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Secret Revealed
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Chapter 4: Out of the Frying Pan

By the time Guybrush meandered back downstairs, all of the upset patrons had left, all except for Herman, Goodsoup, and Madame Eczema (“Xima!” she hollered).  Guybrush leaned against the bar.
“I know you can’t make any Rumbusters, but what can I get to drink around here?”
Griswold set down the glass he was polishing and rested his hands on the counter.
“Well let me see, my boy. We’ve got the Blue Lagoon, the Scurvy Seamate, Captain’s Cognac, Grog-Lite, Rhapsody in Mermaid, no wait, that has mangos.  And of course, near-grog for all the not quite manly pirates.” Guybrush bit his lip. A near-grog would have really hit the spot, but pride came first.
“I guess I’ll take a Grog-Lite.”
Griswold thumped the sizzling drink down on the counter.  It might have been watered down, and missing a few ingredients, but the spilled drops still burned through the hardwood counter.  Guybrush eyed it cautiously.
“What, no festive Tiki umbrella?”
“Well, no, it’s been a busy week,” explained Goodsoup, “and the pantless guy over there got the last full size one.”  Herman was humming an old sea faring tune, while balancing on the unfolded umbrella.  Guybrush wasn’t sure whether or not it would be safe to disturb him, but the drink wouldn’t be any less exciting without the accessory, so…
When Guybrush regained consciousness, he found Goodsoup leaning over the bar watching him.
“Thank Heavens.” said the hotel entrepreneur.  “I was afraid you were going to die again.”
Guybrush left the hotel and wandered around towards the cemetery.  Stan no longer ran his life insurance office, instead…
“Welcome to Stan’s Previously Owned Heads! And today is your lucky day, because we’re having a closeout sale. Everything must go.  We’ve got deals up to half off.”
Guybrush surveyed his surroundings.
“I like what you’ve down with the place. It’s actually kind of cheerful.”
Stan wiped an invisible speck of dust from the shelf holding the head of a dog and a rabbit.
“Yes, well, I do what I can. But enough about me, I know you’re dying to get your hands on this merchandise. They’re all the rage at the cocktail parties this year. And they make great Honey-I’m-sorry-I-forgot-our-anniversary gifts.  Much more meaningful than flowers. So what can I show you today?  Over here we have our famous pirate and celebrity heads…” Guybrush allowed himself to be propelled from shelf to shelf while Stan pitched his deal.
“Here we come to my personal favorite, the wonderfully preserved peak of that perilous pirate, Bucktooth John!” He beamed, waiting for Guybrush’s awe-struck response.
“Well?” he prompted.
“Well what?” asked Guybrush.
“Aren’t you the least bit overwhelmed by the magnanimity of who you’re beholding?”
“I do have a slight feeling of nausea, but that could be from staring at a shriveled head on a pedestal.”
Stan shook his head, his hands covering his face.
“My dear boy, where have you been all your life? Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of Bucktooth John.”
“I’ve never heard of Bucktooth John.”
Stan stared in disbelief.
“Why, he’s just the first and only man to have ever found the Secret of Monkey Island.”
Guybrush blanched.
“Why don’t I know about this? And when did he do this anyway?” He demanded.
“Last week.”
“Stan, that’s really gross.  Besides, how do you know he found it?”
“Why, he told me of course.”
Guybrush scrutinized the head skeptically.
“Then how come he’s dead, Stan? Why don’t you know the Secret of Monkey Island as well?”
Stan picked some assorted files from his desk, and shoved them into a crypt drawer, stuffed to capacity with similar papers.
“He was about to tell me, but the cannibals caught up with him.  That’s why I only have the head.”
“Stan, I’m leaving. You’ve succeeded in making me ill.” Guybrush hurried outside, thankful for the fresh night air.
“Psst….” said a voice from the shadows.  Guybrush wasn’t too sure he wanted to go behind a crypt in a semilighted area when there were threats on his life.  But this was why he carried mace.
“Hello?” he said cautiously.
“Password.” came the voice.  Guybrush peered about him, unable to discern who or where the voice came from.
“Password.” it insisted.  Guybrush shrugged his shoulders helplessly.
“I don’t know the password.” he said.   From the shadows stepped the short man, one of the men of low moral fibre (pirates).
“That’s okay.” He said. “I don’t know it either. I was just hoping you would.”
Guybrush stepped back defensively.
“I’m not looking for a fight,” he started.
“Neither am I. I actually need your help.”
“I don’t understand.” Guybrush said.
“Then don’t interrupt and I’ll explain.”  Guybrush shut his mouth.
“I’m in the service of LeChuck.” Guybrush kept his mouth shut, but his knees trembled.
“I’ve been hired to track you down and kill you.” Guybrush’s lip began to twitch.
“Frank and Joe have the same assignment.”  His legs threatened to buckle.
“LeChuck has destroyed all the edible vegetation to force the cannibals into turning you in, or eating you. LeChuck wants you, Dead, or Baked Alive.”  Guybrush’s eyes started to bulge.
“LeChuck has also taken your plush Evil Purple Tentacle ™ doll.”  Guybrush broke down.
“Not my Purple Tentacle ™! I had to eat four boxes of Toasty Puffs to get that!”
 He stopped.  “But why are you telling me all of this?”  Sam shook his head, a tear submitting to gravity flinging itself off the end of his nose.
“He took my rat.” He whispered.  “You’ve got to finish him off, once and for all.  I just want the little guy back safe and sound.  And he took Frank’s pegleg, and NO ONE is brave enough to make another, for fear of the wrath of LeChuck.  And he took Joe’s last barrel of arsenic-spiked Grog.”
“Isn’t that poisonous?” Guybrush asked confused.
“Yeah, but it’s the only way Joe will drink it.  So now we have no circus, no boat, no grog, no leg, and no raaat!!!”  Sam sunk to the ground sobbing.
“There, there,” comforted Guybrush.  He waited. Sam still cried.  “Sam?”  No response.
Guybrush wandered off towards Mt Acidophilus.
The cannibal village was surprisingly empty.  No decorative platters overloaded the tables like before.  Not one lump of tofu was in sight.  Instead, spears, shields, and fondue sticks leaned against the table, as if in preparation for an attack.
“Well this doesn’t look good.” said Guybrush.  Sounds of people talking wafted out of the Tribal Elder’s hut, and Guybrush went to investigate.  His noisy entrance into the hut caught everyone’s attention, and they turned as one body, a very hungry one, to stare at him.  Judging by the graphs and colorful models of the island, the cannibals were in a meeting to plan first attacking the resort, and then eating its occupants.  Hundreds of eyes bore into Guybrush.  He tensed involuntarily, but that only better defined his muscles.  A few of the cannibals actually licked their lips.
“Hi.” He said weakly. “I’m selling these fine leather jackets.”
“Leather,” they murmured.  Behind Guybrush, the door slammed.
“Oh monkey bladders.” he said. “I’ve done it this time.”

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