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Monkey Island 4
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Burning the jolly roger

Plush Island, Redbone Hill, 13 Days before the Loot Barrel Ambush

Six figures had congregated here at Govenor Tonasco Rawbread's mansion which was positioned atop Redbone Hill and consequently had one of the most coveted views anywhere on the island. Yet the room in which they were now seated gave no picturesque view of the island-scape - Rawbread had pulled down all the shutters leaving the room dim. The only thing to focus on now was the govenor himself and the large map which filled the majority of the table the others were positioned around. All of the six had completely unique and colorful appearances, but at present Tonasco's own countenance was by far the most animated. His eyes were wide open as he spoke and the light from the candles on the table played around his facial features to add to the excitement of his words.

'Yes I'm quite aware of that, govenor' Tonasco was saying. 'The fact remains however, that the vessel has gone missing and it could be drifting anywhere from here to the coast of Scabb Island.'
'Maybe it sank, Rawbread. Did you ever think of that?' one of the six ventured.
'Could well have. That ship had so much bullion and solid dubloon jammed into its hold, it may have just capsized' another chimed in. Laughter broke out among the small assembly.
'Quite unlikely.' Rawbread was growing slightly indignant. 'It may be the first of its kind, but that ship was put together better than most I've ever seen.'
'I think he's right. She won't be sinking in a hurry.'
'SHE won't be sinking in a hurry? Why do they always have to be female?' a female voice added to the general mutter.
'You wanna know why?'
'Lets not get onto irrelevant subjects' Rawbread interjected.
'Irella what?'
He ignored this last comment.
'Only two things stand to threaten the vessel' Rawbread reassured them. Everyone went silent in grim expectation. 'A harsh Caribbean storm...or an unbelievably well-armed band of interfering pirates.'
'Aye Pirates, Rawbread. If word of this leaks out to even one of those foul-smelling, salt-swilling bandits, it'll be all over the Caribbean in two seconds.'
'Right. And they'll be out hunting for our prize vessel day and night like the scavaging fortune hunters that they are.'
'Then we won't be letting anything leak out of this room....for the good of the Collective!' Rawbread's eyes lit up to new degrees. 'Not long now, my friends, and we'll see an end to piracy for all time to come. Am I right?' At his proclamation, the other six govenors slammed their mugs down on the table to show their concurrence. Tonasco Rawbread responded delightedly by hammering his fist onto the table, right in the centre of the map so that everything jumped.
'Alright then' he added and the meeting had come to a close

Gunfire Island, somewhere on the beach, 12 Days before the Loot Barrel Ambush.

    Guybrush Threepwood looked like a drowned rat as he heaved the small rowboat up onto the beach. When he'd pulled it away from the reach of the slow, lapping waves, he turned to wave farewell to his sea-faring friends onboard the good ship "Splintering Heap". He opened his lips to shout thanks for the lift but was cut off.
'This is the last time Threepwood' someone yelled from the small craft. 'Next time, you can swim the whole way.'
Guybrush made another attempt to shout thanks but was again interrupted. 'And don't think we'll forget about that boat either. Those things aren't free you know!" He watched as the rickety ship sailed off into the distance then turned to face the island.

'Nice to have friends who care' he muttered to himself. He leaned over the beached rowboat and picked up a large heavy wooden box. A paper label attached by string fluttered in the breeze. It read "Punchbowl".
'Must be one mighty fine punchbowl. Whoever ordered it should feel lucky.' Guybrush couldn't help but notice how strong the smell of salt was on this particular section of beach. After buttoning up his damp, green great-coat around him, Threepwood gathered his strength and began to walk up the beach towards the tree-line carrying the crate. It wasn't a minute before he was stopped by the first citizen of Gunfire Island he was to meet that evening.

