighed, because it was secured with a heavy duty padlock. Behind him, Fester was roaring up the stairs, still shaking off gophers. "Uh, oh!" said Guybrush as he approached. He picked up a heavy chair and threw it at the Sheriff. The Sheriff fell to his knees. Guybrush ran to the door on the far side of the room, slipped through, and locked it.
He was at the top of the plush red stairs. "That should hold him for a while!" he said. "If only I had a file, I could get the idol!" He skipped down the stairs and back out into the night air.

Guybrush ran down the path, to the town, back to the only person who might possibly have a file. On the way down, he looked at the gopher repellent and saw you were supposed to use it on yourself, not on the gophers.
He walked into the prison. "Hey, Otis, would you happen to have a file?"
"You think I'd be in here if I did?" asked Otis. "All I have is this carrot cake my Aunt Tillie made me. You can have some of it if you bring me something to get rid of these rats. I can't stand carrot cake."
Guybrush handed over the gopher repellent - it wasn't like he'd be needing it anymore. "Hey, this might work on the rats!" said Otis. "Thanks! Here's the cake." He handed over a small, hard square to Guybrush. It was surprisingly heavy, and Guybrush couldn't blame Otis for not eating it - appetising was apparently not in Aunt Tillie's repertoire. Guybrush walked outside and threw it on the cobbles.
It clinked. Guybrush looked at the cake - cakes didn't usually do that. He walked over and picked it up. Guybrush gently prised apart the two halves of the cake, to reveal a small thin file. It seemed 'pragmatic' was certainly in Aunt Tillie's repertoire. Guybrush looked to the prison, but there was no time. Even now Fester might be loose. He ran back to the mansion.

