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"Is this your definition of friendship?" Norrington demanded.

"No. It is my definition of 'Norry, you stink, so you must find some suitable clothing to wear.'"

"Jack, I don't believe stealing every article of clothing I own constitutes as a proper solution to that issue."

"It does when the stench threatens our health," Elizabeth broke in. "And I thought the donkey was bad."

At the moment, Norrington was clad only in a skillfully wrapped ensemble made from his used parachute. Skilful as it may have been, however, that did not negate the fact that it had an uncanny resemblance to a diaper. Or a Sumo wrestler's, uh, outfit. Whatever strikes you, dear reader, as more comical. Use that mental imagery.

Norrington, of course, preferred to think that the rest of his companions all had mental problems. As he waddled around in his unwanted attire, he demanded immediately that his confiscated clothes be returned.

"What in the name of Britain did you do with them anyway, Jack?"

"I've donated them."

"Donated them?"

"We're helping the orphans," Will explained.

Jack grinned wryly, rummaging through the last bit of their luggage in vain search of alcoholic satisfaction. He came up empty handed. "Actually, I've donated them to science."

"Science."

"Yes, science. Barbossa's online college courses have required that he do an experiment. I believe he's chosen something about the effects of body odor and nose-size on clothing. Your uniform was made for this purpose, Norry."

The Commodore slammed a foot down, making him look like an oversized, pouting child in a rather unattractive form of Pampers. "Jack, this is ridiculous. Do you know how prized that uniform is? All my awards! It represents my status!"

"It's flaaaammable!" called Barbossa triumphantly from somewhere behind the plane. "By George, look at that! Like the Fourth of July!"

"We aren't even American!" shrieked Norrington. "My uniform will not commit treason in its final minutes! Can't you pick a bloody British holiday?"

Gillette rushed to his brother's rescue. "Cinco de Mayo!"

"I'm partial to Miracle Whip myself," Will put in. "And hey, I think the donkey's waking up!"

Elizabeth had had enough. Here she was, the only sane and beautiful one here, on some island that claimed to be Pittsburgh, among…well, her companions were hardly worth mentioning at this point.

She grabbed Will's hand and dragged him away from the recovering donkey. A plume of rank smoke was billowing from where Barbossa was apparently roasting Norrington's overcoat like it was Sunday's barbeque. Jack had quickly joined him with Norrington's precious hat. (After all, you can't cook the burger without toasting the buns. And judging by Norry's expression, the buns were getting severely toasted.) The Commodore dashed after him frantically, tugging up the parachute as he went. Gillette seemed torn as to what to do. Finally, he decided that his brother might be in need of some assistance.

"Shouldn't we--?" Will tried, gesturing to the chaos that ensued.

"No, we shouldn't. Wouldn't want to catch whatever ghastly disease they all have."

"Disease?" Will gasped. "Is this that bird thing?"

"No, Will, it isn't the Avian flu."

"Oh. But Avian? Weren't we just all on a plane? Isn't that dangerous? Aren't we--?"

"Will. Listen to me. I don't know how long we're going to be stuck here, but I'm sure the pilot knows where to find a decent fuel source. After all, this island does appear to be inhabited, what with the landing strip and signs and all."

"The natives," Will nodded dutifully. "From Pittsburgh."

"Yes, whatever." Elizabeth flipped back a trestle of her brown hair. "But I need you to promise that you'll do something for me."

"Anything Elizabeth."

"No matter how long we're stuck here, no matter what horrid things arise, I need you to swear that you'll do this one thing for me."

"I would do anything for you. Point to the mountain, and I'll climb it. Give me a riddle, and I'll solve it. Ask me a question, and—"

"Will." Elizabeth held him by the shoulders, gazing deeply, seriously, into his eyes. "I need you to try… and act normal."

He paused, waiting.

"Okay?"

"You mean… That's it? 'Act normal'?"

"Yes. I know it's asking a lot, but…"

"You mean…" Will blinked. "I'm not acting normal now?"

"No, now you are. It's just, when you're around them, sometimes I think they wear off on you."

"Well, Norrington's barely wearing anything, so I don't think that should be a problem."

"Will." Elizabeth sighed, rubbing her temples. "Go help your donkey."