'Howdy son. Like to drop what you've got there on the sand for a minute.'
'I'm sorry?' Guybrush was truly perplexed.
'Standard inspection, boy. Gotta make sure you're not importing guns or moonshine or sumthin'.
'Is that a fact?'
Skitland Maggotsby looked a little taken aback. Then a little irate. 'Yes. As a matter of fact it is.'
Threepwood dropped the case for Skitland to examine. As he looked it over, trying to find a way inside Guybrush offered a suggestion 'Somehow, I don't think you're going to be opening that crate with anything short of a crowbar.'
'Guess so.' The sturdily built man rose to his feet. 'Well. I'll let it by this time. But I'm still going to have to ask you for any weapons you might be carrying. Standard procedure.'
'A pirate's not a pirate without his sword.' Guybrush wasn't prepared to give up his blade without an argument.
'You can get it back when you leave. If you're lucky. We've got new laws, laws from the Govenor's Collective here on Gunfire that say no swords, muskets or other artillary period. It's a long and confusing story'
Threepwood could have argued for longer, but he wanted to deliver this final package, collect his payment and get off the island to pursue his latest endeavour. He gracefully but ruefully handed over the fine blade to Skit and breathed a sigh of regret.
'Trust me, boy. I'll hand it over when you're ready to sail. If you were a permanent resident...well..that would be a different story. I'd have to bury your weapon, same as I bury everyone else's.'

Skitland turned to leave when Guybrush stopped him in his tracks. 'Listen, you don't know of any local punchbowls collectors do you?'
'Punchbowls? No one round here having a party that I know of.' Again he turned to depart and again he turned back. 'Say. I bet you a parrots right eye that package is for Porter Punchbowl.'
'Porter Punchbowl. He owns the local memorabila museum. Scrap heap I like to call it. That's who that worthless wooden box will be for.' Having given all the information he was prepared to divulge, Skit plodded up the sand and vanished through the trees. After a few moments meditation, Guybrush followed the same trail. It was an hour or more of lugging the crate around the island, asking for directions, before finally, he came to an establishment called the CrabRash Museum. All that was left was to hand over the crate, collect the 520 pieces of eight he'd been promised for delivering the worthless piece of junk and find another generous soul to sail him off Gunfire Island.

Part 1:Four Flavors of Piratedom

    Guybrush hurt his hand knocking on the hard oak door of the Crab Rash Museum. After which he noticed the large gold door knocker placed clearly in the middle but before he had the pleasure of using it, a small hatch opened in the door. Briefly, Guybrush had a humorous memory of a large, plump hand poking out a similar hatch and the words "if this is three, what's this" coming from somewhere inside. The vision was abrubtly replaced by the old, kindly, yet slightly senile face of Porter Punchbowl, the museum proprietor staring back at him through a circular metal grid.

'Are you Mr Punchbowl?' Threepwood asked pleasantly.
'If I tell you, will you go away?'
'Actually it's a matter of business I'm here about. Several months ago you placed an order for a...well...I'm not exactly sure what it is but....'
'So you finally decided to show up, ha? Tell me boy, which lowsy delivery service takes seven months just to drop off one miserable item?'
'Threepwoods Caribbean Connection!' Guybrush returned proudly.
'Never heard of it!'
'That's strange, Mr Punchbowl.'
'No its not.' Punchbowl wasn't buying this.
'Its probably one of the largest and most popular courier services around.' Guybrush continued.
'Yeah! How many employees?'
'Well...I'm the sole representative in this particular zone.'
'And I suppose this is the only zone the company's involved with presently. Right?'
'Maybe. I don't concern myself with demographics.'
'Don't demographic me.' Punchbowl's face crinkled in disgust. 'You know what I think?' (actually, Guybrush didn't care) 'I think you're a snivelling freelance who'll probably spend the money from this drop off on six barrels of whisky and a new pair of shoes.'
'But I like my shoes.'

After that, Punchbowl knew he was dealing with someone a lot lower on the evolutionary scale than he'd first imagined. He seemed to calm down a little as a result.
'Okay kid. Bring that ton of bricks inside and I'll get you your cash.'
Guybrush stepped inside and managed to pull the door closed with one arm while balancing the wooden package in the other.

Inside, Porter Punchbowl raced up stairs and disappeared from view leaving Guybrush to stand and survey his surroundings. What he saw was a cramped yet vast collection of aging junk: old rotting barrels, blank purchase order forms on one table, an assortment of rusty yet "Authentic fishhooks used by CrabRash himself!!" and various other sea-faring antiques. "Punchbowl must really be into this CrabRash guy" Guybrush murmured into the large, empty display room.

