By Sea Captain Manchuria, Privateer of the Bryan Bishop Adventure Island Imperial Navy
May 18th, 2007
Foggy day. Light breeze, that swayed the mist hovering above the town. The stench of opportunity was in the air. I can always sense it -- the smell of dirty laundry, and sure enough, it came flapping by -- a Union Jack flapjacket with the stifling aroma of septic tanks, piano keys, and destiny. I grabbed it with a thrust of the arm and the clench of a fist. It was mine.
In one pocket was an unidentifiable sticky red substance that looked like blood, smelled like blood, and tasted like blood. In the other was a cryptic message, one that sent shivers crawling up and down my spine like the sun-warmed deckhands on my towering mast.
"Dare you discover the Secret of Monkey Island."
Of course, I nodded.
Disguise is ready. Needed to infiltrate the subject incognito so I put on my perpetually oversized Chris Harmer pirate-wench garb and boarded the legendary Ship Of Fooles.
The captain is legendary. They told me the best way to get what I wanted was to grease up his ego 'cause he swung both ways -- was bipolar, like glaciers and snow.
I sucked it up and braved it out. I'll make him spill.
The sun streamed in through the flapping curtains, along with the smell of cannonballs, seamen, and decks (all-hands-on). Now was the time. He was still asleep so I helped open his lips for him.
"Monkey Island?" he asked, now fully aroused.
"You know it."
"Well, it's been going well. Like clockwork. It's been everything I could've hoped for." He chuckled. "Well, you know. Given the talent involved."
I perked up, and he noticed. "What do you mean?"
"Well, this is sort of a secret, and we're trying to keep this on the down-low." He leaned in even closer and breathed into my ear. "It's Uwe. How much can you expect?"
He laughed, but I could feel the tingle of nervousness in his throat.
I'd found it. Uwe Boll. Sultan of Schlock, Film Protector Target, consensus reigning Worst Director on the Planet. This was the dirty secret of Monkey Island.
But that wasn't all.
A ruckus in the captain's quarters. Loud. Threathening. Mysterious.
I quickly dashed my way into the familiar secret passage leading to the bedroom, strained my ear against the floorboards, and listened. The captain was in full bellow, harking curses and insults at another person.
"I can't believe you did that, you red-coated fiend! You back-stabber, you Unionship-jacker!"
I tried to make out the other person, but there was no response.
"You have the hairy balls and the bullocks to do this to me?! FOR A WOMAN?! Don't deny it! Don't you dare deny it, it's all over the paper!! What about our agreement?! Our history!?"
A clinkle of teacups interrupted the good old captain. "It's only a couple of pounds, old chap," the mystery man replied.
"You've doomed us, I tell you. You've doomed the production! Monkey Island will sink! And so will our..."
"YOUR money." I couldn't see it, but I could swear there was a twinkle in the stranger's eye. "Your bloody money, old chap. And she's not just a woman. She's a woman who's my fiance, with a mighty fine arse. So cry me a river, and sing me an anthem, you bloody old buggery fool. I'll see you in two months in my and my woman's new mansion."
"Why, you little pinky-waving..."
"Oh, and stop calling me sweetie, 'captain'," he sneered. "The name's Trax. Marcus Trax. Or perhaps 'Daddy', to you."
Stunned at this development, I launched out of the secret passage and to my slave quarters, pored over the day's paper. Doomed productions? Anthems? Hairy balls? What could it all possibly mean?
And then I spotted it. A new Wormtail Production, released by none other than Marcus Trax's corporate empire, on the same day as his very own Monkey Island
Treachery cuts deep. Especially by the British.
It was a dark and stormy night. The sea was sloshing against the ship like the raging ocean sloshes against large boats. My eyes were about to close, as I was about to fall into a slumber, when I heard it. A wail, the sound of despair from outside.
Fearing the worst, I stood up lightning-fast, put on my Chris Harmer costume, and moved like an iceberg towards the door. I burst out onto the deck, and that's when I saw him. The captain, soaked from head to toe. I couldn't tell rain from sea from tears.
"Oh. Oh, it's just you," he sniffed, the epitome of defeat. "I'm sorry if I woke you. It's just... Oh screw it, you understand me! You'll lay by me to the very end! I'm ruined, Chris! RUINED!"
I asked him why, but he just broke down some more.
"I put my faith into that man! I put everything into his hands! Everything! My entire summer, my money, that property, my love..." he sobbed. "...ly ship! I gave him my tentpole, don't you understand?!? MY POLE!! MY BELOVED POOOOOOLLLEE!!!"
I sighed and I stiffened as the stunning image flashed through my head. "I'm sorry about that. I heard about the Anthem issue, but..."
"Oh, it's not just that! I wish it was, but it's not! I was nearly over that! He had his woman, his love, I can surely relate! But yesterday... He told me... He told me..."
"He told you what?"
"HE WAS FAKING IT!! HE DIDN'T FINISH, HE NEVER FINISHED!! I couldn't... get him... to finish..."
The rain drummed on, along with my heart, as my pulse beat pure pity for that broken man.
"He's only halfway done the movie, it's as if he was saving it all for her! He only gave me his half-ass, don't you see? He only gave me half an ass! I'm ruined..."
And the rain drummed on.
"I'm ruined..."
And the rain drummed on.
"I'm ruined..."
The sun was shining again after the rain. It was the last day of my voyage on the Fooles -- about time, since my costume started chafing.
Ship of Fooles would reach its destination tomorrow and who knows if all was well. I hadn't seen the dear captain in three whole days and have heard little news on the production.
I had spotted Uwe Boll, however, and tried to prod some answers out of him, but he only prodded me back with his fist two or three hundred times.
In the distance, back on the land, I could make out a huge celebration of some sort on shore. I took out my telescope and peered through. On a giant parade float was none other than Marcus Trax and his fiance, Polgara, boasting arrival of their digital lovechild
I scanned the shore some more, for any sign of Guybrush Threepwood, or monkeys, or giant cotton swabs -- no avail. Monkey Island was nowhere in sight.
Two lattes, six burgers, and three bathrooms later, I finally caught up to the dear captain, who was trying to avoid any contact whatsoever.
"I'm feeling much better now, as you can see," he sighed. "I disappointed at his lack of commitment, but I try not to take it personal, you know? I... I don't know if I'll ever be able to trust anyone again, but I'll try, I'll soldier on, like I always do. You understand, don't you?"
He looked into my eyes, searching for an answer I didn't want to tell him.
"You understand. Right?"
I looked down where his hands were clamped on mine and then blinked one or two times. I sighed. "I... I'm not sure, captain, I'm not sure if I understand. I'm just a fool, after all. We're all just Fooles."
"Fooles," he whispered. He closed his eyes and let go of my hand. "You're right, Chris. You're right."
We both looked off into the sunset, picturing it as it fell towards Marcus Trax's head. He put his hand on my shoulder, but I didn't mind, 'cause I couldn't feel it through the padding.
"What is us Fooles, Chris?"
I shrugged. I really didn't know. But if there was one thing I was sure of, it was this. "We'll always have Monkey Island."
He looked at me, then nodded. And we both laughed.
Sea Captain Manchuria's first command was a freight container that fell off a cargo ship on its way from China to the US.
