A Tale of Two Dread Pirate Zombie Captains
A Tale of Two Dread Pirate Zombie Captains
Rating: PG - mild bad language
Pairings: Will/Elizabeth, implied Jack/Anamarie, implied Guybrush/Elaine.
Fandom: Monkey Island / Pirates of the Caribbean
Disclaimer: Non-profit fanfiction
Notes: I’ve moved PotC events into the MI world, for the most part, so anachronisms and historical inaccuracy are ahoy! Also, I’ve not played EMI yet, as come on, it’s not point and click :(. I also ought to warn you that if you know nothing about the games, some bits will make about as much sense as a salmon serenading a giraffe in Japanese.
Exploring the Caribbean was going to be a harder job than he had first thought, Guybrush realised as he pulled himself from the wreckage of his boat.
Granted, it hadn’t been very wise to use a rowing boat, and given the size of the rock he crashed on he probably should have given more thought to what lay beneath the water. Still, he was a trainee pirate, and not a qualified one, so he could be excused a few navigation incidents. No-one dared talk about it anymore, but everyone knew about the incident with a young Blackbeard and a flock of baby seals.
He wasn’t sure what to make of the trio of children who had come to him offering help, as in his experience help rarely involved rifling through one’s pockets while paying no attention to the rather large gash on one’s forehead.
“What brings you to Parry Island?” asked the apparent ringleader as the other two stepped back after helping Guybrush stand up.
“I want to be a pirate!”
“Really? You look more like a floor salesman,” Dimly, Guybrush wondered why everyone made the same comparison. For a start, his father had always said he would be better suited to selling windows. “If you really want to learn to be a pirate, you need Mêlée Island. Go find the iMuse bar, someone will sort you out.”
The only problem with being a pirate is it requires you to stay in regular contact with other pirates, and on the whole they’re not a terribly polite lot, especially to suspected salespeople. Still, it could have been worse. They could have taken his clothes and passport.
Guybrush supposed his line of thought would have been more comforting if he wasn’t hanging upside down from a tree at the time. They’d carried him to the bottom of the nearest village at least, so it wouldn’t be too long before someone thought to help him out.
It was a strange way to build a village - one part curling up the mountainside while the other stretched along the flat base. It looked a little as if someone had just thrown a fistful of houses at the island to see where they landed.
“I wonder what happened to you, young master,” came an inebriated-sounding voice with an unfamiliar accent.
“Bloody pirates,” Guybrush muttered, pondering what all this excess blood in his head would be doing to his health.
“A familiar situation. Congratulations, boy!” Exclaimed the questioner before cutting through the rope binding Guybrush’s feet together. “A mouth like that will get you on board most ships these days, if any dare take you.”
“Why would they not take me?” Guybrush asked, rubbing his bruised shoulders. His benefactor dropped to one knee, a small task as he was a man of diminutive stature.
“Have you not heard, boy, of the dread pirate Barbossa?” Guybrush shook his head. “We’d best move inside, then. The pirates around here are a little traditional and easily spooked by such stories.” He offered Guybrush a hand to help him stand up. “Captain Jack Sparrow’s the name, pirating’s the game.”
“Guybrush Threepwood.”
Moving inside to tell stories seemed to translate to ‘find bar, get hammered’. Guybrush realised he probably ought to be more concerned by the fact that Jack had not been drunk when they began their conversation than he was by the rate that the man could slug back grog.
“You ought to get that scratch looked at,” Jack decided, waving a hand at the cut on Guybrush’s forehead. “Nasty thing. You’ll get gangrene and die,” he sniffed.
“Really?”
“Nah. ’s a PG game, isn’t it?”
Guybrush had the vague unsettling feeling of being watched as he poked at the wound. “What’s the story with this Barbossa then?”
Jack shushed Guybrush, making vague gestures they should be very secretive when discussing this, and he leant in close, sneering. Even for a pirate, Jack was particularly bad for invading personal space. “That Barbossa stole my ship. My bloody ship! And my crew, even the good-un’s. Maroons me on some godforsaken island. I come back, try to get another ship and another crew together, and what do I find? I find everyone’s quaking in their boots about some ghost ship full of immortals running about and sacking every town and ship they come across. That’s my ship he’s giving a bad name! Those black sails weren’t meant for anything but plundering, and they’ve been sullying her with murder and women!” He sat back sharply and folded his arms in anger. “Some ghost.”