…

By that evening, things had taken unexpected turns. Jack was hopelessly sober, for one. His mind had cleared enough to realize the odd predicament they all faced. Dusk had fallen, the pilot had yet to return, and everyone was beginning to doubt Norrington's sanity as he continued to insist that their flight director was actually the Harbor Master.

"Norry, I think the night chill is getting to you," Jack commented blithely. "Get closer to the fire."

"Oh, yes, of course. So glad my uniform could provide you all with heat," sneered Norrington as he scooted up to the putrid-smelling flames. He swore he could catch sight of the remnants of a charred sleeve. He gazed, tearing up, into the fire. His voice cracked with maudlin protests. "Oh, my dear, dear hard work! Up in smoke." He glared at Barbossa, hissing, "You might as well have bloody burned the flag of England."

"But this is so much more fun," laughed Jack. "How's that report coming, Barbossa?"

"Splendid," the pirate replied, typing in the last bit of his information before logging off his laptop. "Norrington, your uniform has proven to be stench-conductive, combustible, and utterly worthless in the fashion industry. I congratulate you on your donation to science and my ground-breaking experiment."

"You've discovered that clothes catch on fire. What a breakthrough."

"Speaking of breakthroughs," Gillette interrupted, "have we any suggestions on how we should get out of here? The pilot seems to have lost his way."

"Don't be ridiculous," Elizabeth shrugged. "I bet he's right around the corner, fetching us some fuel just in time for takeoff early morning tomorrow."

"Five glasses of rum says he's lost already!" Jack called. Barbossa promptly took him up on the bet.

Gillette sighed. "Well, at least we've all gotten the perfect opportunity to bond with each other!"

"Oh, yes. Why don't we sing campfire songs?" Norrington muttered, rolling his eyes.

"Brilliant idea, bro!" cheered Gillette, slapping the Commodore on the back. "Why don't we?"

"Because we have self-respect," Elizabeth said.

"Thank you for pointing out the obvious," nodded Norrington gratefully as he rearranged his diaper. "We are a bunch of grown adults here…"

Barbossa jeered. "I think Baby Norry's getting cranky. Does somebody want to put him to bed?"

"Sing him a lullaby!" cackled Jack.

"That is enough from the peanut gallery!"

"Yeah, sorry about that. I ate all the nuts on the plane," Will apologized. Norrington slapped himself on the head.

"That's it, I'm going to bed. And the rest of you can do whatever it is you do, so long as I'm not a part of it!"

They watched as the Commodore stalked off, the white parachute ultimately fading into the horizon.

…

Barbossa poked at the fire with a stick.

The bits and pieces of Norrington's hat sizzled.

A cricket chirped.

Gillette swallowed.

Gillette swallowed a chirping cricket.

…

"Uh… Where do you think Norrington's going?" Will asked finally.

"To bed," replied Jack simply. "Didn't you hear?"

"Uh… Where exactly is 'bed'?"

"Somewhere…over the rainbow…" crooned Gillette. "Join in everyone! Where bluebirds flyyyy…"

…

While the others continued to guffaw over the sulking Commodore, Norrington had wandered from the island's shore and up a steep slope further inland. He figured he'd camp out somewhere higher, where he didn't have to fret about incoming tides, unruly creepy-crawlers, donkeys, and Jack's mocking commentary.

As he scaled the peek of the hill, he suddenly realized that the fire from the others' campsite, which had been fading into the distance behind him, suddenly exploded with a fresh burst of light. He even had a shadow, despite the hour of night that was settling in around him.

But with a quick glance back, he realized that the small speck of fire down along the beach had not grown brighter at all; rather, this was some new light source drenching the area in luminous golden yellows.

Whatever it was, it was just beyond the peak of the hill.

Stumbling to the precipice, Norrington peered out over the edge, eyes bugging out at the valley that spanned below and across the very heart of the island.

Actually, he couldn't see the valley very well anymore. It was too shrouded by business buildings, hotels, paved streets, swimming pools, and the occasional bar. Streamers of light flowed from lampposts that ran along the roadsides like neatly arranged escorts. There appeared to be a rather distressful traffic jam down the center street.

Norrington, standing there and gaping in his diaper, suddenly began to question his sanity.