Pirating was hard work. Bugeye didn't remember signing up for it. But he wasn't about to sign out, either. The crew was certainly a ragtag bunch, but so it was with all pirates. Bugeye had been a part of many different crews. Well, a few; his career had gone a little off the rails with the whole manatee adventure. But those had been purely business—it was money or mutiny, no ties and no regrets. Here, they all seemed to share some sort of familiarity with Threepwood and had a story about him to tell. He caught snippets of their wild, outrageous tales while he hung back in the galley, peeling potatoes or poking the fire. Most of them seemed too ludicrous to be real. But he had his own odd story about Guybrush, and he still hadn't figured out certain parts of it. Like how he was quite certain that when they'd met, Threepwood had been missing a hand, yet now he was intact once more.
Also, the part where he had died. That one he definitely couldn't blame on a poor memory. He'd spent a good deal of time in the same room as the man's decaying corpse.
But no one loved telling wild stories about Guybrush as much as Guybrush. His crew was a captive audience. For the most part, at least—when he launched into his famous tale of How I Blew Up LeChuck, his wife Elaine and another woman named Carla would groan and head up to the deck rather than listen to a story they'd apparently lived through. At first no one believed his telling of it, but whether or not that changed, the crew got into the spirit of it, participating eagerly when he called for it. Soon they all had it memorized, down to the beats, and shortly after that, they realized how much it annoyed Bugeye. This added an entirely new delight to the experience.
"Deep in the Caribbean," Elaine shouted into the hole. The stars above framed her. "Mêlée Island!"
"No!" Bugeye groaned. "Don't you dare."
"From the personal log of Guybrush Threepwood…"
"Ugggghh!"
The diggers cackled. Haggis McMutton, the Scotsman, was one of them, and his companion Cutthroat Bill was on the shore above with the rest, but Bugeye didn't remember the other's names. He didn't care. He stabbed his shovel into the pit wall. "If you're going to start that up, just bury me right now." The hole had gotten over five feet deep as the sun had set. He wouldn't even have to lay down to be mercifully smothered. Pinchpenny Island hadn't been on his list of top ten places to die, of course, but it was more attractive than four hours of uninterrupted story telling. At least it had a nice lagoon.
"Eergh…. Come on, Bugeye, you're ruining the—gnnhf—the fun," Guybrush grunted, heaving a large, gold-rimmed chest to the edge. Sand showered down into the hole.
"Whoa, there, laddie, wait for a little assistance," Haggis protested, pulling himself up and out. "Yer suere tae break your back that way."
Bugeye held up his hands to receive the box, and the two pirates still occupying the hole caught it with him and helped set it down in the center. "The only one who has fun with those stories is you," he shouted upwards.
"Is that true?" Guybrush asked, his brow wrinkling with what appeared to be genuine concern. Their captain was too soft. Too easily manipulated.
A chorus of no's rang back to him, with one "Nay, lad", and one slow shake of a bald head from Cutthroat Bill. Guybrush beamed. "See! They like it."
Bugeye was left by himself in the hole as the others clambered out. "Whatever, gasbag," he snorted, crossing his arms. A lone palm tree hung over the pit, swaying in the wind. He'd have to use its roots to clamber out without help from anyone.
A shovelful of sand smacked him over the head.
"Hey!"
Peering over the rim, Elaine blinked innocently at him. "What? I thought you wanted to be buried."