Presently, Porter returned with a jingling, clattering bag: 520 pieces of eight, no more, no less Guybrush prayed.
'Well now. Before I hand over the goods, we'd best be seeing that you've given me what I ordered.'
'I can assure you...'
'Put a padlock on it, son' Porter grunted. Threepwood was becoming a little impatient with this old coot. The cash was but an arms reach away from him and he had to sit and wait while this cranky antique monger opened the crate. Miraculously, it seemed, Porter produced a large metal crowbar from somewhere in his pants and managed to jolt the lid off the box with one mighty shove. Surprises didn't cease there however. As Guybrush stared into the box, he saw a multitude of small, heavy metal beads which seemed to fill every square meter of the crate.
'You collect sinkers? Is that it?'
'Ha? Hell no, kiddo. That's just the packing. New innovation. The experts say that lead kills vibration and reduces the visible signs of aging, especially with a fragile item like this. But they do make fine sinkers.'
Guybrush had the sudden urge to swear in three different languages simultaneously.. He'd been carrying that thing around for hours and the majority of the weight was probably excess from the lead balls. He sighed and watched as Punchbowl removed about twenty three handfuls of the packing before coming up with the goods..well..the good.

'Hmmm. Looks like you've come all this way for nothing Mr...what did you say your name was?'
'Guybrush Threepwood, although some like to call me the crate master.'
'I see. Well this is how it is 3Wood. What I was suppose to get was a bandanna worn by the legendary Baron CrabRash in his finer years. Like me to tell you the story of Baron CrabRash?'
'I'd rather you didn't.'
'Right. So what I have received is a very brown, very unsightly banana!'
'Your point being?'
'My point being this, Five-iron. Until I get my crusty, moldy, polkadotted bandanna worn by the late Baron CrabLash, the most you'll get out of me is a crate of heavy led balls.'

Guybrush felt his frustration reaching new peaks. 'But I need the money now!'
'Why?. So you can buy yourself a better name?' the old guy started chuckling to himself.
'I need it to join a marauding band of pirates who are out to find and plunder this great, whopping treasure Galleon. Apparently the crew took a wrong turn and got lost at sea.' This seemed to pull Punchbowl out of his hysterics for a moment. He looked intently at Threepwood and said 'So. Figured you weren't cut out for delivering heavy wooden boxes, so you'd go to something easier like captaining pirate ships, huh?' Again he started chuckling.
'Almost. But I won't be the one in charge. The band is being formed by a mighty pirate captain...I've heard his name's Jarm Raconda. He was once retired but....' This time it didn't look as if Porter was going to laugh any more as he interupted Guybrush.
'YOU! A member of Jarm Raconda's elite band of pirates? There's about as much chance of that as a cannon ball floating.'
Indignantly, Threepwood sucked in his chest and let fly with 'Hey! Im Guybrush Threepwood, old man. The mighty pirate who did away with the Ghost Pirate LeChuck!'
'Yeah. And I discovered the majority of Northern Europe on my last fishing trip. Listen kid, if you're really the rough, fowl-smelling buccaneer you think you are, you'll have no trouble coming up with the things mentioned in this list.' Porter handed him a crumpled up piece of paper resembling a glossy advertisement of some kind. He continued 'this is what Jarm Raconda expects of real pirates. Not some sissy who transports rotten fruit from one island to another.'
'There's a lot of other young-bloods running around this island with similar ideas of fame and glory. If you ask me, Jarm Raconda would laugh in every one of their faces. Anyhow, you can ask them what its all about if you're running low on ideas, which in your case won't take long. Meanwhile, FiveIron, you owe me a bandanna.'
'That's Threep...'
'That's the door. Now beat it kid.'

