Guybrush was not
prepared for what greeted him as he stepped into the lobby of the Blood Island
Goodsoup Resort. It wasn’t the daily performance of “Fire in the
Hole!” the daring musical starring Wilhemina, the star of “High Explosive”
that caught his attention, it was-
“My dear nephew Wonton!” cried Griswold Goodsoup. Guybrush smiled
“My dear boy, I’m so pleased to see you no longer suffer from spontaneous
death. It’s good to have family you can rely on; besides, you might scare the
Guybrush leaned against the bar counter, surveying the hotel visitors in hopes
of spying the Voodoo Lady. There was the typical assortment of
retired pirates and their families, the young debonair sort trying to out drink
each other, the pantless old codger doing yoga in the corner booth. As
confused as he was to why Herman was there, Guybrush sensed the importance of
learning more about the letter LeChuck had left in his pocket.
“Hey Herman, how’s it going?”
Herman smiled serenely from the floor.
“It goes.” He said. “But what are you doing here?”
“I was about to ask you the same thing.” said Guybrush. A little small
talk before the big issues at hand never hurt. Herman untied himself, and
sat down on a bench. The “Drink Grog!” neon sign behind him contrasted
sharply to his weathered hat and long, furrowed beard.
“The cannibals gave me a week off. They think I can’t do my job ever since I
found your letter that night. I only ran through their village screaming
and bellowing like a gangrenous walrus on fire. It wasn’t as if they
weren’t used to that kind of distraction.”
“So tell me more about this letter,” Guybrush prompted.
“It was exactly midnight, because the cannibals had just started their weekly
Voodoo FantaSeas Dance, and the drums can be heard all over the island.”
“Oh, that’s sounds nice,” interjected Guybrush.
“It is, the young people really enjoy it, and the more sedate ones can get
into it as well. Tourists used to flock to see it, until the teenagers
started to bring them home to meet the parents. Sometimes they’d even
have them for dinner.”
“Well what’s so wrong with that?” asked Guybrush, a little puzzled.
Herman sighed and shook his head.
“They actually had them for dinner. You see, for some reason Monkey
Island has not been able to grow coconuts, bananas, or any type of food for that
matter for a few weeks now. Every fruit and edible plant suddenly
disappeared. Rather than spend their gross national income on imports, the
cannibals reverted to a system of tourism and economic solidarity. It’s
open season on anyone who sets foot on their shores.” Before Guybrush
could say anything more, a sudden eruption at the bar caught his attention.
“What do you mean you don’t have any Pegleg RumBusters left?” demanded an
angry patron. Goodsoup shrugged his massive shoulders.
“I can’t make a RumBuster without papayas, how many times must I tell
you?” Guybrush excused himself from Herman, determined to finish the
conversation later, and sidled up to the counter.
“What seems to be to the trouble here?” he asked, trying to pacify the short
man. The fellow turned to Guybrush.
”Hey, I know you,” he glared, scrutinizing Guybrush’s face with his beady
“I do know you, you pasty-faced whiny wannabe pirate. You chased my rat
away! Then when I got a new one, you stole that one too! Don’t think I
didn’t see you, you tempted him with cheese squigglies. I know when
there’s cheese squigglies around.”
“I’m sorry,” said Guybrush, “but there are somethings that just have to
be done. Your rat had an appointment with a vichyssoise.”
“You put my rat in a cold soup?!” howled the man, now recognizable as one of
the three men of low moral fibre (pirates). “I had that soup for lunch!
You made me eat my rat! And now I get a whole new one, but before you can
get to it, somebody else grabs it and I’m tired of people taking my
rats…” By now the rest of the establishment was watching the situation,
while murmurs of discontent began to stream through the conversations. The
man continued to bellow and complain, until a cloud of blue hazy smoke started
to roll in from the hallway door, shrouding the corridor and indeed, that entire
half of the room. Guybrush began to cough and wheeze, his eyes welling
with tears. He rubbed them fiercely to take away the stinging sensation,
but when he took his hands away, he found himself not in the lobby, but instead
in a guest suite, and there stood the Voodoo Lady before him. She was
merrily throwing ingredients into a cauldron as usual, and stirring it with a
bone arm equipped with a floatie.
“Won’t Murray be upset if he finds out you’re using his arm as a mixer?”
“I won’t tell him if you don’t.” replied his rescuer.
“Oh, by the way, thanks for the interruption downstairs. And the
throbbing music was a nice touch, it really set the scene.”
The cauldron bubbled faster, with strange chunks of greasy blue animal fur
rising to the top.
“No problem at all,” shrugged the Lady. “I was saving it for when I
have to check out, but I’ll just use a thunderstorm for that instead.
But enough about me. I know why you’re here, and you’re not going to like
what I have to tell you.”
“As long as it doesn’t involve drinking that potion I can take anything.”
The Voodoo Lady began ladling portions into handy ziploc bags with the yellow
and blue make green seal.
“What, this?” she asked. “No, no. This is for the cannibals.
I’m trying to keep them from raiding the resort and carrying off the patrons.
There’s some kind of plague on the vegetable gardens, and they’re starving.
But it funny that you should ask, because it is the cannibals on which I need to
talk to you.”
“What? Oh.” Guybrush put down the bottle of LongLocks facial hair growth he
had been examining, and returned his attention to his friend.
“Do you remember a few years ago when you entered into the heart of Monkey
Island to find LeChuck and rescue Elaine?”
“How could I forget? I had to wear that revolting necklace of eyeballs.”
“Do you also remembered what happened to the fellow who had been wearing the
eyeballs before you did?” Guybrush blanched in amazement.
“You know, I completely forgot about the navigator.” he said. The
Voodoo Lady finished bagging the soup.
“Well he didn’t forget you. After LeChuck’s crew of the undead found
him, he underwent torture so great, he can’t even begin to talk about it.
Finally one night, he made his escape, and found his way back to his daughter,
who in the meantime had been raised by the cannibals.”
“His daughter?!” cried Guybrush.
“Why yes,” nodded the Voodoo Lady, smiling to herself, “I believe you’ve
already met her.”
Guybrush recalled the stowaway.
“Funny, she must look like her mother.” The Voodoo Lady's eyes
glittered, as black as the uncultured pearls around her neck.
“But now you are in danger Guybrush, for as much as he suffered under
LeChuck, he hates you more. He sneaked onto Blood Island in a hat box, and
is living with the cannibals at the top of Mount Acidophilus. He is the first of
the challengers that will defy you in your final quest to defeat LeChuck.”
Wait a minute,” Guybrush quailed. “Did you say first? Did you say LeChuck?
How many times am I going to have to go through this? I’m tired. I want to
settle down and have children that look just like me. I want to find an
easily programmed VCR. I want to know the Secret of Monkey Island!”
Outside, the volcano erupted, showering ash and molten rock over the resort.
Pieces of the rock fell through the roof, and embedded themselves into the
“Well whatever you do,” said the Voodoo Lady, “Do it quick, because this
resort is falling down around my ears, and it’s not helping me relax.”