Inigo Montoya

H'okay, den, eef it make jou happy... Montoya walks over to Captain Siren. For some reason he begins to stoop ever so slightly, a strange, wild light dawning in his eyes. Dramatically, he points in the direction of Siren, and loudly declaims. "Juan! Juan...Pirate...Captain! Muah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-hahhhhh!" Thunder booms and the sky is lit by a flash of lightning.

Jou are ON, Eengleesh high-seas creeminal type! ... Joaquin, show de man.

Oh, "a pratt," ees it, number Juan? I no exactly see jou be Speedy Gonzales wit de noose when jou given a chance to cho off jour skeels. Jou should be leestening to Jackee Tarr. He gots de real idea! He say I "mogneefeecent Spaniard!" Spotting an end of his rope protruding from under a booth bench, he stalks over and snatches it. "I gon' take my rope an' go where I be appreeciated." Turning towards Siren, "Now here be a fine lady who soun' like she know wad' I be good for. For jou, I make spesheeal petite noose, wid' only sex knots een eet. -- (gulp) I meen, wid' only seex knots een eet. (Whew! De terapeest tell me dat called a Freudian Sleep.)" Montoya approaches Capt Siren, gathering coils of rope in his hands. However, halfway across the room, he trips over some imperfection (perhaps a knothole) in the floorboards, measuring his length in the collected spills and detritus. After a space of perhaps three heartbeats, he moves, rises, dusts off his front and, recollecting the tangled length of hemp, attempts to reassert his dignity. Two coils shy of the end, he freezes, eyebrows in his hairline and mouth agape. There, dangling from the end of the rope, is a perfect, regulation hangman's noose. "Hah!" he crows, spinning and pointing triumphantly at Capt. Sterling. "Less just see JOU do dat, eh?"

Hearing the sounds of gaiety returning to the Pub, a passing Inigo pokes his head in the door. He listens briefly, then calls out to the revelers. "Jou people crazy, jou know? All I say ees, 'Jou sank my sheep.' Jou know wad' sheep ees, righ'? Jou oughta know, all right, jou pirates, ain' jou? Jou know, 'sheep' like wad' jou all be sailing een? What de matter wid' jou? Jou no' speek Eengleesh?" He shakes his head, muttering under his breath, "Seelee sunny beaches." He looks around the pub, peering at the various mounds of flotsam. "Oh, an' by de way, anybody see my rope? De folks at de Betty Ford cleeneec say eef I fin' eet an' breeng eet, dey gon' show me some real good knots. Dey gots a bed set up alraidy an' evryt'ing. Dat an' a way cool captain's coat too, only eet's all white, an' instead of gold braid on de cuffs, eet has buckles."

The Aztec Nation, still smouldering slightly, begin to exchange uneasy glances. The prolonged, unnatural quiet begins to suggest an idea in the minds of the quicker of them. Little by little it dawns on them that the post seems to be deserted and the pub is theirs. "Only one thing to do, boys," comments a gruff voice from the back. "PAAAAARRRRRTEEEEEEE!!!!" The Nation leaps to its collective feet. An insistent, driving drumbeat begins throbbing. "Hit it, boys!" Seven or eight Aztecs with particularly outrageous headdresses vault to the top of the bar, chanting rhythmically. Hey! Hey! Hey, hey, hey hey! Macchu Picchu Maaaaaan! I've got to be a Macchu Picchu Man! Machhu Picchu Maaaan! I've got to be a Macchu..." The Aztecs dance ecstatically. The Cardinal wanders back into the pub, oblivious to the erupting chaos. Brackish water drips from his tattered crimson habit, and a thoughtful look clings to his visage. "Hmmmm.... keelhauling.... Maybe we have been going about this all wrong...."

As Father Juniper Serra so famously say, "Meesheeon Accomplish!" Jou guys on jour own now. I save jour bacon Juance. Jou gots to form op a Coaleesheeon Govermeant, train jou troops, an' all dat good stoff. I gon' check my sailf into Betty Ford Cleeneec for Compulsive Eenternait Juse.

Oh, jes, juan more t'ing, I almos' forget. Montoya turns to Tempest Fitzgerald. I breeng jou a message from de Emperor. He say, wid' hees compliments, dat jou should stop by for after-sacrifice snack. He say, de heart belong to de gods, but de rest ees op for grabs. Some guy tell heem, de liver go great wid' fava bean an' a nice Chianti.