Guybrush seemed more concerned with the latter sullying force. “What’s the problem with women on board a ship?”
“There are many kinds of women, young Guybrush, and many of them bring nothing but trouble.” There was a certain rhythm to Jack’s speech that gave the impression of singing without tune.
“What women would bring good fortune, then?”
Jack grinned. “There are only two of whom I’m certain. Anamarie and Elaine Marley, the two most fearsome mademoiselles of the Caribbean. Multi-talented, beautiful, and completely out of everyone’s league.” He smiled lecherously, the gold caps glittering in the lantern-light.
“What manner of women are they?”
“Anamarie’s a pirate, same as any of us, only five times more talented than the average swashbuckler.”
“And Elaine?”
“Elaine is a different story altogether.” Back to secretive, but this was a closed smile rather than shared. “What brought you here anyway?”
“I want to be a pirate.”
“It’s as good a place to start as any, I suppose.” He looked Guybrush up and down. “You don’t look like one.”
“I haven’t been trained yet!” Guybrush huffed, exasperated.
“Oh. You’d be one of those pirates then. I suppose I could always drop you off at Mêlée Island.” Guybrush grinned widely, delighted beyond belief. “Just consider it my good deed for the day,” Jack finished, raising three fingers in salute.
Many months later...
“So I bust into the church and say, “Now you’re in for it, you bilious bag of barnacle bait!””
Jack stared blankly, having tuned out for the most part somewhere around feeding bananas to marooned cannibals, or something along those lines. He’d never expected to see Guybrush again, much less to see him a hero, and the boy was not cut out for being a raconteur. Will could be a tad dry on occasion, but sweet baby Moses. “That’s a lotta alliteration for a kid like you to be using,” he interrupted before returning to nursing his now-empty bottle of rum.
“I’m not a kid, I’m Guybrush Threepwood, a mighty pirate!”
“That’s the spirit.” Jack was increasingly aware that Barbossa had truly been a sadist. Any decent person would have given a marooned man two bullets in case the first attempt was unsuccessful. Maybe he had wasted it on his previous second-in-command.
... That said, no dead Barbossa would mean no Black Pearl. You couldn’t really argue with that.
He wondered which of the various mysterious bar-top fluids would be most effective for pushing Guybrush’s bland little face into.
“Where’s your boat, then?”
Sudden thoughts as to the fate of his previous boat - and its crew - made Guybrush wince a little. He tended to leave that part of the story out. “Ah. Um... it’s... out of order.”
“Black Pearl’s sails have been buggered for years but she’s still going strong. What hurt yours?”
“A rock.”
“A rock?” Jack asked, raising an eyebrow incredulously.
“It was a big rock,” Guybrush justified. “From a big catapult.”
“Who fired it?”
Oh boy. “Um... cannibals. Flesh-eating kind.”
“As opposed to vegetarians?”
“Well, yeah.”
Jack decided a change of topic was in order. “So what are you up to now?”
“I’m looking for a whole new adventure,” came the excited reply. “With more treasure this time.”
“What treasure’re you after?”
“Well, that’s the problem.” Guybrush looked concerned. “I don’t really know.”
“Big Whoop.”
“Yeah.”
“No, I mean Big Whoop. The huge, legendary treasure.”
“Go on?”
“Get me another drink and I might.” Guybrush nodded before calling over the bartender, asking for a bottle of rum and a bowl of nachos, before remarking absently that he wasn’t in the habit of indiscriminately picking up bartenders.
Jack raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.
“So. There’s this crew, right? And there’s what, four of ’em, and they plant it somewhere or whatever, and they’re all barmy as cats -“ Guybrush wasn’t particularly convinced of the barminess of cats, but he had a feeling fighting a point with a drunken pirate wasn’t much worth the effort. “Got daft names too, well, one of ’em. Whipper Snapper or Little Sod or... or... something like that anyways.” He snorted, loud and wet. “Where were we?”
“The crew?” Guybrush offered.