Seconds later, Guybrush found himself standing outside the CrabRash museum with nothing to his name but a brown, banana-smelling mass, some loose change and a brightly coloured advertisement to fill his pockets. He decided it had been a long and largely unfulfilling day and thought it best to retire to one of the local bars. After a long walk back to town, and a ten minute meander, he came across "Alchaholic Remedies" and sauntered inside to drown his woes in a light dousing of near-grog.

A middle-aged woman named Sharon was the charming proprietor of Alchaholic Remedies and as Guybrush approached the bar he greeted her with 'I'm Guybrush Threepwood, grog connoisseur.'
'Not round here you're not, Guybrush. This is a certified health distribution outlet. I administer tonics with varying degrees of alchahol in dire cases of medical emergency only.'
'That's the deal.'
'If this place isn't a bar, then why are there two guys sitting over at that table sipping large mugs of grog, discussing potential revelry.'
'Yes..well I suppose you could call them full-time patients.'
'What are they dying from?'
'One has an in-grown liver, the other has what's known as "Quivering Hook". If it weren't for my life saving mixes, they'd both be dead by now.' Guybrush didn't believe a word of it, but for now chose to ignore the situation. This was the third frustrating conversation he'd had on Gunfire so far.

'Could I get a drink now?'
'Do you have a life-threatening ailment or affliction?'
'I have leprosy and third-degree burns on both big toes.' Sharon, much to the astonishment of Guybrush, seemed to accept this without any trouble.
'Hmmm. I guess you qualify.' She tossed him what looked suspiciously like a menu. 'We have a number of alchahol-based cures for you're painful predicament, Mr Threepwood. Among the more exhilarating you'll find are 'Crows blood' and the ever popular 'Throat Cannon'. Just remember. There's no guarantee your first glass will do the trick. It may take several. The only way to find out is to indulge.' Sharon gave Guybrush a wink and left him to read through the list of drinks they served at Alchaholic Remedies.

Threepwood walked over to the two men with the mugs and saw that they were about his age, if only a tad older. On the table, they had a large pot of some oily, fat-ridden soup which would eventually be eaten. He sat down on a stool and greeted them. 'Hey guys, what's new?'
'Why, everythings new, friend!' said the more handsome of the two. He had rich golden hair and a beautiful red had with purple plumes bulging out the back. 'New, and rich and exciting. I'm Tariot, and this is my companion Hans Skarmane. And who might you be?'
'A fine name, friend. One of the finest I've come across. Wouldn't you agree, Hans?'
'Indeed! It has a certain indefinable magnificence.'
'Yeah. I guess I kinda like it too' Guybrush murmured, feeling a little out of place with these two apparently well-to-do young men.
'We were just discussing our plans for departure, Guybrush. You see, tomorrow morning, just after sunrise, we're sailing from Gunfire Island to seek our fortune' Tariot told him confidently.
'No doubt, you've been informed of the Govenor's Collective and their highly tragic blunder at sea' added Hans.
'Not as such.'
'Perhaps you don't frequent the same social circles we do' continued Tariot. 'No matter. As fortune has it, the highly influential Governor Tonasco Rawbread and his associates in the Collective had constructed a rather formidable Galleon, the largest of its kind.'
'Naturally' added Guybrush trying to sound intelligent.
'They used it as their flagship and managed to win a host of battles at sea against many of the great pirates. Each victory brought a new addition to its glittering booty.'
'Corsairs and tradesmen alike started referring to it simply as the "Scourge" and avoided areas of the sea where the apparent "scourgings" had taken place. Of course, Rawbread assured all that his intentions were admirable and that he was reclaiming stolen wealth while at the same time ridding the Caribbean of what he called a malignant disease.'
'Eyelid rot?'
'Well...Piracy actually. He hates pirates with a vengeance and has slowly been gaining more and more support for his "Burn the Jolly Roger" campaign.'
'But back to the story...' Guybrush was interested now.
'I see I've caught your attention. Now as you might imagine, there's only so much treasure any one ship can handle. After a most successful maiden voyage, the Scourge was by and large filled to the brim with every priceless object imaginable, or so it's rumoured.'
'Some have speculated that Rawbread has a hidden drop off point nestled deep in the Caribbean somewhere and it was here that the colossal ship was headed before something happened to it.'
'Let me guess, there was an iceberg right.'
'In the sub-tropical Caribbean region? That's a laugh, Guybrush. No, I'm afraid that's where the tale ends. No one's sure what's happened to the Scourge and its unimaginable wealth. Not even Rawbread and his collective. The vessel disappeared mid-voyage.'

