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Every Grog Has Its Day
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Chapter 4: Fun and Games

“Hey!” hollered Guybrush as he hit the back wall of the brig.  “I have rights!”

“And lefts as well, I’m sure,” sneered the skeleton.  “Shut up, or Captain Tiddlywink will come down here and you don’t want that.”

“Well aren’t you cranky,” sulked Guybrush, shooing away the dead rat inspecting his boots.

“Why don’t you just take off your monkey suit and EAT IT.  You’re really ticking me off, boy.”

Guybrush jumped up and grabbed the window bars in the door.  “You know what? I’m not overly fond of you either.  You could really use some work on your people skills.”

“It doesn’t matter, does it? I’m not going anywhere; I’m dead.”  The skeleton sat down grumpily on a glowing grog cask, nibbling on the end of a bony finger.

“Ewww, you’re chewing on your finger.  That’s worse than biting your nails.”

“You’re such a girly-man.”

“How can you be a shade if there aren’t any lights on in that hollow bone head of yours?”

“Shut up, you pile of moldy molted parrot feathers.”

“Get a brain, you dim-witted dinghy barnacle.”

Both pouted, arms crossed across their chests.

“I’m leaving!” said Guybrush.

“I’m leaving first,” argued the skeleton.

“Don’t make me come out there,” warned Guybrush.

“I’d like to see you do it,” taunted the spook.

Guybrush inspected his nails as if they were of infinite interest.  “You’re just afraid, that’s all.”

“Of you?”

“That’s right.  I could take you with one finger.”  Guybrush was glad the skeleton could only see through the barred window, for beneath it he was gingerly inserting that one finger into his root beer bottle.  Just a little further…

“So come and get me, sea-sponge.  I want to rip that mask off your pathetic face and see what kind of a pansy-push up son your mother had.”

“Keep talking, bilge-breath, I want to give you a chance for last words.”

With one hand in the root beer bottle, Guybrush extracted the tiny tiki umbrella from his pocket with the other.  Just as long as he could make enough noise, the skeleton would not hear him as he fiddled with it in the keyhole…

“You’re not going to talk me into letting you out.  Do you know what Captain Tiddlywink would do to me?” The skeleton’s voice took on such an edge Guybrush could have reached out and cut his finger on it.  “First he would rip my limbs off, making sure each one was carefully snapped by each individual ligament, purposely allowing what fragments I have left of skin to remain.  My legs would go to the rats he keeps as pets in his quarters, rats gorged on grog and hardtack until they’ve reached the size of monkeys.  My arms he’d use for fly-fishing bait, where the sharks would gnash and tear at them.  My ribs he’d use to build a grog barrel, into which he would pour only the most caustic and foul-smelling grog available.  Finally, with my skull, he’d, he’d… He’d do something really awful, but I don’t think you can stand to hear it.”

Guybrush raised a skeptical eyebrow.  “I think you’ve run out of half-cracked ideas.  But at least you’re using two-syllable words.”

“I do too,” the skeleton said defensively, “but what he’s going to do to me is nothing what I’m going to do to you.”

A faint click told Guybrush that his efforts were rewarded.  “Last chance to surrender.”

“What do you mean-” But the skeleton’s words were cut short as Guybrush shoved the door open and out.  The second of surprise was all it took for Guybrush to poke him in the forehead with one root beer-dripping finger.

“Rest in peace,” muttered Guybrush, stepping past the swiftly disintegrating skeleton.   He opened the brig door and stepped out, right into the spotlight.

“AND HERE’S OUR THIRD AND FINAL CONTESTANT!!! He’s a retired chicken with the pulley in the middle salesman, who enjoys fast women and sloe gin! He’s come all the way to us from the BRIG! Please welcome…” The announcer skeleton paused, leaning over towards Guybrush.  “What is your name anyway?” he hissed.

“No, you’ve made a mistake. I don’t even like chickens with the pulleys in the middle,” Guybrush tried to explain, but the announcer cut him off.

“Just play the game, son.  Now shut up and sit down.  Please welcome… BOB!”

A roar of applause received Guybrush as he obediently sat down on the stool, and he thought he could just make out the audience clapping beyond the blinding lights.

“Now, are you ready to play ‘YOU’VE GOT NOTHING?’”

Guybrush’s meek “no” was lost amidst the clamor of another applause.

“Let’s take a final look at those prizes before we start!  Here we have a lovely first-class ticket off of this ship!  SECOND prize gets this bag of PIECES OF EIGHT!  THIRD prize gets a sharp stick in the eye! JUST KIDDING! Third prize is this lovely pair of tube socks! BARELY USED!”

Guybrush decided that even though the game show host was annoying, winning his way off the ship might be worth playing the game.

“I’m your FIRST MATE, the ghost host with the most, SAM SHADY, but let’s get to know our CONTESTANTS a little better before we get to the QUESTIONS! Murray, is there ANYTHING you’d like to tell our studio audience?”


“Jojo, what about you?”

“Eek eek oo chee!”

“And what about Bob?”

“I’ve never done anything as stupid as this before.”