“Yes. Fine chaps, each and every last one of ’em.” Jack pounded his chest with a fist, and Guybrush felt the sudden awkwardness of someone who has just realised their companion has lost the thread of conversation and is going to cry or puke on top of its remains. Thankfully - he supposed he should be thankful anyway - Jack opted for tears. “Bless their ’earts, they take good care of me ’n’ the Pearl.”
The bartender tutted audibly in their direction and Guybrush realised that the rest of the customers had already left. “I think we should move -”
“Don’t you interrupted my line of thought,” Jack snarled. “Now, you promise me you,” He insisted forcefully whilst waving what Guybrush assumed to be an authoritative finger in front of his face. At least, it might have been authoritative, had it not come attached to a half-empty rum bottle, “You ever get yourself a crew again, you consider yourself lucky ’n’ treat ’em like gold dust. Gol’ dust!” The tears resurfaced. “I love my Pearl.”
“That’s lovely, but I think we should probably take a walk.” Thankfully, Jack seemed to be as much in agreement with this course of action as the knife-sharpening barkeep.
“You said you could hold your alcohol,” Guybrush grumbled, keeping a few feet ahead of a now thoroughly reeking Jack Sparrow.
“I can! I never said I could hold my vomit though, did I?” He paused, held his stomach thoughtfully, then continued walking after ascertaining that his stomach contents weren’t preparing to evacuate again. “It’s not like you’re Mr Perfect.” Another pause, clutching onto his shirt front while he took a few steadying breathes before shouting ahead to Guybrush, “You walk like a dairy farmer!”
Guybrush whirled, gripping the handle of his sword warily. “How appropriate. You walk like a cow.”
Jack blinked, his still-hazy drunken mind really not ready for this sort of conversation. “What?”
“Um... I am rubber, you are glue!”
Jack blinked again. This conversation thread had definitely taken a liking to throttling his brain. “I repeat - what?”
Guybrush relaxed, realising Jack’s cutting insult hadn’t been intended as an opening to a duel. “Sorry. Thought you wanted to swordfight.”
“And this involves our bovine friends because..?”
“Have you never been in a swordfight before?”
Jack grinned, fond memories popping into his brain. Nothing quite as satisfying as defeating the jumped-up little blacksmith. “Oh yeah, plenty.”
“And you don’t use insults? Good grief, what kind of pirate are you?”
Jack looked Guybrush vaguely in the eyes. “Which one of us has the ship?”
“You don’t have to be at sea all the time to be a proper pirate! Haven’t you ever- ever-” He tried to think of an example, finding only Captain Smirk’s old stories about the Swordmaster coming to mind. “Been fighting up a storm as Port Royale, cornered by the local constabulary, looking like you’re done for and then saying-” Oh. Oh dear. The story never did get finished. “But, uh, I digress. How do you fight?”
“With a sword. You stick it in people, they die.” Jack punctuated his words with a few demonstrative hand-gestures. “Easy enough.”
“You mean you don’t know how to use your wit as well as your sword? What are you supposed to do in a sword-lock if you can’t deliver an insult properly?”
“And how many fights have you been in to be advising Captain Jack Sparrow on swordplay?”
“Enough,” Guybrush snapped. “Come on, whip your sword out. We’re having a lesson right now.”
The two men took their positions, swords crossed lightly. “I’ll begin,” Guybrush offered. “You have the manners of a beggar.”
“That’s not very nice- ack!” Jack frowned in puzzlement upon realising that Guybrush had become the dominant force in their second swordlock. “You fight like a -”
“No, no,” Guybrush interrupted, smirking. “Fight rules. The winner goes first unless they’re battling a Swordmaster. Have you stopped wearing diapers yet?”
“What?”
“Have you stopped wearing diapers yet?”
“...Yes?” And Guybrush was winning again. What on Earth? This wasn’t sane. This wasn’t even insane, this was some whole new sanity level altogether. “This isn’t fair! I’ve never done this before!”
“Consider it good practise. You make me want to puke.”
“I already have!”
Guybrush grinned, defeating Jack with a few quick sword-strokes. “Close, but no cigar. You should find somewhere to practise, you know. Mêlée Island’s as good a place as any.”
“Whatever, mate,” Jack grumbled as Guybrush gave him back his sword. “Where’re you headed off next?”
“Big Whoop sounds pretty tempting.”
“Pff. Good luck with that, all things considered it’s a legendary treasure. I’ll drop you off next island, if you fancy the ride.”