Guybrush suddenly had a revelation. 'Has all this got something to do with a retired pirate captain named Jarm Raconda.'
'None other! Well then. Maybe you're a little more knowledgeable about the world of piracy than we first suspected.' In all this time, Tariot hadn't lost his enthusiasm for explaining the situation.
'Aye, Guybrush' Hans carried on. 'Its Jarm Raconda who we're travelling to see tomorrow. Tariot and I feel we have what it takes to be a part of his exclusive band of pirates. He's planning to locate and conquer the Scourge as soon as he forms a worthy crew.'
'We've met Jarm's four requests and are preparing to...'
'Four requests?'
'But of course, Guybrush. Haven't you seen the Captain Raconda's advertisement?'
'Actually, I've got it right here.' Guybrush pulled out the small leaflet and Tariot took it from him.
'You see...Raconda's four requests, written in fine ink pen. "A journal of your travels, a fine blade, the mark of a pirate, and a skill that none other possesses." We've spent the last two weeks preparing these four things.'
'But we're ready now.'
'Aye.' Guybrush remained silent for a moment trying to let this latest information sink in.
'What can you do that no one else can?' Threepwood asked Hans.
'I can hold my breath under water for ten and a half minutes.'
'I see.'
'Now don't look so disheartened, Guybrush.' Tariot could see the look of despair growing on his face. 'Those four things are easily available to anyone eager enough to acquire them...even on a forsaken island like Gunfire.'
'You mean it?'
'You strike me as a man bold at heart and highly resourceful. You'll have little or no trouble.'
'That's the spirit.'
'Right, I'm off to meet those requests.'
'Good for you. And I'll tell you the best place to start. That burly fellow Skit owns a musket shop, you'll find it a little distance from town. He has one of the finest swords around hanging on the back wall. Something that would really impress Jarm Raconda. Only you'll have a time getting it from him.'
'I can handle him.'
'I think you probably will too. Good fortune be with you Guybrush!'
Guybrush Threepwood walked out of Alchaholic Remedies feeling a little more invigorated, despite the lack of grog flowing through his veins. He was looking forward to the challenge of finding a cool looking sword, a journal, the mark of a pirate and a new skill. (Or perhaps winning the Booty Island spitting contest would cut it with Raconda.)

Surprisingly, it was still early evening when Guybrush stepped out into the street. The sky surrounding Gunfire Island was dark but it was more because of the dense cloud cover than the approaching of nightime. Immediately, Guybrush headed down the path, away from the small town which had been named 'Blast' by its founding forefather Baron CrabRash., toward the thick collection of trees where he thought Skitland Maggotsby's store was. He thought it odd that Skit would be selling muskets when only an hour ago he'd just confiscated Guybrush's sword, claiming it to be an illegal weapon.

It didn't take long before Guybrush located "Skit's Muskets". The shop had posters plastered all over it, some bearing slogans like "Must-get Muskets!!" and "Gunpowder now in five different colours". Avoiding a large puddle of rainwater, Guybrush walked up to the door and, seeing that it was open, stepped inside.

'Well, well. If it isn't the delivery boy. Sorry kid, didn't order anything.' Skit gave Guybrush a rather large, disconcerting smile to show he was only joking. 'So? How's old-man Punchbowl?'
'As per usual. What do you want from me?'
'I was hoping to get my hands on that grossly elaborate orange peeler you have hanging on the wall there.'
'Hey kid, have some respect and call it by its proper name. That's the DarkReaper Falchion. Wrought from the brimstone in Hell itself. Wielded by some of the toughest, most fearsome pirates in history. Some say it possesses powers that could sink an entire island if unleashed. And unless you can show me a barrel's worth of bullion, I'm not even prepared to take it out of the display case.'

