It turned out Norrington was not having a disturbingly clear hallucination. The cityscape he saw in the middle of the island really did exist.

It turned out that Jack's island had been almost completely commercialized, and much credit was due to our favorite swashbuckling pirate. The Skull and Crossbones planted a brilliant idea into the heads of hundreds of entrepreneurs who figured what better way of attracting famous celebrities than to throw some businesses on an island in the middle of nowhere?

Celebrities like that random kind of stuff. The gaudier, the better.

Which would explain why, though the island was teeming with businesses, they were utterly useless. There was no communication with the outside world (the idea was to create a secret getaway, not a tourist attraction). Perhaps most ironically of all, though, the Skull and Crossbones—which had started this whole commercial revolution—lay in shambles.

Apparently, once Jack had left, the celebs realized how boring it was without the World's Worst (But Helplessly Charming) Pirate. Jack found the decrepit building looking pretty depressing at the end of a large plot of empty, deserted land just on the outskirts of the new, bustling city.

And that was when the metaphorical light bulb clicked on.

The Harbor Master hadn't yet returned. It was becoming painfully clear that their little vacation might be longer than expected.

"Might as well put our time to good use!" Jack decided, and so threw himself into repairing his long-neglected Skull and Crossbones.

Not wanting to be left out, Will decided that he too would try his hand at owning a business. Despite Elizabeth's best attempts to dissuade him, he embarked on his journey to create "Will's House O' Pie," which would serve lemon meringue and featured a room full of life-sized, celebrity sculptures made entirely of (you guessed it) pie.

That gave Barbossa an idea. Why not make an Apple Pie Shop? His most recent online course had been an economics study on supply and demand, and he figured this would be the perfect opportunity to see the principles in action.

Elizabeth felt it was her duty in life to spread beauty and, since she was still furious over not arriving at her original destination, she opened up a Beauty Salon.

Norrington, in futile attempts to fulfill his own dream, opened up an Ice Cream Parlor.

Gillette begged to join him, but Norrington insisted that family-owned businesses only cause trouble among family members: Senseless bickering over wages, profit, and the like, plus all that extra time you had to spend together…shudder. It was bad enough they were forced to remain brothers; they should not add fuel to the fire by working in the same area as well.

Well, anyway, that was Norrington's logic. Gillette's logic was to agree, then build a Dyed Sand Shop right next door, where customers could create artwork with the vibrant sand by filling specially shaped vases or sprinkling it on paper. You know, all those annoyingly messy projects kids just have to do? Now they could do it at Gillette's Dyed Sand Shop, and Norrington could accidentally get his ice cream sprinkles mixed up with the sand, and his business could experience all that extra trouble thanks to brotherly love.

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And now, given that the story has probably thrown you, dear reader, for an extra stomach-swirling, spine-bending, vertigo-inducing loop, let's recap. You're probably tired of hearing our narration drag on, so let's go straight to the issue and get the word right out of the characters' mouths. That's just good journalism.

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INTERVIEWER: How are you feeling, Jack?

Jack: I'm happy. I'm gonna drink myself into more happiness tonight. And me Skull and Crossbone's revived! All that's missing is Ahnold.

INTERVIEWER: Doesn't it concern you that you're stuck on an island with apparently no hope of returning to Port Royal?

Jack: When the rum runs out, then I'll worry. Until then… We're having a special steak and ale deal over the Crossbones. You doing anything tonight?

Moving on…

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INTERVIEWER: How are you feeling, Norrington?

Norrington: Well, let's see. I'm in a bloody diaper, all of my ice cream is melting or covered in sand, and I'm stuck on an island with apparently no hope of returning to Port Royal.

INTERVIEWER: Jack seems to be enjoying himself.

Norrington: Ah, yes, the model of reason, Captain Jack Sparrow. Why can't we all be more like him?

INTERVIEWER: Why not indeed?

Norrington: Yes. Drunk, unmotivated, and reckless is the perfect way to go about living one's life.

INTERVIEWER: You have a better suggestion?

Norrington: Yes. Like… Like fixing up this Ice Cream Parlor, winning back Elizabeth's heart, and rescuing us all from the grasp of this wretched island!

INTERVIEWER: And how do you expect to do that?

Norrington: I'll tell you just as soon as you quit eating the orange sherbet.

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INTERVIEWER: How are you feeling, Elizabeth?

Elizabeth: Lovely. That's how this Beauty Salon makes me feel. Look at all the hair supplies, the makeup, the eyebrow tweezers…

INTERVIEWER: Ah, yes, for those eyebrows of yours. I'm curious… Where did you get all these supplies from?