“Sure,” Guybrush remarked, not paying a wise amount of attention to the growing smirk on Jack’s lips.
“What do you mean, we can’t pull up in the port?” Shrieked a decided unimpressed Guybrush.
“Well, the Governor hasn’t granted us amnesty for a start,” Anamarie explained. “It’s not a long swim to shore, though.”
“Aye, you’ll be alright so long as you don’t get spotted in the water,” added another crew member.
“What happens if I do?”
“They’ll shoot you.”
Guybrush glared up at Jack whose attempts not to smirk were failing miserably, before looking around the ship for inspiration.
Unfortunately, only one idea sprung to mind.
Last time.
Last time ever.
“I have an idea,” Guybrush informed the crew.
A few days later...
“Not again!” Came a prolonged wail through the... air?
There was a loud thud on the roof coupled with a muffled “ouch”, and despite Elizabeth’s vague sleepy protest, Will had to investigate.
After pulling on a pair of pantaloons and deciding he could rectify his lack of stockings later, the young man pottered on downstairs, out through the back door, and looked up at the roof.
“What are you doing at this ungodly hour you... you cur?” Fumed a thoroughly irritated young blacksmith.
Guybrush peeled himself off the roof and sat back on his knees. “Sorry!”
“Don’t shout!” Shouted Will. “Elizabeth is sleeping!”
“Don’t mind me, just passing through.”
“What?” Will reddened as his fiancée walked up to him wearing a very frustrated expression and - night dress aside - very little else.
“I said you don’t need to mind me, I’m just passing through,” Yelled back Guybrush.
“Father could have you hanged for this!” Called back the girl, waving a fist angrily. Guybrush squinted in disbelief at the young blacksmith, not that he had a clearer, less headcheese-pan blocked view of the world. The resemblance between them was uncanny.
“No need! Is there a way down from here?”
“I’ll find a ladder,” tutted the girl before kissing Will lightly on the lips and walking away. Guybrush gasped with the shock of inspiration.
He would complete his search for Big Whoop.
He would find Elaine again.
And he would - oh, most definitely would at that, judging by how it had worked for his most recent acquaintances - grow a moustache.
The End
Rating: PG - mild bad language
Pairings: Will/Elizabeth, implied Jack/Anamarie, implied Guybrush/Elaine.
Fandom: Monkey Island / Pirates of the Caribbean
Disclaimer: Non-profit fanfiction
Notes: I’ve moved PotC events into the MI world, for the most part, so anachronisms and historical inaccuracy are ahoy! Also, I’ve not played EMI yet, as come on, it’s not point and click :(. I also ought to warn you that if you know nothing about the games, some bits will make about as much sense as a salmon serenading a giraffe in Japanese.
Exploring the Caribbean was going to be a harder job than he had first thought, Guybrush realised as he pulled himself from the wreckage of his boat.
Granted, it hadn’t been very wise to use a rowing boat, and given the size of the rock he crashed on he probably should have given more thought to what lay beneath the water. Still, he was a trainee pirate, and not a qualified one, so he could be excused a few navigation incidents. No-one dared talk about it anymore, but everyone knew about the incident with a young Blackbeard and a flock of baby seals.
He wasn’t sure what to make of the trio of children who had come to him offering help, as in his experience help rarely involved rifling through one’s pockets while paying no attention to the rather large gash on one’s forehead.
“What brings you to Parry Island?” asked the apparent ringleader as the other two stepped back after helping Guybrush stand up.
“I want to be a pirate!”
“Really? You look more like a floor salesman,” Dimly, Guybrush wondered why everyone made the same comparison. For a start, his father had always said he would be better suited to selling windows. “If you really want to learn to be a pirate, you need Mêlée Island. Go find the iMuse bar, someone will sort you out.”
The only problem with being a pirate is it requires you to stay in regular contact with other pirates, and on the whole they’re not a terribly polite lot, especially to suspected salespeople. Still, it could have been worse. They could have taken his clothes and passport.
Guybrush supposed his line of thought would have been more comforting if he wasn’t hanging upside down from a tree at the time. They’d carried him to the bottom of the nearest village at least, so it wouldn’t be too long before someone thought to help him out.