Inside, he walked briskly into the interior. He had the file, so...
Guybrush did another commando roll up the portrait, through the hole in the wall, and this time was caught in the teeth by a blow from Fester, who looked a little upset. Guybrush fell to the ground, scissoring his legs as he did so. Fester tripped backward. Guybrush darted up, ran to the shredder and shredded the manual of style. Only now did he notice the heavily armed clown standing nearby. Guybrush picked up the shredded manual, now more like stylish confetti, and gave it to the clown, who threw it in the air shouting gaily, and started to shoot at it. Guybrush dodged Fester's charging attack, causing Fester to run into the clown. They hit the wall and started fighting.
Guybrush threw the wax lips on the fire. Red flames roared to the ceiling. Under cover of the distraction Guybrush ran up the stairs to the idol. A hypnotised but still slightly quarrelsome rhino was blocking the way, so Guybrush used the files on its toenails. The rhino bellowed and charged down the stairs. As Guybrush used the file on the padlock a massive wail rose up from below, followed by a short burst of gunfire and a meaty thud. Guybrush opened the door and took the idol, quickly secreting it in his shirt.
Fester had reached the top of the stairs. He swung at Guybrush, who feinted left and right, dodging each blow, and ducking back toward the doors. Fester clicked his teeth, irritated and with a massive right hander caught Guybrush on the chin.
Guybrush became airborne, smashing through the window inset into the left door, thumping down the stairs, and coming to a rest on the ground floor. Luckily the stairs were carpeted. He rose quickly, and wiped sweat from his forehead. "Phew! That was a close one! At least I got the idol."
The doors above opened. A very mad Fester appeared. "But I'm not done with you yet!" he yelled. He strode down the stairs like the onset of doom.
"Uh oh," said Guybrush.
"Thought you could get away from here with the Idol of Many Hands, did you?" said Fester as he approached.
"Look, I can explain," said Guybrush reasonably.
"So can I," said Fester evilly. "You poisoned the Governor's pet poodles-"
"They're just sleeping!"
"Broke into her house-"
"The door was unlocked!"
"-and stole one of her most valuable pieces of art!" Fester raised a thick fist.
Guybrush raised a conciliatory palm. "No, you've got it all wrong!"
Fester paused, and sneered. "Oh really? Well let's hear your explanation."
Guybrush gulped. "It belongs in a museum!" he cried.
"Ha!" said Fester. The fist rose a little higher.
Suddenly, a female voice interjected from above. "What's going on here?" Fester and Guybrush turned to see Governor Elaine Marley standing at the top of the stairs. She started walking down.
"I caught this hoodlum making off with your idol, Governor," said Fester, his fists lowered. "He says it belongs in a museum!"
Elaine had reached them. She wore a fairly typical pirate outfit - purple shirt, a white necklace, brown jacket, boots, and black pants, although most pirates would be hard pressed to have thick red hair down to their shoulders. Amazingly, she was supporting Guybrush. "That's right. It does."
"What?" said Fester.
"You heard me, Fester," said Elaine in a young, intelligent voice. "The real question is, how did he get in here while you were on guard?"
"I... Uh..."
Elaine waved a hand, giving Guybrush time to notice the discreetly painted fingernails. "Just go away, Fester. I can handle this."
"Hmpf!" said Fester. He turned and strode out. "I'll deal with you later," he said to Guybrush as he passed.
Elaine watched him go, then turned to Guybrush. "Sorry about him," she said apologetically. "He's new. I'm Governor Marley.
"Governor Elaine Marley."
Guybrush was rooted to the spot by the sounds of those sweet syllables breathing over him. He smelled faint aromas, delicious and enticing.
"So, my idol belongs in a museum, eh?" She looked at him with her head on one side.
"Well..." said Guybrush, sure his face was going red.
"Relax, Mr Threepwood," said Elaine. "I know why you're here." She shook her head, laughing faintly. "Believe me, you're not the first who's tried. Although, I have to admit, not as many get as far as you have."
"Golly," said Guybrush in a cheerfully inane voice. His throat was getting tight.
"My lookout told me of your arrival. I've wanted to meet you ever since I first heard your fascinating name. Tell me, Guybrush, why do you want to be a pirate? You don't look like one. Your face is too ... sweet." She smiled at him.
Guybrush became aware how close she was standing. "Grlpyt," he gasped.
Elaine frowned. "I see. Well, you're obviously not in the mood for idle chitchat, are you? I suppose you've got many more exciting things to do. I won't take up any more of your time, Mr Threepwood." She walked past and started up the stairs.
A distressed Guybrush watched her exit. "Bgglw!" he called out to her desperately. "Mfrnkf? Dmnkly..." He sighed deeply as she disappeared from view. "I really wish I knew how to talk to women," he lamented. He could feel the weight of the idol in his pocket, but it no longer cheered him. He turned, inconsolable, and trudged over to the exit door.
It opened in front of him, revealing a leering Fester Shinetop. "Where do you think you're going, Thrubwald?"
Guybrush just felt tired. "Excuse me, Mr Shinetop, but you're blocking the doorway. I'm going to put this idol in my safe deposit box."
"Oh really? I know a really safe locker you could put it in - Davy Jones' Locker!" Fester roared with laughter like someone who thinks they've just cracked a great joke.
"You know, it's not too late for us to make up and be friends."
"Yeah, and it's also not too late for me to kill you and still make it to the bar for happy hour. Hand over your sword."
"Uh oh."

If his past life had been of any particular length, it would have been flashing past his eyes at this point.
Under the moon, which was nearly at the top of the sky, Guybrush was standing on the pier, chained to the idol. The idol was perched at the edge of the pier, ready to be knocked over at a moment's notice into the placid sea. Fester stood nearby, reading him the last rites. "This is the end of the road, my little pantalooned pal. Your troublemaking days on Melee Island™ are over." He turned and stared moodily over the ocean. "My plans for the Governor are far too important, and much too near completion, to risk letting a would-be pirate like yourself getting in the way. So long, Mr Spicecake, or Droopface, or whatever the hell your name is."
He kicked the idol over the edge. Guybrush was dragged into the sea, clutching at the air. Fester watched the bubbles rise for a few seconds. He straightened, satisfied. "Hmmm... this might actually turn out to be a pretty good day." He strode off.