Elizabeth: I'll explain if you can explain why Barbossa isn't dead.

INTERVIEWER: That, my dear, can be rationalized in two words: Plot. Hole.

Elizabeth: Well, whatever. I'm just happy I don't have to be bothered for a while. I can preoccupy myself with my business. Sure, the others are all along this street, but it's not like they have a key to this place and can just drop in whenever they—

INTERVIEWER: I believe that's Barbossa at your door.

Elizabeth: You saw nothing.

INTERVIEWER: He seems a bit insistent, doesn't he?

Elizabeth: No. He always head butts the door like that. Strangest thing.

INTERVIEWER: Maybe I'd better go speak with him.

Elizabeth: Yes, please do. Then let me fix your eyebrows. They're a bit bushy, unless you were going for that frazzled, German chemist look.

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INTERVIEWER: Barbossa, how are you feeling?

Barbossa: I have a headache.

INTERVIEWER: Well, you were banging your head against the door. Maybe that has something to do with it.

Barbossa: It's part of an experiment I'm doing for my college courses. Response to pain and pain management.

INTERVIEWER: Why would you intentionally hurt yourself?

Barbossa: Oh, I don't mean my pain management. I mean Elizabeth's. My experiment consists of annoying her in several different ways and recording how she responds. Based on the data, I will be able to conclude what will officially cause her to have a certified "freak-out."

INTERVIEWER: Do you think that is wise?

Barbossa: No. But I find it greatly entertaining. Now, if you don't mind, I must go back to my intensive study.

INTERVIEWER: I wish you luck.

Barbossa: Yes, thank you. And I highly suggest talking to Gillette next—he appears to have made a startling discovery as of late.

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INTERVIEWER: How are you feeling, Gillette? I've heard you made a startling discovery.

Gillette: I have? Really?

INTERVIEWER: Apparently so. It seems to have likewise startled you.

Gillette: Oh. Well, I don't know if it's really anything significant. But I have just received an invitation from some of the Natives to attend a group meeting tonight at dusk.

INTERVIEWER: That does sound interesting. What, is it like Boy Scouts?

Gillette: Maybe it's a bowling league. I don't know, honestly. But I was very humbled that they invited me.

INTERVIEWER: Is anyone else going?

Gillette: Hmm… The Natives really didn't say. They just made it sound really important that I be there.

INTERVIEWER: What were the Natives like?

Gillette: Well, they're from Pittsburgh.

INTERVIEWER: Uh-huh.

Gillette: I don't know. I'm not the one making this up. But they are. They wear the typical grass skirts and have some body paint. Ever see a Steelers game on TV? Crazy people like that. Except for the ten-foot long spears and shiny daggers, they look completely harmless.

INTERVIEWER: That's good to know. Where's the meeting?

Gillette: They gave me a map. It says, eh-hem, "You shall walk on the flaming stones of death—"

INTERVIEWER: Gasp!

Gillette: "—swim across the bottomless river of unspeakable terror—"

INTERVIEWER: Gasp!

Gillette: "—and then take the subway to the third station and the ceremony will be on your immediate left."

INTERVIEWER: Gasp!

Gillette: I know. Subways are so scary.

INTERVIEWER: Well, I'll be keeping my fingers crossed for you.

Gillette: Oh, no need. Their leader, the Voodoo Master, said he's been waiting to meet me for a long time. I'm sure everything will be perfect. I just wish my bro could come too…

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INTERVIEWER: Will, how are you feeling? Uh… Will? Will? Are you here Will? Where art thou, Will? Whilst Will ne'er return? Whyest must thy speakest in this abhorrent syntax?

Will, it turns out, could not be present for an interview. In exchange, oh most patient reader, we return you to your regular, sequential narrative scene, where Will is currently struggling to get his business up on its own two feet.

To do so, he figures the best way to accomplish this goal is to sit down:

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"Will." Jack wandered over to his friend. He looked at him for a long time before asking, "What are you doing?"

"Sitting," Will replied helpfully.

"I see that. You haven't moved from that spot in four days. Elizabeth's starting to worry."

"She is?"

"Not really. But she told me to tell you she was."

"Oh. Okay."

Some time passed. Will switched the tin can he was holding to his other hand, stretched out his legs, and watched as the grass tried to grow but didn't really—it's just a saying, after all.

"So." Jack wandered back to his friend. He looked at him for an even longer time before asking, "What are you doing?"

"Sitting."

"I see that. Why?"

"Because I'm having a sit-in."