“I’m sure you have.  Now let’s play, ‘YOU’VE GOT NOTHING!’”

“Hey!” yelled someone in the front row. “Would you knock it off with the capitals? We may not have ears but we can hear you just fine!”

Murmurs of dissension echoed the heckler’s words, and the host gritted his jaws together.

“And don’t do that either! It’s gross!”

“First question,” barked Shady.  “This is for Murray.”

Murray bared his teeth in a ferocious yet goofy smile.

“When a pirate gets a sharp stick or a finger in his eye, what does he put over it?”

“A dark and sinister eye patch!” howled Murray, spinning around on his stool.  Guybrush relaxed.  This was going to be easy.

“You are correct.  Jojo, question two: When a primeval primate steals your banana, what do you say to him?”

Jojo leaped up and down, chittering in his excitement.  “Oo oo chee ACK!”

“Excellent answer, also correct.”  The host switched his cue card. “Bob, what is the difference between a lemon?”

Guybrush paused.  Nothing in his travels had prepared him for such a diabolical and bewildering puzzle.  “Six feet, three inches, and a half-eaten pastrami sandwich,” he concluded.

The audience rewarded him with a sympathetic sigh.

“Ohhhh, I am so sorry Bob, but the correct answer was six feet, three inches, and a half-eaten bag of pork rinds.  Next question! Murray! What is a ship made out of?”

Guybrush didn’t even hear Murray triumphantly crow “Wood!” or the joyous cackle that followed.  ‘No fair!’ he thought.  He looked up, realizing Shady was staring at him.  Well, he would have been if he had had eyes.  He was facing at least in his general direction.

“Bob?” prompted Shady.

“Uhhh, a banana peel.”

“I am so sorry again Bob, but the answer was TWO banana peels.  Judges? No? I’m sorry Bob, but we can’t even give you partial credit on that one.”

Guybrush’s next couple of questions likewise met with defeat.


“A kitten!”

“Steve Purcell!”

The host shook his head.  “I’m afraid the answer was a dog and a rabbit. And at the end of the game we have Murray in the lead with 540, Jojo close behind with 520, and Bob with the stupefying amount of 1.”

Guybrush clung proudly to that one.  He had received partial credit for his answer to the question, “Black or blue?”  “Yes,” he had immediately responded, and the audience threatened to revolt if he didn’t get at least a point.

“And now we move on to the final round!  This last question deals with culinary corsairs and is for all three of you. Are you ready?” Without waiting for a reply, Shady began the question.  Guybrush wasn’t ready.  He was slightly hoping for an intermission and a trip to the little pirates’ room.

“The fearsome Ghost Pirate LeChuck created the perfect combination of chemicals, voodoo, and good old kitchen know-how that could both kill and preserve humans as his army of darkness, but he never told anyone the recipe.  So while the legions of evil may still overrun and befoul the world of the living, no one knows how he did it (except of course for me, the producers, the scriptwriters, the director, the spotlight boy, and a few carefully collected individuals who all happen to be carefully guarding that secret as well as being DEAD).”

“So what’s the question?” howled a heckler.

Shady glared in his general direction.  “What is the secret ingredient that gives this peculiar preservative its ultimate power?  Now think hard.  I’ll give you some time to think. Murray, what’s your answer?”
“So what’s your answer?”

“I’m not sure… Blood?”

“That is not the correct answer. Jojo?”

Shady very neatly evaded the hurled projectile.

“Likewise, not acceptable. Bob?”

Guybrush rubbed his chin and thought.  The goatee was coming back in nicely.  Only a few more months and he wouldn’t need his library card to get grog anymore.  He didn’t really drink it anyway.  Just sort of sat there holding it, making bets on the darts game, laughing when people fell off the chandelier…

“Your answer, Bob.”

“Grog,” Guybrush replied dreamily.

There was a slight pause.

“That is the correct answer, Bob, and you win!”

“I’d like to change my answer,” piped in Murray.  Jojo chimed in his desire as well.

“Okay, Murray, what’s the secret ingredient?”



“Eek eek grog.”

“Both of you are correct, which means Murray, you win the trip, Jojo, you get the money, and Guybrush, you get the socks.”

The audience politely cheered, and watched as Murray was loaded into a previously unseen giant slingshot.

“What? Hey! You can’t do this! What are you doing? You’re going to hear from my chiropractor! WHEEEEEEEEEEE!” Murray sailed across the night sky, disappearing long before his cries went out of hearing range.  “You will suffer HUMILIATIONS GALORE for your INSUFFERABLE treatment of- Hey look! A whale…”

Jojo skipped off with his bag of coins, leaving Guybrush to stare at his pair of socks. All around him the set was quickly being reverted back to its usual duties as ship’s deck, and the pirate audience was shambling away in pieces, pretending that they didn’t care it was over.  The spotlight shut off, and Guybrush could now see that it was actually the lighthouse beam from Blood Island.  He didn’t have any time to ponder its relocation as-

“Hey! Hey you with the socks! C’mere!” hissed a voice.

Having less than nothing else to do, Guybrush turned towards the voice, and strode into the shadows.

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