Later that night, Jack was busy drinking rum at his Skull and Crossbones tavern. He was too inebriated to notice that the Harbor Master had mysteriously appeared in the back corner of the room, and that Ahnold had dropped by for a visit. He was not, however, too drunk to see Gillette paying his tab and rising to leave.

"Where you goin'?" Jack drawled, stumbling to his feet. He checked his watch, not realizing it was really just his compass. "It's only… North o'clock. Usually you stay until quarter of West."

Gillette smiled. "Wish I could stay, Jack, but I have a meeting with the Natives of Pittsburgh tonight."

"The Hey Dizz of Zit's Blurb?" Jack leaned closer over the sound-barrier-breaking noise of his tavern. "Is that a new emo band or something?"

Gillette blinked. "I don't know. I'll ask Norry. Norry knows everything."

"He believes diapers are a suitable form of attire," Jack slurred drunkenly. "Aye, he's a smart one."

"Uh… Jack…? Isn't that the Harbor Master back there?"

"He's always here," Jack shrugged indifferently. "Keeps talking to me about fuel or some rambling nonsense like that."

Gillette nodded. It was always easier to agree and make people happy. With a friendly pat on the shoulders, the lieutenant wished Jack a good night of drinking and departed for the Natives' meeting.

The flaming stones of death looked much scarier in the dark. In reality, they happened to be rocks that some rabble-rousers (oh, the youth of this generation) had graffiti-painted. Gillette precariously tiptoed over a MIKE loves JILL, JILL loves JOHN, and a JOHN HATES YOU ALL before he arrived safely on the other side.

Suddenly, an ominous voice rattled the sky above him. "And now…the bottomless river of unspeakable terror!"

"Oh my. What an ominous voice," Gillette twittered nervously. He stared up into the star-freckled sky. "I say, is there anyone up there?"

There was a significant pause, then a strange whirring like a tape was being rewound.

Then: "And now…the bottomless river of unspeakable terror!"

"Oh my. Just as ominous." Gillette sighed, blinking against the darkness to discern a stream of rushing water ahead of him. White peaks of waves lapped vertically across the flow.

Tentatively, Gillette approached the water. He stubbed his toe on something, and if it had been broad daylight, he'd have been able to see it was a sign. He would have also been able to read what it said:

CAUTION: DON'T FEED THE DUCKS.

There were no ducks, though, so it was kind of a pointless sign.

Gillette dipped the toe of his boot into the water, testing it out. No swamp creature lurched for him, no strange black oil oozed up his shoe, he didn't turn into a pumpkin.

"Seems jolly well safe to me," he concluded, and optimistically dove in. He floundered for a bit against the tide, then gradually adjusted and began the trial of swimming against stream.

He realized his feet could touch the bottom when he was about three-quarters of the way across.

"Oh my, that is troubling," he murmured as he pulled himself ashore. "The river is bottomless, and yet I can touch the bottom. That does not bode well for my height, I believe. I must terrify poor people with my stupendous height. Why wasn't I ever told? Perhaps I should try slouching."

Gillette hunkered down and crawled the rest of the way to the subway. He took the third station, and—like the Voodoo Master had elaborated, the ceremony was on his immediate left.

It was the first authentic thing he'd seen since the arrival on the island. It was a sandy clearing in the middle of the forest. Between the trees, he could hear the ocean not far off.

A ribbon of Tiki torches swept circularly around the area, burning bright crimson with flicks of orange. Wooden bongo drums were set on the sand. A flurry of at least fifty Natives—all dressed in animal hide kilts, painted vibrantly in pastel shades—turned to stare at him. Almost all of them had straight, dark hair and large, gaping eyes. They were covered in body paint, bright jewelry, and an array of feathers.

"Hello," Gillette smiled.

And then they attacked him.

It turned out it wasn't really an attack—just an overly enthusiastic embrace. A rather large, muscular Native lugged him onto his shoulders and tossed him upon a hand-fashioned seat of sorts. It was made of tree bark, leaves, and stone, and did nothing to aid posture. Gillette was then transferred from one hand to the other, sitting on his seat, to the center of the area within the tiki torches. He noticed for the first time the shape of a tall, slender figure silhouetted behind the large campfire.

He recognized him immediately. It was the Voodoo Master.

"The Natives of Pittsburgh welcome you, Oh Mighty Gillette God."