'Could I offer you this rare, African miracle-fruit? I'm quite sure it can sink an island aswell.'
'Rotten banana. Man, you must think I'm some kind of nut.'
'Just practicing my bargaining skills.'
'They need a lot of work. Anything else I can interest you in?'
'When did you lose your eye?'
''s still there. The eye patch is just a fashion statement. Anything else?'
'What about those binochulas. Are they for sale?'
' 'fraid not. I use those to keep a look out for newcomers to Gunfire. I'm what you'd call the local law round here, not a govenor or anything, but an elected official.'
'Who elected you?'
'The Govenor's Collective of course. As long as I keep the peace around here, they let me run my musket store. Only place left on the whole island where you can get a gun...or any kind of weapon for that matter.'
'But didn't you tell me before that no one could carry a weapon.'
'No one without a license can carry a weapon. And you don't look like the kind of person who's got a license for dangerous arms. Infact, only ones that qualify are the local musket club that practice up at the firing range.'
'Did I mention I am a seasoned veteran of this alleged musket club? So I guess I get all kinds of discounts and free stuff from this place, right?'
'Don't toy with me, boy. If you want to join the musket club, you'll have to ask them personally.'
'And this isn't the best time to disturb them either. Some of them want to get in with this guy Raconda, and their practicing up their skills. Now, is there anything else?'
'Could you atleast take that huge sword out of its case so I can admire it properly?'
'The DarkReaper Falchion stays where it is until someone walks in here with a hundred-thousand pieces of eight plus.'
'No one on this miserable islands going to have that kind of dough.'
'No one except Porter Punchbowl maybe. People say he's got quite a fortune stashed away somewhere in that decaying museum of his.'
'I'll keep that in mind.'
'Anyway, it's been swell talking with ya Skit. I've got to make tracks.'

Guybrush wanted that sword and suddenly he thought he might have a means of obtaining it, even if it meant taking advantage of an old guys money. He paced out of the shop and within minutes was standing at the door of the CrabRash museum again.

Before he had a chance to use the antique door-knocker, Punchbowl had opened the door and was standing there with his arms folded.
'Tell me you've got something other than year old monkey-feed this time' he said sarcastically.
'Just thought I'd come take a look around the museum.'
'Well. Someone that appreciates a bit of culture. Okay, Five-Iron. That'll be five pieces of eight.'
Guybrush tossed him the coins and stepped inside for the second time.

'Now this down here is the main exhibition' he pointed to the all the junk in the room. 'Out in the yard there, you can survey Baron CrabRash's cannon ball collection. And upstairs you can view some of the artefacts from his last three voyages. I've got one simple rule though: "Don't mess with anything". Got it?'
'I am at one with the rule.'
'Don't try and be smart. You're not. Now, those five pieces of eight you gave me let you come back here as many times as you want. Special offer.'
'One other thing. If you see anything you really like, something you want to buy for your girlfriend...' Porter looked Guybrush up and down '...well maybe....everything's for sale. This museum just isn't pulling in the same kind of turnover as it use to and I'm thinking of closing it down.'
'What will you do then?'
'Probably move to Plush Island and open a cosmetics franchise. They're all a bunch of pampered pansies over there. Right up their alley. Anyway, like I said before, don't touch anything.' With that, Porter Punchbowl headed outside to fiddle with something, leaving Guybrush to wander the CrabRash museum.

First things first, Guybrush grabbed a purchase order form off the table and filled in the blanks: "1 DarkReaper Falchion, Deliver to CrabRash museum." Guybrush had a bit of a time forging the old guys signature but managed as best he could. Before leaving, Guybrush took a brief tour of the upstairs display. One thing in particular interested him. It was an old, cobweb covered book bearing the title "The sea is my lavatory. A journal by Baron CrabRash." The words BARON CRAB RASH were written in huge sprawling letters.

Doing a quick check to make sure Punchbowl wasn't on his way up stairs, Threepwood grabbed the journal, opened a rather large window and tossed it outside. Hopefully, it would land in some discreet bush for him to collect later. Afterall, there's no way he could just walk out with the collectors piece. Punchbowl might have a dog with a nose for his owners belongings. It was highly possible.

