It was a balmy night, the stars were glittering in the clear black sky and a cool ocean breeze gently blew through the leaves as Albel the Wicked crested Look Out Point and gazed out over the entire Melee Island.
A hunched backed old man stood at a low stone wall, observing the placid sea. The old bag was the first human Albel had seen since arriving on this godforsaken rock, so he decided he might as well introduce himself and pop the question.
"Old worm!" he said loudly as he approached.
"YIKES!" the old man spun around. "Don't sneak up on me like that."
Albel was 87.3549 degrees to the man's left.
"I'm over here."
The old man corrected himself. Though he was wearing humongous glasses, the lookout seemed to be rather blind.
"My name is Albel Nox," said Albel, "and I want to become a mighty pirate! Who should I talk to around here?"
"Arbel? What kinda name-?"
The maggot didn't get to finish his sentence, he no longer had a mouth to speak with.
"Damnit!" Albel cursed, now he didn't know where to go AND he had blood all over his good skirt.
After wasting a good thirty minutes trying to lessen the awkward stain, Albel gave up and assessed his situation.
He was penniless in a strange land and there was only one other way down the mountain.
He followed the steep rocky path down to a boardwalk into town.
At the end of the boardwalk there was a useless building, on the side of ehich was a poster which read "Re-elect Governor Zelpher" and bore the image of a red-haired, green-eyed woman. Albel continued down the boardwalk.
Loud music and the sound of drunken revelry emanated from the next building he approached. Above the door was a sign which read SCUMM Bar in cheerful yellow letters, with a smiley face painted between the two words.
It seemed a likely place. Albel steeled himself and entered. His last encounter with alcoholic beverages had ended in this rather unpleasant situation.
As he entered the crowded building the overpowering stench of piss-drunk pirates, bad food, and general uncleanliness washed over him. He was relieved, however, to note that no one seemed to notice a bloodstained, be-clawed, skirted individual with unusual hair had just intruded upon their merry-making.
He moved forward a few feet, no simple task, and scowled.
He still had no idea how to go about becoming a pirate and this place did not look like it would be terribly helpful. Sure it was stuffed full of pirates, but they were incredibl drunk and all appeared to be low-level maggots. They were, after all, wasting their time in a place called SCUMM.
He turned to leave only to find such a feat nearly impossible.
A pile of the drunken worms had passed out in front of the door, and a new, even fouler odor came from the vicinity of the pile, suggesting that someone had been unable to hold his drink all over the door knob.
Albel scowled some more and muttered curses under his breath.
He approached the nearest pirate who looked a little less drunk than his fellows.
"Ahoy there, stranger," said the pirate, who's face was pretty much covered with hair. "You new in town?"
"Who's in charge here?" Albel asked, getting straight to the point.
"Well, this island has a governor, but we pirates have our own leaders."
"And where might they be?"
"You'll be wantin' to talk to the important-looking pirates in the next room."
Albel turned and went to the next room, which wasn't really another room so much as the other side of a moth-eaten, red, velvet curtain.
Three important-looking pirates sat at a table next to a roaring fire drinking more of that foul-smelling swill that appeared to be the beverage of choice at this establishment.
One pirate wore blue, one pirate wore green, and the third pirate wore black with red trim.
When Albel approached the trio of boozers the one in green asked, "What ye be wantin', boy?"
"I want to be a pirate," was Albel's plain response.
"So?" asked the pirate.
"Why bother us?" asked the one in blue.
"Don't forget," said the one in black, "we're short on help because of this whole LeChuck, thing. No pirates means no swag. No swag means no grog. And we're getting dangerously low on grog." He took another swig of the bubbling green slosh.
Albel made a face, disgusted by their blatant piggishness and wanton waste.
The green pirate spoke again, "Well, you can be a pirate. But first you have to pass the Three Tirals!"
"The Three Trials!" the other two pirates echoed, and they all drank deep of their grog.
"And what," Albel resisted the urge to spit, "are the three trials?"
"They are the three trials which every pirate must pass."
"Sword mastery," said the pirate in blue.
"The art of thievery," said the pirate in green.
"And the art of err- treasure . . . hunter-y," said the pirate in black.
Albel was getting tired of these fools and their refusal to answer questions with any great clarity.
After extracting as much information about each trial as he could, Albel left the pirates to their grog.
Since the front door was still blocked, Albel went through the kitchen to attempt to escape that way.
No dice.
Thankfully, as he returned from his fruitless endeavor to the kitchen, the lushes in front of the door were being cleared away, whether of their own volition or through force. Albel took his chance and darted out the door as one particularly thin pirate dragged an equally fat pirate out the door.
He was eternally grateful to be able to breath fresh, clean air.