"A sit-in." Actually, Will was having a sit-out, since at the moment he had no business to sit inside of, but let's not be picky. "Why?"

"Because I'm protesting."

"Protesting what?" Jack prompted.

"The world's injustices. Racism, child labor, warfare, Norrington's sideburns."

"Ah, I see. A noble cause, fighting those sideburns."

"I figure I'd better do all that I can with my life."

"And you're certainly making strides, sitting there."

Jack and Will looked up at the new voice that joined their conversation. Luckily, the voice also came with a body. A random, floating, omnipotent voice would've been a bit too weird, even for this story.

The voice belonged to Commodore Norrington. Will grinned back at the Commodore's smirk.

"Thanks," the blacksmith said. "I really appreciate your support. And just think: One day, the world will be free of monstrous sideburns."

"And we'll all have Will to thank," Jack added grandly.

"How selfless of you," Norrington commended sarcastically. He stared condescendingly at the empty tin can Will was holding, vacant of donations. "So, how has your fundraising been coming along?"

"Pretty well." Will was completely unperturbed. He reached behind him and brought out a two-stringed ukulele. Norrington was about to ask where the heck he'd gotten that from (as I'm sure the reader wants to know, too), when Will asked excitedly, "Want to hear my song?"

Norrington didn't have a chance to answer. Will was already plucking away on alternate strings, singing, to the tune of Gilligan's Island:

"Just sit right back and you'll hear a tale

A tale like none the same

We started from a Royal port

Upon a rusty plane

We didn't know who flew us 'round

Perhaps our first mistake

Six passengers flew out that day

Our motives all were fake

Norry started trouble in

The cockpit where he rushed

With parachute, he jumped right out

By the donkey, he was crushed

By the donkey, he was crushed

We landed on the shore of this uncharted desert isle

With Norr-ing-ton

Jack Sparrow, too

Eliz-a-beth, and Gill-ette

Bar-bos-sa's here

With all the rest

Here on Jack's marooned iiiiisle!"

Norrington stared at him, a mix of horrification and pity smeared across his pinched face. Jack was clapping.

"Congratulations, Will," Norrington sneered. "You've created a theme song to my miserable life. And I'm sure that just reaps in the profits."

"Sure does. Here's what I got today."

Norrington bothered to peer over the brim. So it wasn't entirely empty. "A nickel. How charming."

"Barbossa donated it this morning. He said he couldn't remember if it was real or not, but it's the thought that counts."

"Of course. Tax collectors feel exactly the same way."

"How's your fundraising going?"

Norrington gave a short, conceited laugh. "Oh, I really like to think of it as campaigning. And it's been going rather well, actually," he added, as he unearthed a wad of bills from a ruffle in his diaper. He planned on buying some respectable clothing the second he paid off this month's rent.

"Good for you, Norry!" smiled Will. His eyes lit up hopefully. "Hey, would you like to make a donation?"

"How could I turn down the misfortunate?" Patronizingly, Norrington dropped a dollar into the cup.

"Thanks, Norry! Now I can buy the lot and start building my business!"

"Pff." The Commodore looked down at Will, his rival, a blacksmith who—finally—was playing catch-up for once in the 'Impress Elizabeth' Race. "What, with a dollar and five cents?"

"No, with this."

Norrington suddenly realized Will had not just been sitting on the curb of the sidewalk; he'd been planted on top of a briefcase. Taking it out from beneath him, Will opened it to reveal an overflow of bills, much more than what Norrington had been gloating over himself. Norrington was speechless.

"Your dollar just gave me enough!" Will chirped.

"What—how did—"

"The people here are so generous. You just have to know how to ask," Will smiled.

"Impressive, Will," Jack nodded, wondering just how much Will valued their friendship enough to split the money in half…or maybe a 75-25 split. After all, he'd helped him rescue Elizabeth countless times; surely some payback was in order. "Jess how much do ye have there?"

"Um… Twenty thousand dollars, according to the Voodoo Master."

"Twenty thousand dollars!" shrieked Jack, dancing on his tiptoes.

"The Voodoo Master?" repeated Norrington, looking much less thrilled.

"Like I said, very generous people," Will nodded, then tucked away the cash like it was a birthday present he'd wait to open. He paused after a moment. "Um…by the way… Why are we using American money?"

"Because the authors of this story are too stupid to know the correct conversions of dollars to pounds," retorted Norrington.

"Or cents to…whatever coin we use in Britain," Jack added.

Will twisted his mouth, thinking. "I feel guilty. Should we start using the metric system?"