Retreating downstairs, Guybrush decided to take a quick tour of the outdoor area behind the museum/house before retrieving the journal. The back area was simply grass that sloped down toward a gulley of forest. On the grass, he discovered a huge pile of cannon balls that seemed to be home to a host of long dead barnacles. One of them had a sticker on it reading "Desmond". As Guybrush looked at them, Punchbowl walked up behind him and tapped him on the shoulder, causing him to jump several metres in the air.
'Interested in buying one, FiveIron? They make great paper weights.'
'Can I get that one called Desmond?'
'Eh? Now wait a second. That's not the cannon balls name. I've reserved it for Desmond the Tatooist.'
'Oh.' Guybrush thought about this for a moment. 'Okay, I'll grab one aswell.'
'I knew these things would be popular. That's why I got so many. That'll be twenty pieces of eight.'
'But I don't have that much.'
'Then you'll have to reserve one, same as Desmond.'
'Desmond the cannon ball, you mean?'
'Hey! What did I tell you bef...'
'I'll have that one at the very top.'
'Ahh. Nice choice. Now what did you say your name was again, FiveIron?'
'No need to shout. My hearing's probably better than yours.'
Punchbowl had to reach, but he managed to plaster a sticky label baring the word GUYBRUSH onto the cannon ball.
'Right. When you find the cash, you can have the cannon ball. And if you have another insatiable urge to shop, just give me a hollor.' Again Punchbowl walked off, leaving Guybrush to his own devices. Guybrush grabbed the sticky label the minute Porter had left and headed for the front yard where he'd thrown the journal.

It didn't take long to figure out that the decaying old tome had landed in a thick tree not too far from the window. Threepwood racked his brains for a way to get it down and, after searching his pockets for a banana picker or a large, extendable ladder, decided to look around the yard. He came up trumps. In a small garden shed he discovered, among many other objects, a bright yellow hose. On the side it read "Phatt Island Phire-brigade. 1621." Conveniently, the hose fitted to a hydrent of some form that Punchbowl had setup near the house and Guybrush began to connect it when he heard a familiar, irritating voice.

'Hold it right there, Glutbrush. I haven't used that thing in about twenty years and there's a good reason.'
It was Punchbowl's head leaning out the window of the museum's second floor. 'There's one thing everyone who ever lived on Gunfire knows. The pipes are all screwed up around here. If you flush a toilet, someone's bathtub will flood. If you turn a tap on, the hydro-electric plant might blow a gasket.'
'Gunfire Island has a hydro-electric plant?'
'Doesn't every island? Anyway, that's hardly the point. What I'm saying is, unless you want trouble, don't play with the water. I had to learn that the hard way. Ask me about it some time.'
With that Porter was gone. Guybrush now intended to play with the water.

Having connected the hose to the hydrent, he began turning the wheel on the side. Water dribbled out the hose. Again, Guybrush turned the wheel and again another trickle of water. One more turn and this time, the nosel exploded with a stream of highly pressurised H2O. It took several attempts to grab the maniacal hose but finally he managed it and directed the flow up into the tree at the book. Five minutes later, Guybrush had sprayed the book out of the tree and had its sopping pages in his hands. Threepwood spun the wheel a number of times in the opposite direction and the hose came to a stand still.

Meanwhile, in the last five minutes, a man sitting in an outhouse had received a sudden gush of cold water from below and an archaic fountain had come to life for the first time in seven years, some where else on the island.

Presently, Punchbowl came out of the museum and examined the saturated Guybrush. 'Well, I hope you've learnt your lesson Gumbasket. Atleast the tree got a water from the looks of things.' He shook his head. 'You realise you've probably drained a good portion of the Caribbean sea or something as equally chaotic. Well. I hope you've learned your lesson. Remember. Don't play with water.'
After Porter had wandered off, Guybrush took out the well-watered journal and covered the words "Baron CrabRash" with his sticker that read "GUYBRUSH". That seemed a little too easy, he thought. Maybe his luck was changing. At any rate, he didn't want to hang around the museum for any longer than he had to and so headed straight for Skits musket store.