There was one vital piece of intelligence which Fester had neglected to collect - Guybrush could indeed hold his breath for ten minutes under water. He stood on the ocean floor, waited for Fester to lose interest, then surveyed his surroundings.
The water here was green/blue, but fairly clear, and with very little seaweed. The bed by the pier seemed to be something of a pirate junkyard, with hacksaws, meatcleavers and rusty knives all here in abundance. Unfortunately, the short length of rope Guybrush was allowed stopped him from reaching the tools. Clouds of sand were being kicked up by his movements and he stopped to let them settle.
Fish swam by in shoals. Looking at the fabulous idol under the harsher, murky sea light, it more resembled a fabulous doorstop. Walking gingerly Guybrush tried to pick it up, and was able to carry the weight, although he wouldn't be able to swim to the surface. Fortunately, a ladder came down from the pier to the ocean floor, a few dozen metres away. Guybrush pushed along the ocean floor as quickly as he could, feeling the air running low. Near the ladder, he saw a reasonably uncrusted sword lying in the sand. He'd need another one, so he picked it up.
There was movement on the pier above. "Hey Nick, I just committed a felony!" shouted a gruff voice above. Guybrush froze.
"Does it involve that big knife you've got there?" asked another voice.
"Yeah! What should I do with it?"
"Get rid of it!"
"I know! I'll throw it in the water!" Guybrush grimaced, and ducked under the pier.
"No! Don't do that!"
"Why not! I have to ditch it!"
"It might wash up somewhere!"
Please finish the conversation, thought Guybrush as he stood by the ladder with a dwindling oxygen supply.
"What do I care! My prints won't be on it!" There was a pause. "Naaah, I might need it. See you."
"See you."
There was more movement, then silence. Guybrush started climbing.

At the top he gulped in air for a few minutes, then shook himself as dry as possible. "Well, that wasn't so hard," he said as he shook his head. "Now all I have to do is show this stupid idol to the pirate leaders and-"
"You're alive!" shouted a voice behind him. Guybrush turned to see Elaine standing at the other end of the pier.
"Governor!" he cried, startled.
"Hey, you can talk! Who'd have known?"
"What are you doing here?" asked Guybrush, bitterly. "Come to finish the job?"
"No, I came down here to save your life," said Elaine simply. "Fester wasn't acting on my orders when he threw you in there."
"You came down here to rescue me?" said Guybrush, disbelievingly. "I didn't even think you liked me."
"Well, our first meeting was a little awkward," admitted Elaine. "You seemed to have trouble forming complete sentences. But, then again, so do most of my citizens."
"But I'm not one of your citizens," moaned Guybrush, suddenly ashamed. She was just too beautiful for him. He turned his head and stared at the pier, sick to his heart with love. "I'm just a drifter," he continued sadly. "A nobody, a would-be pirate." He turned and faced her. "Who would have known, or even cared, if you'd let me drown?"
"I would have, Guybrush," said Elaine softly.
Guybrush's heart suddenly swelled with a joy so intense it might break him. "Oh, Governor..." he breathed.
Elaine walked closer. "Oh, Threepwood..."
"Oh, Elaine!" In the world of Guybrush and Elaine, music had started playing and birds were chirping gaily. They moved closer.
"Oh, Guybrush!"
"Love muffin!"
"Sugar boots!"
"Honey pumpkin!"
"Plunder bunny!"
They were separated by mere inches of air. "Kiss me!" cried Guybrush.
Elaine turned her head quickly. "No! We mustn't!"
The music stopped jarringly. Guybrush's eyes cleared somewhat. "What?" This wasn't in the script.
Elaine looked at him. "Not here, where everyone can see."
"Why? Are you ashamed of me?"
"No, no," said Elaine quickly, "it's not that at all. It's just that many of these pirates have made advances toward me. And to avoid hurting their feelings, I've always told them that my father made me promise never to fall in love with a pirate. If they see us together, they'll know I was lying."
"Okay then, let's go to your place," suggested Guybrush.
"Okay," agreed Elaine. "But finish your trials first. I don't want you to be ... preoccupied."
Guybrush swallowed as Elaine walked back to the mansion. "But..." he called after her. He looked at the pier again. "I feel this sudden urge to complete the trials ... quickly." He looked at the idol, remembered he'd already completed one, and trotted off to the Scumm Bar.

