"How do you know these people?" Elaine queried as she kept her gaze focussed on Cleave's ship through the telescope.
"A random encounter on a passenger barge, of course," he replied, matter-of-factly.
"Of course. What are their names?"
"Uh, the short one is Bobby Fatt, the tall one calls himself 'Sea' Thrippio, and the muscly guy goes under the nickname of 'Chewy.'"
"Wow. What a shameless LucasArts plug."
"I know. There's just no subtlety anymore, but I'll overlook it this time because I've got me a whole crew - - and not a caber or banjo in sight!"
"Well," Elaine remarked, shifting topics, "We've breached the outer rim; it looks like he's heading deeper inwards. But that can't be right, there aren't any properly documented islands this deep in the Caribbean."
"Deep in the Caribbean," Guybrush whispered to himself while staring vacantly out at the blue, "Monkey Island."
"Excuse me?"
"Monkey Island, Elaine. I knew I hadn't seen the last of it. And no destiny-fulfilling adventure would be complete without a daring finale in its mystery-addled jungles of incomprehensible peril and deception. All of my Pirate years, all of my escapades, all of my log entries surround it; who am I to properly fulfil my Pirate criterion without paying a visit to the Island of a thousand bad memories? So, in conclusion - - let's turn back."
Elaine smiled lovingly and dropped down beside her bumbling husband.
"Guybrush," she whispered while caressing his face, "I take pride in knowing I married the true hero of the seven seas. You've never failed me before, and I know you won't now. Let's go put an end to this plot………together."
"Aw, okay."
"Land ho, Cap!" cried Fatt from the crow's nest.
Guybrush gasped and propped himself up on the rigging to get a better view. There it was. The pointed crag of jaded rock standing dormant above the wretched tangles of foliage below. A wellspring of fresh water cascading over a ridge and into the enchanting depths of a cove beneath. And a stone idol of a monkey's head carved by a congregation of faceless Tribesmen at the Western point of the whole island. And it was there that Lance Cleave docked, against an almighty sandbar not far from the jungle at the end of the beach as the sun dropped below the horizon, illuminating the whole visage in a striking shade of orange.
"What business could Cleave possibly have here on Monkey?" Elaine wondered aloud.
"It looks like he doesn't have a crew with him," Guybrush noted after taking the telescope from his wife and gazing through it. "He's going into the jungle. Mr. Thrippio, make for the central shore and drop anchor there! We don't want him to think we're following him."
"Uh, Guybrush?" Elaine asked, flatly. "What other reason do we have to be on a deserted tropical island in the middle of nowhere?"
"Okay………if he asks, I proposed to you again and we're on our second honeymoon."
"Of course. Let's just follow from a distance."
The ship thudded to a halt against the sand, and Elaine left the crew with a sizeable bag of booty in exchange for their loyalty. Provided they wouldn't abandon the couple while they're away, she promised, more rewards would be in order upon their return. The Pirates understood, and bade the two a fond farewell as they too darted into the jungle.
"Elaine!" panted Guybrush as they sprinted under the ominous canopy of vegetation, "How do you know which way to go?"
"My grandfather spent most of his life here," she replied simply. "When you found him and brought him home just last year, he came with detailed maps of this island's geography. Trust me, I know my way around. And there's a clearing just up ahead that stands adjacent to where Cleave docked."
"Whatever you say, hon," he breathed before she skidded to a halt and pressed her palm against his chest as a motion for him to do likewise. He gratefully acquiesced, resting his hands against his knees and doubling over to catch his breath. Elaine's gaze was focussed and thorough, the rising moon radiating its blue luminance through the gaps in the foliage and casting the shadows of the fronds across her intent face.
"What are we looking at?" he whispered after a brief recovery.
She pointed down over a clearing below the ridge they were perched upon, and there stood Lance Cleave, the infamous impostor, gliding his hands across the smooth marble of the mountain base.
"It should be here somewhere," he murmured to himself.
All of a sudden, a resonating click followed by a dull hiss sounded about the immediate area, and a rectangular section of the stone pulled away from the rest of the mass, Cleave smirking malevolently at his success before entering the vacant opening.
"Must be his secret hideout," Guybrush remarked. "Quick, let's get down there before it closes!"
Elaine nodded in agreement, signalling for Guybrush to follow her lead as she slid down the face of the ridge on her feet and into the clearing. Guybrush did likewise, only his posture gave him too much leverage and he rocketed into the opposing wall of jungle.
"Guybrush, we really don't have time for incompetent boobery," she scolded, pulling him out of a large cluster of leaves. He dazedly staggered about on the spot before being guided inside the lair.