"Please, no need for formalities. Gillette is fine."

"No, we insist on praising your mightiness, Oh Mighty Gillette God."

The lieutenant began to suspect that he had somehow missed something in the course of this meeting. Apparently, no one was in a bowling mood.

"So… What exactly are we doing here?" he questioned politely.

"We are welcoming your presence." The Voodoo Master stepped ceremoniously out from behind the fire. He had on a dramatically decorated kilt that clearly outshone the other Natives. Across his chest was intricate body paint. There were unreadable symbols of squiggled lines, stars, and waves. There were also the words: Hi, my name is Voodoo Master.

It was apparently the translation for those who couldn't read Native Pittsburghian. It inflicted great fear into the hearts of…well, nobody, but to illiterates, it was absolutely terrifying.

Gillette had passed his grade school reading with flying colors, but he had reason to start fretting.

"Um… I'm confused."

"That is to be expected. It seems as if you were brainwashed and taken from us when you were still young."

"I'm a British citizen. And a member of the British Royal Navy."

The Natives clapped and cheered politely. Their Mighty Gillette God had gifted them with his voice again and deserved an encore.

Gillette glanced, unsure, to the cheers and then back to the Voodoo Master. "I'm afraid there's been some mistake. I'm just a humble lieutenant. I'm no leader for your hospitable people."

"Don't worry, your memory will come back soon enough. In the meantime, please accept our unending gratitude for your returned presence."

"Um…"

"When I saw you that day working in your Sand Shop, I knew immediately it was our Mighty Gillette God who had returned."

"Your Mightiness had a Sand Shop?"

The Voodoo Master blinked. "No. That part was irrelevant." Then, waving his hands, he dove in dramatically, "But I saw you, fighting off that horrendous arch-nemesis the legends so speak of."

"Who?"

"The Lord of All that is Nasally."

"Ohhh, you mean Norry."

"Yes! That big-nosed creature."

"He's not my enemy," Gillette laughed conversationally, "he's my Siamese-twin brother."

There was a lull of discontented murmurs from the Natives. Gillette looked around nervously as the mood suddenly seemed to swing to a grim discontentedness.

The Voodoo Master waved his hands. "Calm down, calm down. It is obvious that Oh Mighty Gillette God is still suffering from his memory problems."

"But I'm not—"

"Until then," cried the Voodoo Master, "let us celebrate his return and hope for a speedy recovery!"

"But I'm fine—"

"And now, bring out the bongos!"

Gillette was no less confused, but he clapped along courteously to the entertainment. The Voodoo Master donned a grotesque mask that looked like van Gogh's deranged interpretation of Bill Cosby as a gargoyle. The eyeholes glowed a fierce red, like embers from the fire.

"What a lovely mask," Gillette managed. "But I still don't understand. Why me?"

"Gillette's the best a man can get," the Voodoo Master informed him, muffled, from behind the mask.

"Ah-huh…"

"And now that you've returned, it has come to pass that you will fulfill the prophesy of the Oh Mighty Gillette God."

"And what would be that prophesy?"

"That the Oh Mighty Gillette God will bring forth five creatures from a distant land, and one animal that has no wings but falls from the sky."

"Oh. You mean my friends and the Donkey."

"Yes."

"I don't know if they're going to be cooperative," Gillette said after a pause. "If you have rum, you might convince some of them. The others really aren't big on social get-togethers."

"We have ways to convince them."

"Ooh, like party games…?"

"I believe we exceed such amateur techniques."

"…Because I think Will is really good at Limbo."

Gillette jumped back as the Voodoo Master whipped out some small objects from the other side of the fire and pushed into his hands.

"What are these?" Gillette held one up at random. They looked to be dolls. Strangely recognizable dolls.

"Those are the five that you have been destined to bring forth. The Drunk One. The Good-Looking Clueless One. The Beautiful One. The Ugly One. And the Lord of All that is Nasally."

"Good o' Norry."

"Yes. It took half our supplies just to make his nose."

"Um… and the others are Jack, Will, Elizabeth, and Barbossa, right?"

"You know all, Oh Mighty Gillette God."

"I think I know nothing. What are these?"

The Voodoo Master bowed. "These are your Voodoo Dolls, Oh Your Mightiness."