Inside, things hadn't cooled off any. Guybrush guided himself around the prone bodies to the far room, where he slammed the fabulous idol on the table in front of the epileptic pirate leaders. "I'm the sneakiest footpad in these isles!" he announced.
The short pirate looked at him. "Oh, if it isn't the young boy who wants to be a pirate."
The dirty pirate had seen the idol. "Ah, the idol of Many Hands! Ye're a brave lad! And thank ye for stealin' it for us." He took the idol and concealed it in his overcoat.
Guybrush left quickly. There wasn't much time to lose. He had a sword, he had a time limit, so it was time to visit the Sword Master.

A short hike later, he was outside the Sword Master's house, ready for anything.
Unfortunately, so was the Sword Master.
"How dare you approach the Sword Master without permission-" she began as he approached, then she realised his identity. "Oh, it's you." She scowled.
"My name is Guybrush Threepwood," said Guybrush. "I've come to kill you."
"Nothing like being honest," said the Sword Master. "What was your final grade in Captain Smirk's sword fighting class?"
"Uh..." The name meant nothing to Guybrush. "Grade? Class?"
"You mean," said the Sword Master in unbelieving tones, "you came here to take on the Sword Master of Melee Island™ - possibly the greatest sword fighter in the entire Caribbean - without a single lesson in the art of fencing?"
"Yep," said Guybrush.
"How did you expect to defend yourself?"
"Gee... I dunno."
"I see. Obviously not with your razor-sharp wit. I'd advise you to seek out Captain Smirk's and get some real training. It would hardly be ethical, sporting, or even interesting to fight someone as unskilled as yourself. So beat it."
"Where is Captain Smirk?" asked Guybrush.
The Sword Master sighed, and told him.

As it turned out, on the other side of the island. Guybrush had been trekking for quite a while when he found himself at a small bridge. Blocking the way over the bridge was an ugly green troll with a large wooden club. "STOP!!" it roared as he approached. "You must pay a toll!"
"Oh please, can't I pass?" pleaded Guybrush.
"Boy, do you sound like a wimp," said the troll contemptuously. "I hate wimps."
Guybrush decided to correct his misconception. "Stand aside, troll!" he yelled in his most fearsome voice. "I'm a mighty pirate!"
The troll looked uninterested. "You're no pirate! Why, the town drunk could out-insult you on his back! (and probably would.)"
"Oh yeah?" rejoined Guybrush.
"Yeah! You know, you could stand a lesson or two if that's the best you can do."
Guybrush took a deep breath. "I can out-insult anyone, you brainless clay doppelganger!"
The troll was not impressed. "I once owned a dog that was smarter than you. Take that and stick it in your repertoire!"
Guybrush didn't like the way the conversation was going. Most likely, this troll would be wanting a fair portion of his money as the toll. "How much is the toll?" he enquired politely.
"Well, what have you got?"
Guybrush did a mock search of his pockets. "Oh, nothing of importance."
"I want something that will attract attention, but have no real importance." The troll looked at him expectantly. Guybrush thought - that sounded a little like a riddle.
"A rubber chicken with a pulley in the middle?" he suggested.
"That's pretty useless," conceded the troll, "but it's not what I want. I want something that will divert attention from things that are really important."
That sounded even more like a riddle. Guybrush did a quick inventory of the items he was carrying and checked if they fit. He remembered he had a herring in his pot...
Guybrush quickly turned his back, got out the fish, and checked the colour. Red.
Perfect.
Guybrush turned back and handed the red herring to the troll. A cheerful expression broke out on the troll's face as he took the gift. "Ah! A red herring!" He drew to one side. "Pass."
Guybrush walked past.