Both were taken aback by what they saw inside. Following a brief trek through a narrow passageway, the interior of the mountain branched out into a massive chamber, the cavernous ceiling rising a good forty feet above their heads. Dimly lit torches were propped evenly around the circumference of the room. A semi-circular table arrangement rested unused before a large bamboo throne resting atop a thatch pedestal at the adjacent end. Assorted fruits and meat products sat waiting on carved platters, and the aroma was thick as there was no ventilation.
"It looks like some sort of pre-Tribal banquet," Guybrush noted softly, taking a few awed steps in front of his wife. "But where did Cleave go?"
A brief whoosh followed by a loud thud from behind averted the adventurer's attention back to his wife, but to his surprise, she no longer stood there; instead, Cleave had swung down on a length of vine and taken her with him to the other end of the room, on a platform above the chamber.
"Elaine!" Guybrush cried, alarmed.
"Hey, put me down!" she demanded, but the malevolent Spaniard paid little attention.
"Sir!" Cleave announced to an invisible being, "They have arrived!"
A small tremor shook through the room. Elaine's struggling was silenced as she perked her ears to listen for it again. Guybrush raised his arms to steady himself as the tremors grew rhythmic and more intense about him. The silverware on the table shuddered in response, some vibrating right over the side and onto the floor. And before any uncomfortable queries could be made concerning the unsettling chain of events, a rippling sphere of flame spiralled into existence on the throne, and the translucent visage of the spectral LeChuck embodied it immediately.
"No," Guybrush uttered in disbelief.
There he stood, almost nine feet tall. No longer did he command a physical presence. His whole body was encased in bright fire, smouldering with intense power and authority. He was more terrifying than he had ever appeared previously. Not even his popular demonic representation could compare to his latest form. Menacingly, he descended from the throne and approached his cowering archenemy.
"Guybrush Threepwood," he uttered in a resonating tone of pure disdain. "I knew you would try to interfere with my sinister plot. But if only you had known that your interference was the critical inclusion to it!"
"That, uh………that kind of doesn't make any sense. How can you still be alive? I mean, not alive. But, y'know - - talking. And poised ready to kill me on the spot."
"Argh, at first my love for Elaine kept me from crossing over to the great beyond. But over time, I realised, t'was not my love for Elaine but my hatred for you! You who have foiled every one of my diabolical schemes! This is where it ends, Threepwood. It's time for you to finally discover the true Secret of Monkey Island!!!"
"What?!" cried Guybrush. "You mean Big Whoop?"
"Aye, Threepwood. The legendary treasure of Big Whoop. Otherwise known as The Gates of Hell themselves!"
With dramatic flair, LeChuck raised his flaming arms, and a sinister vortex tore through the very fabric of human existence, the gaping void roaring ominously before the wide-eyed hero.
"Ye've wasted your time, boy," laughed LeChuck. "Ye've made a valiant effort to stop me from buying out the Caribbean. But now it's time for you to cross over, and leave behind your precious widow - - who will no doubt turn to me on the rebound."
From above, Elaine rolled her eyes.
"Have you a valediction, Threepwood?" LeChuck sneered, bending down so that his face of evil was level with his prey, the rippling heat distorting it badly.
Guybrush frantically checked his inventory for anything that could be used, retrieving a solitary can of unopened Grog Twist.
"Nice try, boy," the smouldering cacodemon laughed, standing upright. "But I'm no longer in my ghostly form. A measly can o' grog won't do the trick this time over."
"This is no ordinary grog," Guybrush remarked, his voice rising as he shook the can feverishly, "This has a refreshing………citrus………TINGE!!!"
His index finger fastening over the tab, Guybrush turned away from the trembling aluminium cylinder, and with an almighty thrust of his forearm, the explosive carbonated beverage erupted from its prison, the impact of the blast launching the vehement entity into the very void he had opened.
"D'AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarrrgh!"
LeChuck's abrupt intrusion into the land of eternal punishment caused the vortex to collapse upon itself, which, in turn, caused the entire chamber to begin a long and painful implosion, lethal chunks of debris falling about the place.
"Elaine!" cried Guybrush.
As her captor was stunned, Elaine bit into his large shoulder.
"Pappapishu!" bawled Cleave, dropping her onto the platform. She pressed the weight of her body against the flooring and spun one of her toned legs about, sweeping his feet from under him, and sending the startled lackey plummeting to the floor some thirty feet below. Grasping the vine, the daring Governess swung down, releasing it at ten feet and drifting daintily (in her opinion) into the arms of her love. And if daintiness involves slamming into him at an alarming rate and riding his floored body across the length of the passageway like a sled, she was right.
The claustrophobic atmosphere of the chamber was instantly forgotten as they dove out into the crisp evening air, the mountain collapsing on itself almost immediately afterwards. And as the two scurried into the recesses of the undergrowth, only the dull roar of the failing protrusion was heard. That, and the distant echoes of a bloodcurdling scream from beyond.