"Must you leave so soon, Mr. Threepwood?" Gertrude sighed.
"Indeed I must," replied Guybrush. "Nevertheless, it's been a mighty fine stay for a mighty fine Pirate, and I won't ask for a refund for the remaining days."
"Good show, sir."
"Come on, Timmy!" he called as the bellhop struggled to manoeuvre his luggage from the plateau to the docks, "Back to Melee Island, to attempt a simple task that will no doubt go horribly wrong, resulting in many a hilarious misadventure."
"Ook-ah-ah-ah," Timmy bemoaned, rolling his eyes.
"That's the spirit."
"Last call for Melee Island! All aboard! Please forfeit exotic shoulder parrots at the front desk!"
"That's us," Guybrush remarked. "Have you got all of your things, Timmy? Your chew banana? Your Gubernatorial Collar? Your latest edition of Divine Pelts?"
The small chimp nodded impatiently and, smiling, Guybrush climbed aboard the small ferry as it hoisted anchor and drifted gently away from the serene harbour town of Puerto Gato. Guybrush rested his elbows against the deck railing and sighed longingly as Chubb Island grew decreasingly visible, before being masked by the glimmering mirage of the afternoon sun on the water. Sighing once more for good measure, he turned and clambered below deck, where three dignified, middle-aged men (and Timmy) were playing cards around a lantern at the centre of the table.
"Ahoy, there!" he beamed, "I'm Guybrush Threepwood, Mighty Pirate."
"Fascinating," grunted the stoutest of the men. Nothing further was said, and Guybrush scratched his neck uncomfortably as each of them gave the other tense sidelong glances, before Timmy grinned slyly and laid five of a kind across the table.
"Ach!" seethed the tallest, a knobbly gentleman with chiselled features, "Blast your Primate intuition, ya sneaky scoundrel!"
Annoyed, the other men laid their inferior dealings on the table, and pushed their respective piles of shining dubloons over in the direction of the eager chimpanzee.
"That's my monkey," chuckled Guybrush with pride. The mention of his relation to the winning animal piked the gentlemen's interest in his presence, and they all turned to face him.
"Hey, I know you," the muscliest of them remarked, "You're Governor Marley's lackey, aren't you?"
"Uh, actually I believe the word you're searching for is husband."
"Aye, same difference," snorted the stoutest. "Yer still half the man she is."
The joke caused the men (and Timmy) to laugh uproariously, slamming their hefty palms against the wood with glee. Guybrush frowned with considerable disapproval, hoping that his look of icy rage would cease their fevered guffaws. When that was unsuccessful, he felt it necessary to defend himself through words.
"For your information, I was the hero responsible for saving the Caribbean from the iron grip of the Undead! On four consecutive occasions!"
"Is that so?" chuckled the tallest. "Then why hasn't your name been celebrated throughout the region? Why is it distinguished and well-educated noblemen such as ourselves can only recognise you as the significant other of a popular politician?"
"Uh……b-because excessive fame would clash with my modest persona?"
"Huh! Yeah, right."
"Ah, you guys wouldn't recognise a hero if it swung from the trees and galloped you off into the sunset on a white stallion. Let's go, Timmy. And don't forget the dubloons."
Annoyed, Guybrush climbed back onto the deck and sat under the shade of the cabin, folding his arms in profound irritation as their words of scorn and mockery resonated about his frequently vacant skull. Timmy offered a joking apology by petting his pouting owner's springy blonde quaff, but that did little to ease Guybrush's troubled mind. But, as luck would have it, his thoughts of 'if only' were suddenly wrought with a realistic edge as a mammoth cannon ball ploughed through the railing and onto the deck.
"We're under attack!" wailed the Captain of the passenger vessel. Stunned, Guybrush looked up and observed a much larger galley glide up beside theirs, as half a dozen fearsome buccaneers swung from the topsails and boarded their prey.
"Yer treasure or yer life!" thundered one.
Guybrush sprung from his seat, and valiantly reached for his belt to draw a sword from its sheath, instead pulling his fountain pen from his trouser pocket. Though the Pirates jeered, he was not intimidated, and clashed ballpoint with cutlass in a tense deadlock with their leader.
"Yer pen is no match fer the force of me cleaver!"
"With an overbite like yours, you could pass for a beaver."
Guybrush's rhyming retaliation took his opponent off guard, and he attained the upper edge as they struck at each other's weapons, the force of one blow in particular sending a thin geyser of black ink into the villain's eyes.
"D'argh!" the main bawled, before staggering backwards and falling into the waters below.
"Ha-ha!" Guybrush crowed, triumphantly. "The Pen is mightier than the Sword!"