It was a strange way to build a village - one part curling up the mountainside while the other stretched along the flat base. It looked a little as if someone had just thrown a fistful of houses at the island to see where they landed.
“I wonder what happened to you, young master,” came an inebriated-sounding voice with an unfamiliar accent.
“Bloody pirates,” Guybrush muttered, pondering what all this excess blood in his head would be doing to his health.
“A familiar situation. Congratulations, boy!” Exclaimed the questioner before cutting through the rope binding Guybrush’s feet together. “A mouth like that will get you on board most ships these days, if any dare take you.”
“Why would they not take me?” Guybrush asked, rubbing his bruised shoulders. His benefactor dropped to one knee, a small task as he was a man of diminutive stature.
“Have you not heard, boy, of the dread pirate Barbossa?” Guybrush shook his head. “We’d best move inside, then. The pirates around here are a little traditional and easily spooked by such stories.” He offered Guybrush a hand to help him stand up. “Captain Jack Sparrow’s the name, pirating’s the game.”
“Guybrush Threepwood.”
Moving inside to tell stories seemed to translate to ‘find bar, get hammered’. Guybrush realised he probably ought to be more concerned by the fact that Jack had not been drunk when they began their conversation than he was by the rate that the man could slug back grog.
“You ought to get that scratch looked at,” Jack decided, waving a hand at the cut on Guybrush’s forehead. “Nasty thing. You’ll get gangrene and die,” he sniffed.
“Really?”
“Nah. ’s a PG game, isn’t it?”
Guybrush had the vague unsettling feeling of being watched as he poked at the wound. “What’s the story with this Barbossa then?”
Jack shushed Guybrush, making vague gestures they should be very secretive when discussing this, and he leant in close, sneering. Even for a pirate, Jack was particularly bad for invading personal space. “That Barbossa stole my ship. My bloody ship! And my crew, even the good-un’s. Maroons me on some godforsaken island. I come back, try to get another ship and another crew together, and what do I find? I find everyone’s quaking in their boots about some ghost ship full of immortals running about and sacking every town and ship they come across. That’s my ship he’s giving a bad name! Those black sails weren’t meant for anything but plundering, and they’ve been sullying her with murder and women!” He sat back sharply and folded his arms in anger. “Some ghost.”
Guybrush seemed more concerned with the latter sullying force. “What’s the problem with women on board a ship?”
“There are many kinds of women, young Guybrush, and many of them bring nothing but trouble.” There was a certain rhythm to Jack’s speech that gave the impression of singing without tune.
“What women would bring good fortune, then?”
Jack grinned. “There are only two of whom I’m certain. Anamarie and Elaine Marley, the two most fearsome mademoiselles of the Caribbean. Multi-talented, beautiful, and completely out of everyone’s league.” He smiled lecherously, the gold caps glittering in the lantern-light.
“What manner of women are they?”
“Anamarie’s a pirate, same as any of us, only five times more talented than the average swashbuckler.”
“And Elaine?”
“Elaine is a different story altogether.” Back to secretive, but this was a closed smile rather than shared. “What brought you here anyway?”
“I want to be a pirate.”
“It’s as good a place to start as any, I suppose.” He looked Guybrush up and down. “You don’t look like one.”
“I haven’t been trained yet!” Guybrush huffed, exasperated.
“Oh. You’d be one of those pirates then. I suppose I could always drop you off at Mêlée Island.” Guybrush grinned widely, delighted beyond belief. “Just consider it my good deed for the day,” Jack finished, raising three fingers in salute.
Many months later...
“So I bust into the church and say, “Now you’re in for it, you bilious bag of barnacle bait!””
Jack stared blankly, having tuned out for the most part somewhere around feeding bananas to marooned cannibals, or something along those lines. He’d never expected to see Guybrush again, much less to see him a hero, and the boy was not cut out for being a raconteur. Will could be a tad dry on occasion, but sweet baby Moses. “That’s a lotta alliteration for a kid like you to be using,” he interrupted before returning to nursing his now-empty bottle of rum.
“I’m not a kid, I’m Guybrush Threepwood, a mighty pirate!”
“That’s the spirit.” Jack was increasingly aware that Barbossa had truly been a sadist. Any decent person would have given a marooned man two bullets in case the first attempt was unsuccessful. Maybe he had wasted it on his previous second-in-command.