The next morning, Elizabeth was attempting to give Jack a perm in her salon. It wasn't working too well with his dreadlocks. She started taking off the iron when that burning smell began frightening off customers and the smoke made her eyes itch.

"Explain to me," she demanded, "why you've been ignoring the Harbor Master this whole time if he keeps showing up at the Skull and Crossbones? What does that solve?"

"He was enjoyin' a drink," Jack replied. "And jess what are you doing to my hair?"

"He had a fuel source and you ignored him," Elizabeth chided, shaking her head. She got rid of the iron and fluffed Jack's dry dreadlocks best she could. Maybe later she'd convince him to go a bit lighter. Some frosting would do wonders.

"I don't see why everyone's so set on leavin' anyway," Jack griped. "We've all got our businesses here; we're having a bloody good time."

"A bloody good time?" Elizabeth repeated, incredulous. "They're losing their minds!"
Jack raised his chin and retorted in a mockingly pompous British lilt, "I see no such thing happening."

"Norrington's been acting ridiculous," Elizabeth pointed out. "First, he goes jumping out of planes, then he's inexplicably traipsing through the jungle. Then there's that diaper incident—for all I know, he'll be running around in a leopard-skinned—"

She broke off as Norrington made his prophetic entrance in a kilt. It wasn't quite leopard-skinned, but it fit much worse. Jack smacked his head on the sink as he collapsed into hysterics.

"I will say this once, Jack Sparrow, and I will not say it again." Norrington shifted awkwardly, trying to remind the pirate of his rank. "Shut. Up."

"What do you think?" Gillette suddenly appeared from behind his twin brother, a glow of pride on his face. "I think it goes lovely with your complexion."

"Yes, it just ruins everyone else's," Jack joked. Elizabeth poked him in the ribs, but a smile was breaking along her face, too, despite herself.

"See, Norry, they love it!"

"They are mocking me!" Norrington snapped, pulling away from Gillette. "Where did you find such a ghastly thing? The designers should be tarred and feathered in a public square."

"Some are already feathered," acknowledged Gillette. "It's a gift from the Natives. They gave it to me, but I wanted you to have it."

"They can take it back!" Norrington sneered.

"Keep it on, keep it on!" shrieked Elizabeth.

"Yes, fer the love of Davy Jones, think of the children," laughed Jack. "Spare us."

Norrington's glare could've melted polar icecaps. He turned to Gillette.

"Natives?" he repeated, skeptical and patronizing. "Is this some idea of a joke?"

"N-no," Gillette replied, shaking his head sincerely. "See, they don't like you very much. I thought if you accepted something from them, they'd change their minds…"

"What Natives?" Norrington exclaimed. "We're on a deserted island that has been populated with modernized businesses. There's no room for Natives in this."

"But there are—"

"I haven't seen any."

"Because they don't like you."

"Elizabeth hasn't seen any. Jack hasn't seen any."

"And yet some of us become them," Jack quipped, pointing at Norrington's kilt.

"I agree," Elizabeth said, interrupting Norrington's attempts at self-defense. "We have to get off this island. You guys are more primitive now than ever before."

The door abruptly flew open. Barbossa, with laptop under his arm, entered. He'd been eavesdropping outside for a while, contemplating on whether seeing Norrington's kilt would provide endless jokes or endless nightmares. He'd decided to risk it.

"We are not more primitive," Barbossa retorted. "Those Internet courses have expanded my intelligence exponentially."

"And that's when we know something's wrong," Norrington snarled.

"Nobody asked you, Kilt Boy," Barbossa snipped.

"That's it! I'm changing out of this and into something more befitting of my station."

"Like a diaper?" Jack suggested.

"No, Norry, you can't take off the kilt! You'll offend the Natives!" Gillette cried.

"Gillette," Norrington stepped toward him, annoyed, "I don't even know what Natives you're talking about. No one has seemed to have seen these people but you."

"That's because—well, they're—they're kind of secretive—"

Norrington rolled his eyes. "But yet they find the time to get to know you?"

"Gillette, lying isn't any way to seek attention," Jack said.

"Exactly," Norry agreed.

"Now, wearing a kilt is, but I wouldn't recommend that, either."

Elizabeth sighed, rubbing her beautiful temples. "Has anyone seen Will lately?"

"I believe he's out with his Donkey," Barbossa said.

She sighed, and left the other insanity-stricken people in the salon while she went out in search of her husband.