The five other men, however, posed somewhat of a greater problem for him. They formed a menacing semi-circle, advancing towards him in synchronised fury.
"Whoa-kay….." he conceded, taking intimidated steps backwards. Nervously, he searched his pants for anything that could be of use to him in his hour of need. An empty can of Grog Twist, a tiny vial of vodka that he smuggled from his hotel room, a sachet of oxygen crystals that came with his new boots, and a melted wax Bride & Groom that stuck to the fabric of his trousers when he took it as a souvenir from his Wedding Day. In other words, not a heck of a lot.
The rest of the passengers looked on in open-mouthed horror as the intruders raised their blades, ready for a hearty dismemberment of their bumbling victim. Without thinking (a fine art for Guybrush), he emptied the vial and the sachet into the can, and it began to shudder violently, instilling his attackers with a sense of hesitance. He let the mock grenade fall to the deck and dove behind a large barrel of rum before it erupted, coating everything within an eight foot radius in a thick sheen of foam.
"G'argh!" one of them fumed, wiping the substance from his eyes. "Whar is that lubber?! I'll have 'im disembowelled and made into a new figurehead for th' ship!"
In a rage, he grasped the barrel with one arm, exposing the lubber in question. Still crouching, Guybrush looked up and grinned sheepishly before the man made a motion to smash the same barrel over his head. Terrified, he combat rolled out of the way and frantically made a dash up the small flight of stairs leading to the cabin roof, the rest of the enemies in hot pursuit. He turned at the top and leapt over them, clutching one of the thick wooden beams of the topsail, and there he hung precariously over their anxious swords.
Curious, Timmy clambered up the length of the mast and made a gesture towards one of the topsail support ropes.
"Ook?" he grunted.
"Sure," replied Guybrush, "I'm damned if you do, and damned if you do-WHOOA!!!"
Timmy snapped the spindly apparatus with his glistening incisors, and the beam Guybrush clung to swung away from its fixated position, simultaneously striking all five pirates in one fell swoop, sending their stout bodies rocketing over their galley, and into the briny deep beyond. He dropped from his perch back onto the deck to the rousing cacophony of applause - - even from the three men who doubted him.
"I've won respect!" he beamed. "And a new ship to boot!"
Guybrush took the abandoned galley of the invading Pirates for himself, and made his own way back to Melee, as repairs were needed for the damage he had done to the passenger vessel during the fight.
"Land Ho, First Mate Timmy!" he grinned as they arrived Melee Harbour that night. A few Dock Attendants catered to the logistics of the arrival as he trudged down from the boardwalk and onto streets. Fuelled by his own determination and an insatiable sense of nostalgia, Guybrush swiftly made his way through town, acknowledging (with no small amount of curiosity) that the International House of Mojo had closed, a flyer reading 'Visit our New Location on Flaccid Island."
"Well, whaddaya know," he mumbled to himself, "My first adventure that didn't involve the Voodoo Lady's guidance and/or mystical exchange of dialogue."
Still pondering, he passed under the archway and towards the Cliffside Marley Mansion, the noble infrastructure's silhouette clearly defined in the radiance of the full moon behind it.
"Honey, I'm ho-ome!" he called, bursting through the doorway. "Heh heh…..I'll never get tired of saying that."
There was a long silence as he stood in the main foyer.
"Honey? Elaine? I'm home!"
"She's not here," he heard a raspy man's voice mutter from behind. He turned to see his grandfather-in-law, HT Marley, busy at his desk.
"Well, then - - where is she?" Guybrush inquired.
"On Plunder Island, handing out free gangrene vaccinations to the citizens of Puerto Pollo. Y'know…….before the Sanitation Commissioner sees."
"Ah, but that's what I need to talk to her about. Y'see, I've uncovered a web of treachery and deception - -"
"Aren't you supposed to be on Chubb?" Marley interrupted, looking up.
"Yes, I was. But that's where I uncovered a web of treachery and deception involving the Sanitation Commissioner and the mysterious Captain Adrian Sever, who - -"
"Adrian Sever?" Marley interrupted again. "He's docking here on Melee tonight."
"He is?" Guybrush gasped. "But if my suspicions are correct…..then he's gonna trash the SCUMM Bar! I've gotta stop him!"
"What's this all about, boyo?" Marley asked.
"Well, Gramp……uh, Herman……..er, whatever! I don't mean to alarm you, but Elaine's position as Governor of the Tri-Island Area is at risk; and the very foundations of the Caribbean are at stake unless I can put a stop to a sinister alliance!"
And with that, Guybrush stormed out of the Mansion and into the bracing night air.
"It's the last part of that statement that worries me," Marley grunted, before returning to his work.