... That said, no dead Barbossa would mean no Black Pearl. You couldn’t really argue with that.
He wondered which of the various mysterious bar-top fluids would be most effective for pushing Guybrush’s bland little face into.
“Where’s your boat, then?”
Sudden thoughts as to the fate of his previous boat - and its crew - made Guybrush wince a little. He tended to leave that part of the story out. “Ah. Um... it’s... out of order.”
“Black Pearl’s sails have been buggered for years but she’s still going strong. What hurt yours?”
“A rock.”
“A rock?” Jack asked, raising an eyebrow incredulously.
“It was a big rock,” Guybrush justified. “From a big catapult.”
“Who fired it?”
Oh boy. “Um... cannibals. Flesh-eating kind.”
“As opposed to vegetarians?”
“Well, yeah.”
Jack decided a change of topic was in order. “So what are you up to now?”
“I’m looking for a whole new adventure,” came the excited reply. “With more treasure this time.”
“What treasure’re you after?”
“Well, that’s the problem.” Guybrush looked concerned. “I don’t really know.”
“Big Whoop.”
“Yeah.”
“No, I mean Big Whoop. The huge, legendary treasure.”
“Go on?”
“Get me another drink and I might.” Guybrush nodded before calling over the bartender, asking for a bottle of rum and a bowl of nachos, before remarking absently that he wasn’t in the habit of indiscriminately picking up bartenders.
Jack raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.
“So. There’s this crew, right? And there’s what, four of ’em, and they plant it somewhere or whatever, and they’re all barmy as cats -“ Guybrush wasn’t particularly convinced of the barminess of cats, but he had a feeling fighting a point with a drunken pirate wasn’t much worth the effort. “Got daft names too, well, one of ’em. Whipper Snapper or Little Sod or... or... something like that anyways.” He snorted, loud and wet. “Where were we?”
“The crew?” Guybrush offered.
“Yes. Fine chaps, each and every last one of ’em.” Jack pounded his chest with a fist, and Guybrush felt the sudden awkwardness of someone who has just realised their companion has lost the thread of conversation and is going to cry or puke on top of its remains. Thankfully - he supposed he should be thankful anyway - Jack opted for tears. “Bless their ’earts, they take good care of me ’n’ the Pearl.”
The bartender tutted audibly in their direction and Guybrush realised that the rest of the customers had already left. “I think we should move -”
“Don’t you interrupted my line of thought,” Jack snarled. “Now, you promise me you,” He insisted forcefully whilst waving what Guybrush assumed to be an authoritative finger in front of his face. At least, it might have been authoritative, had it not come attached to a half-empty rum bottle, “You ever get yourself a crew again, you consider yourself lucky ’n’ treat ’em like gold dust. Gol’ dust!” The tears resurfaced. “I love my Pearl.”
“That’s lovely, but I think we should probably take a walk.” Thankfully, Jack seemed to be as much in agreement with this course of action as the knife-sharpening barkeep.
“You said you could hold your alcohol,” Guybrush grumbled, keeping a few feet ahead of a now thoroughly reeking Jack Sparrow.
“I can! I never said I could hold my vomit though, did I?” He paused, held his stomach thoughtfully, then continued walking after ascertaining that his stomach contents weren’t preparing to evacuate again. “It’s not like you’re Mr Perfect.” Another pause, clutching onto his shirt front while he took a few steadying breathes before shouting ahead to Guybrush, “You walk like a dairy farmer!”
Guybrush whirled, gripping the handle of his sword warily. “How appropriate. You walk like a cow.”
Jack blinked, his still-hazy drunken mind really not ready for this sort of conversation. “What?”
“Um... I am rubber, you are glue!”
Jack blinked again. This conversation thread had definitely taken a liking to throttling his brain. “I repeat - what?”
Guybrush relaxed, realising Jack’s cutting insult hadn’t been intended as an opening to a duel. “Sorry. Thought you wanted to swordfight.”
“And this involves our bovine friends because..?”
“Have you never been in a swordfight before?”
Jack grinned, fond memories popping into his brain. Nothing quite as satisfying as defeating the jumped-up little blacksmith. “Oh yeah, plenty.”
“And you don’t use insults? Good grief, what kind of pirate are you?”