'Do I look like I'd lie to you?' Threepwood said trying to put on his most honest face.
'More than you did before' Skit replied evenly.
'Look. Porter asked me to give you this order for the DarkReaper Falchion. No kidding. And he wants me to pick it up for him. He'll pay you later.'
'Let me tell you something, crate boy. Old man punchbowl always collects his stuff personally if he can. Secondly, no one gets that weapon without cash up front. Thirdly, that's the worst forgery of a signature I've seen in my life. A dead eel could do a better job.'
'I think I've given you reason enough.'
'Yeah your right. Actually, Porter just sent me to take a look at the sword, see if its up to his standard. Now if you wouldn't mind taking it from its display case...'
'Not a chance. I might have even believed you if you had a genuine signature. Unfortunately, you blew it.'
'Can I atleast have my old sword back?'
'No. That stays with me until you leave. Ooh that reminds me. I have to go and bury a bunch of blades I confiscated this morning.'
'Nowhere that concerns you.'
'I think I'll be leaving now.'

Guybrush figured he might atleast be able to get at the sword if it was out of its case. That wasn't to be however, not for the moment. Something told him he was going to have to get Punchbowls signature sooner or later but presently, their looked to be no plausible way. Or was there? A plan was beginning to form and it had to do with a certain pot of stew Threepwood had seen earlier at Alchaholic remedies.

Returning to the local inn, Guybrush sidled up to Tariot and Hans who were still sitting, finalising their plans, and pretended to look at the window. At one moment, when it looked like they were both deep in discussion, Guybrush quickly dipped the purchase order form in and out of the adventurers pot of stew and headed for the door.

Once outside, he examined Punchbowl's form closely.
'Check it out! The high fat content in the stew has made this purchase order transparent. I can see straigt through it.'
With renewed energy, Guybrush again returned to Porter's decrepit museum, hoping to avoid another encounter with the aging dealer. No such luck.
'Found me a bandanna yet, Thrustwheel?'
'I'm this close.'
'Right. Keep up the good work. And by the way, you 'd better hurry up and buy your cannon ball. Just had a young couple in who said they were extremely interested in it.'
'Yikes! You've really made me want to spend my money quicker.'
'Don't be smart. Like I said're not.'

Punchbowl went round the back, leaving Guybrush to go inside the museum. He found what he was looking for without too much trouble. It was a guest book which he'd seen hanging up on a wall with a pencil on a string dangling from it. A few people had signed it, one in particular caught his attention: "Wish I could stay longer but I think I left the gas on. Rapp Scallion. 1754." At the bottom of the page however was what Threepwood really sought. "Hope you had a great time at the CrabRash Museum!! Porter Punchbowl." Checking to see that no was about, Guybrush placed the semi transparent purchase order of the signature and lined it up with some white space. It was then a simple matter of tracing the signature onto the form with the pencil. That done, Guybrush again headed for the door, and in moments, was standing in Skit's store again.

'Well. I'd recognise that signature anywhere!! How'd you con old man Punchbowl into running his errands for him?'
'Must have a soft spot for me.'
'Hmmm. I guess I can show you the DarkReaper for a minute. Its been a while since I've shown it off to anyone.'
Skit, using his key, opened the display case which was a box made of tinted glass and left the sword hanging there for Guybrush to admire. It was truly a magnificent blade, worthy of a great himself. 'It has a perfect gleam and flawless shape. I think its just what Porter's looking for. Okay, you can hand it over now.'
'No way.' Skit slammed the box shut. 'Punchbowl can come get it himself. Now make sure you tell him how it blew your mind away when you first saw it. And that I'm practically giving it away at 110,000 pieces of eight.'
'Yeah. I'll tell him.' Guybrush had really hoped that Skit would atleast have put the blade on the counter for him to grab.

'Anything else?'
'I was just wondering. If you're wearing that eyepatch all the time, you'd only really have to look through one hole with the binochulas.'
'The kid catches on fast. What about it?'
'So you could probably sell half the binochulas to me, if it came to it.'
'Well...they do come apart. I'll think about it kid.'

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