Soon his attention was caught by a bright set of lights on his left. Presently he saw a collection of boats anchored at a jetty. A large sign hung above the entrance greeted the visitor - Stan's Previously Owned Vessels.
Guybrush walked across the pavement, past bargain basement rowing boats and canoes, to a small office by the jetty. There was a note on the door.
"STAN'S PREVIOUSLY OWNED VESSELS. I'm off searching the globe right now for the finest in previously owned marine transportation. Have a look round, I'll be right back - Stan."
There was a grog machine by the office. Grog, Diet Grog, Cherry Grog, Grog Classic, Caffeine Free Grog, and Root Beer. Guybrush tried it, but it was out of order. He left and rejoined the path, and not five minutes later was standing at a stone sign in front of a small flat house.
He had reached the lower outer peninsula of Melee Island™, and here the land was less sheltered from crosswinds. A chill breeze was blowing as he walked toward the door, where, if the sign was accurate, he could find Captain Smirk's Big Body Pirate Gym. The prices were 30 pieces of eight for Sword Fighting training, 160 pieces of eight for Cannonball Firing, and 130 pieces of eight for Grappling Hook.
The front door, Guybrush found, was a double reinforced wooden affair six feet wide. He decided to knock - it was only polite.
The door opened, and Guybrush drew back to allow room for Captain Smirk. This man, should it seem possible, was larger and more muscular than Fester Shinetop. His muscles had muscles. He had a nasty army crewcut, was smoking an evil looking cigar, had an eyepatch over one eye, and tattoos on both arms. Guybrush was impressed. This looked like just the chap.
"What do you want, you wimpy little spineless maggot?" he bellowed down at Guybrush, in what was no doubt his normal speaking voice.
"Can we step inside?" asked Guybrush. "It's a bit chilly out here."
"What did you say?" roared Captain Smirk
"I said it's a little chilly out here!" said Guybrush, louder.
Captain Smirk considered this. He looked at the night sky. "Hmmm - you're right. I could catch a cold." He ducked inside and shut the door.
Guybrush stood still for several seconds before coming to the realisation that Captain Smirk was not re-emerging. He knocked again.
Captain Smirk reappeared. "What do you want?"
"Could you train me to be better than the Sword Master?" asked Guybrush.
Captain Smirk squinted his good eye at Guybrush. "Better than the Sword Master? You?? Ha ha ha!!" He bit down on his cigar. Smoke blew into Guybrush's face. "You could never be half the sword fighter Carla is. Even with hours of hard work and sweatin' blood." The cigar rolled around in his mouth. "I remember fightin' side by side with Carla at Port Royal. The local constabulary had us cornered! It looked like we were done for, but then she said... but I digress. You just don't have what it takes."
"I do so have what it takes!" shouted back Guybrush.
"You do not!"
"I do so!"
"You do not!"
"I do so!"
Captain Smirk smiled. "I like your spirit. I'll do what I can. Of course, it'll cost ya. What do you got?"
"I've got thirty pieces of eight," said Guybrush.
Captain Smirk held up a meaty palm. "Say no more, say no more. Let's see your sword."
"Okay, check it out." Guybrush held out his recently retrieved weapon.
"Yes, this is a nice one," agreed Captain Smirk. "Let's get to it." He led the way indoors.