Jack looked Guybrush vaguely in the eyes. “Which one of us has the ship?”
“You don’t have to be at sea all the time to be a proper pirate! Haven’t you ever- ever-” He tried to think of an example, finding only Captain Smirk’s old stories about the Swordmaster coming to mind. “Been fighting up a storm as Port Royale, cornered by the local constabulary, looking like you’re done for and then saying-” Oh. Oh dear. The story never did get finished. “But, uh, I digress. How do you fight?”
“With a sword. You stick it in people, they die.” Jack punctuated his words with a few demonstrative hand-gestures. “Easy enough.”
“You mean you don’t know how to use your wit as well as your sword? What are you supposed to do in a sword-lock if you can’t deliver an insult properly?”
“And how many fights have you been in to be advising Captain Jack Sparrow on swordplay?”
“Enough,” Guybrush snapped. “Come on, whip your sword out. We’re having a lesson right now.”
The two men took their positions, swords crossed lightly. “I’ll begin,” Guybrush offered. “You have the manners of a beggar.”
“That’s not very nice- ack!” Jack frowned in puzzlement upon realising that Guybrush had become the dominant force in their second swordlock. “You fight like a -”
“No, no,” Guybrush interrupted, smirking. “Fight rules. The winner goes first unless they’re battling a Swordmaster. Have you stopped wearing diapers yet?”
“What?”
“Have you stopped wearing diapers yet?”
“...Yes?” And Guybrush was winning again. What on Earth? This wasn’t sane. This wasn’t even insane, this was some whole new sanity level altogether. “This isn’t fair! I’ve never done this before!”
“Consider it good practise. You make me want to puke.”
“I already have!”
Guybrush grinned, defeating Jack with a few quick sword-strokes. “Close, but no cigar. You should find somewhere to practise, you know. Mêlée Island’s as good a place as any.”
“Whatever, mate,” Jack grumbled as Guybrush gave him back his sword. “Where’re you headed off next?”
“Big Whoop sounds pretty tempting.”
“Pff. Good luck with that, all things considered it’s a legendary treasure. I’ll drop you off next island, if you fancy the ride.”
“Sure,” Guybrush remarked, not paying a wise amount of attention to the growing smirk on Jack’s lips.
“What do you mean, we can’t pull up in the port?” Shrieked a decided unimpressed Guybrush.
“Well, the Governor hasn’t granted us amnesty for a start,” Anamarie explained. “It’s not a long swim to shore, though.”
“Aye, you’ll be alright so long as you don’t get spotted in the water,” added another crew member.
“What happens if I do?”
“They’ll shoot you.”
Guybrush glared up at Jack whose attempts not to smirk were failing miserably, before looking around the ship for inspiration.
Unfortunately, only one idea sprung to mind.
Last time.
Last time ever.
“I have an idea,” Guybrush informed the crew.
A few days later...
“Not again!” Came a prolonged wail through the... air?
There was a loud thud on the roof coupled with a muffled “ouch”, and despite Elizabeth’s vague sleepy protest, Will had to investigate.
After pulling on a pair of pantaloons and deciding he could rectify his lack of stockings later, the young man pottered on downstairs, out through the back door, and looked up at the roof.
“What are you doing at this ungodly hour you... you cur?” Fumed a thoroughly irritated young blacksmith.
Guybrush peeled himself off the roof and sat back on his knees. “Sorry!”
“Don’t shout!” Shouted Will. “Elizabeth is sleeping!”
“Don’t mind me, just passing through.”
“What?” Will reddened as his fiancée walked up to him wearing a very frustrated expression and - night dress aside - very little else.
“I said you don’t need to mind me, I’m just passing through,” Yelled back Guybrush.
“Father could have you hanged for this!” Called back the girl, waving a fist angrily. Guybrush squinted in disbelief at the young blacksmith, not that he had a clearer, less headcheese-pan blocked view of the world. The resemblance between them was uncanny.
“No need! Is there a way down from here?”
“I’ll find a ladder,” tutted the girl before kissing Will lightly on the lips and walking away. Guybrush gasped with the shock of inspiration.
He would complete his search for Big Whoop.
He would find Elaine again.
And he would - oh, most definitely would at that, judging by how it had worked for his most recent acquaintances - grow a moustache.
The End