Indoors...
Guybrush was expecting rooms and passages, but instead found himself inside a large gym, standing on a blue mat. Posters of various fighting poses lined the walls. A far corner held numerous pieces of workout equipment.
Captain Smirk was addressing him. "OK, ya maggot, why don't you whip out that sword and let's see what you can do with it." He watched as Guybrush slowly brandished his sword, and started stabbing the air like a butterfly catcher on cocaine. "Boy!" said Captain Smirk sharply. "You fight like a dairy farmer! I don't usually waste my time with vermin like yourself. But seeing as this LeChuck thing has put a cramp on business, I've got no choice. I need the money." Guybrush demonstrated some further moves, a bit on the back foot after the first appraisal. "Yes, I can see this is going to take some special measures. Just want you to know - I don't do this with everyone. It's only because I feel that special student / mentor / pieces of eight bonding that I'm going to these lengths. I'm going to put you up against... THE MACHINE." He walked off, leaving an uncertain Guybrush, sword still stuck in the air, to ponder this development.
"Machine?" he called out after Captain Smirk. "Is this going to hurt?"
Captain Smirk reappeared. Or rather, he failed to reappear because he was concealed by the massive construction he was wheeling toward Guybrush. It had swords. It had boxing gloves. It had intricate machinery. It had a monkey on the top. The overall impression was that of a combine harvester with a slightly different purpose.
"Yikes!" said Guybrush, startled.
Captain Smirk stood behind the machine, his hands on the controls. "Come at me. Don't be afraid, you won't hurt me." He started operating levers. The machine's sword started swinging. Guybrush raised his sword and parried it.
Captain Smirk called out more advice as Guybrush gained in confidence. "Advance, Thrust, Recover, Parry, Riposte." Occasionally the fist would punch forward, requiring Guybrush to dodge.
"No! Beat first, then lunge!
"Distance, distance!"

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

More hours pass...
"Not bad. You've got good form." Captain Smirk released the machine and looked Guybrush in the eye. "Now I'm gonna let you in on the real secret of sword fighting. Sword fighting is kinda like making love. It's not always what you do, but what you say. Any fool pirate can swing a piece of metal and hope to cut something, but the pros, they know just when to cut their opponent with an insult - one that catches 'em off guard. You see, kid, your wit's got to be twice as sharp as your sword. Let's try a couple of insults out, eh?"
Guybrush held his sword in the parry position as Captain Smirk thought. "Okay, imagine this: We're fighting up a storm, just like Carla and I did up at Port Royal. There's a break in the fighting, and I say to you: 'you fight like a dairy farmer!' You respond with?"
"You must be thinking of someone else," said Guybrush, "I am not a farmer."
Captain Smirk sighed. "I can see we've got a lot of work to do here. You should have responded with something like 'How appropriate. You fight like a cow.'" Guybrush blinked - that was a good one. He stored it away in memory for further use. "You see, it's razor sharp wit like that wins fights. Let's try another. Imagine this: you're trapped up against a wall. My sword just slashed two cuts in your face. I say: 'Soon you'll be wearing my sword like a shish-kabob!' You respond with?"
"So's your mother," said Guybrush defiantly.
"I can sense we're in deep trouble here," said Captain Smirk. "A correct response to 'Soon you'll be wearing my sword like a shish-kabob!' would be 'First you better stop waving it like a feather duster!' See? Razor-sharp! Now, I suggest you go out there and learn some insults."

A short while later Guybrush stood outside Captain's Smirk Gym, with decidedly mixed feelings about the worth of his help. It looked like he'd have to put in a lot more work.
Guybrush walked back toward the busier parts of Melee Island™. As was usual for most pirate islands, Melee Island™ did not go to sleep at night. Soon Guybrush found he was passing a pirate every other minute. Many of them carried swords.
At the fork Guybrush decided to wait and practice against the first pirate that appeared. Soon a blonde pirate in green pants appeared. Guybrush stood firmly in his way. "Ay, this better be importan'," said the pirate.
"My name is Guybrush Threepwood," said Guybrush in a hollow voice. "Prepare to die!"
The two pirates whipped out their swords.
Being the attacker, Guybrush decided to offer the first gambit. "I once owned a dog that was smarter than you," he said triumphantly.
The pirate looked stricken - he didn't know the correct reply. "I'm shaking, I'm shaking," was the best he could offer. Suddenly Guybrush was pressing forward, pushing the pirate back with each blow he parried. There was a second pause as Guybrush held the sword centimetres from his belly. "Soon you'll be wearing my sword like a shish-kabob!"
"Oh yeah?" said the pirate, again forced on the back foot. Guybrush carried the fight forward, elated. These insults really did work! "You fight like a dairy farmer," he added as the fighting lapsed.
"I am rubber, you are glue."
A blow from Guybrush's sword sent the pirate's sword flying. The pirate gasped at him. "I give up! You win!"
Guybrush grinned, sat down by the fork, and waited for more.

He soon found most fights to be a lot harder. The pirates all seemed to know the answers to his insults, and when they knew the answer they were able to deflect his attacks and press the advantage.
"Nobody's ever drawn blood from me and no-one ever will!"
"You run that fast?"
"You have the manner of a beggar."
"I wanted to make sure you'd be comfortable with me."
"I once owned a dog that was smarter than you."
"He must have taught you everything you know."
Soon Guybrush found himself being insulted in unfamiliar ways, and losing fights.
"Have you stopped wearing diapers yet?"
"Why, did you want to borrow one?"
"There are no words for how disgusting you are!"
"Yes there are. You just never learned them."
"I've spoken with apes more polite than you!"
"I'm glad to hear you attended your family reunion."
However, slowly but surely, he came to learn the new insults.
"This is the END for you, you gutter-crawling cur!"
"And I've got a little TIP for you. Get the POINT?"
"I'm not going to take your insolence sitting down!"
"Haemorrhoids flaring up again, eh?"
"I got this scar on my face during a mighty struggle!"
"I hope now you've learned to stop picking your nose."
Each pirate had their own favourite, but they all used the same ones. It helped a lot.
"You make me want to puke."
"You make me think someone already did."
"I've heard you're a contemptible sneak."
"Too bad no-one's heard of you at all."
"People fall at my feet when they see me coming!"
"Even before they smell your breath?"
Over countless battles, he honed his skill.
"My handkerchief will wipe up your blood!"
"So you got that job as janitor, after all."
"You're no match for my brains, you poor fool!"
"I'd be in real trouble if you ever used them."
Soon, Guybrush knew everything. He fought with a demon skill. He insulted with a demon wit. Finally, one of his vanquished opponents remarked "You're good enough to take on the Sword Master!"
Guybrush decided to take his advice. He hiked to the secluded house, grinning because this time he was prepared.
The Sword Master was not, of course, pleased to see him. "You again," she scowled as he approached.
"My name is Guybrush Threepwood. I've come to kill you." Guybrush smirked.
"Nothing like being honest," said Carla. "I can tell by the sarcastic expression on your face that you've been fully trained by Captain Smirk. Let's get this over with."
They drew swords. Carla spoke first. "Every word you say to me is stupid."
The unfamiliar insult flummoxed Guybrush. "I am rubber, you are glue," he threw up as a makeshift shield, backpedaling under Carla's fierce sword slashes.
"No one will catch me fighting as badly as you do!" she said arrogantly.
Guybrush brightened. "You run that fast?"
Carla's smile disappeared. Guybrush pushed back, recovering lost ground. "My last fight ended with my hands covered in blood," she snarled.
"I hope now you've learned to stop picking your nose," said Guybrush mildly. He picked up on her trick. Carla merely used reworded versions of traditional insults.
"Only once have I met such a coward!"
"He must have taught you everything you know."
Carla was on the back foot. Guybrush hung back, letting her make the insults because he knew he'd have the appropriate retort.
"Now I know what filth and stupidity really are!"
"I'm glad to hear you attended your family reunion."
"My sword is famous all over the Caribbean!"
"Too bad no-one's ever heard of you at all."
Guybrush had her on the back foot. She darted back, not willing to concede the fight. A windmill of sword blades whirled.
"My wisest enemies run away at the first sight of me!"
"Even before they smell your breath?"
"I hope you've got a boat ready for a quick escape!"