What, jou think I crazy? (Stop nodding, jou over dere!) I mean, serious: I comb in here, I say dat, dey sen' me to get my heart reep' out. Jou think I gon' hang onto a phrase like dat afterwards? I know, last time jou see me, me and Joaquin deesappearing in cloud of dust like some stupeed Coyote, slung over backs of bonch of Aztecs. How come I here again, I hear jou ask? (uncomfortable pause). Hey, wake op. I sayyyy, "How Come I Here Again, I Heaaaar Jouuuu Aaaaaask?" ...Ehhh, pfft, jou people no heelp at all. Forgait eet. Well, dey set me down in front of dis big guy, all deck' out in feathers an' gold an' stuff. (I look real close, an' bonch of it say "Made in China" but hey, I no worry about dat for de moment.) I hold out my hand and say "Hello. My name is Inigo Montoya." He say to me, "Prepare to die." I theenk to myself, "Hm. Dis is new." But den dey pick me right up again and haul me to de top of de pyramid. While dey emptying my pockets, someting beeg fall out one side. I look at it. "A can of Coca Cola?" I say. "Dat not period! De Boss of All Pirate Hunters gon' be peesed." But de High Priest, he perk up his ears at dat. "Coca?" he say, wit plenty suspicion. "Coca?" "Si," I say, "Coca, coca!" Eef he like, mebbe he let me go, jou know?. He snatch de can from me, and turn it over an' over, mos' curious-like. Den I be watchin' heem pick up somet'ing else on de altar. What ees dat? A roll of Mentos? Where dat comb from? De little candle over de head light up den, dat for chure. "Eh, Padre," I say to de priest guy. "I show jou." I open can of Coke, make pantomime dreenk eet, and han' eet over. Den I grab Mentos, make pantomime eat, and geeve heem too. So he dreenk down de Coke, den he eat de Mentos. Den he blow up. Let me tell jou, dat impress de rest of de tribe quite a lot. So dey make me dere High Priest. I now in charge of all de executions. But naow, dey getting real particular about how dey sacrifices done, sabe? So, dat ees why I back. Ray, comb on. I like to buy tree case of Coke from jou. Now, donut look at me like dat, I know jou seerve rum and Coke all de time, eet ees no juse pretending. Ray, dese guys getting bery impatient....

Inigo then turns to Mad Jack. "Jou paying attention dees las' while? Jou worrying 'bout roafing op de ladies?" He points floorward. " DAT be roafing op de ladies!" Montoya unties the rack from around Jack's waist, and steers him in the general direction of the Admiral. "Jou can do wot jou wan' wid' him. Don' get too close, doah. He still liable to pop." Addressing the Admiral again. "Jou, sir. I be mighty impress'. Jou one hell of a windbag. Dat de only way you survive, I sure. Jou know how many jour troops we blow up dat way? Ninety-seex! Which remin' me." Montoya turns to the bar. "Ray! Jou got any cases of Coke I can buy? Dese Aztecs, dey starting to like dees way to do sacrifice, and I running bery short!"

The scene is interrupted by a low rumbling. Everyone in the pub exchanges glances of mild alarm. Is this to be a repeat of the earthquake that leveled Port Royal? But no, it is not to be: even as the sound grows louder and more insistent, it resolves itself into a number of distiguishable parts. The tramp of many feet. Screams of excruciating pain. And, in intermittent cadence, a series of curious, bubbling explosions. As the sounds draw ever nearer and assume unearthly proportions, the discomfort in the eyes of all assembled grows. Is this the wrath of God, unleashed by the keelhauling of one of His servants? What supernatural force is threatening to break upon the very walls of the pub? The door bursts open and is filled with the mass of the entire Aztec Nation. At its head, a disheveled Inigo Montoya is carried on many shoulders. His battered clothing shows the effects of a near and harrowing escape. However, he is bedecked with an astonishing array of gold ornament. On his head is perched an elaborate feathered headdress. Unnerved by the uncanny menace of the approach, and taken by surprise by this incredible apparation, the Teutonic platoons break and flee, screaming in terror. Sizing up the situation, Montoya nods to one of the men supporting him. "Heem next." The Aztecs do not hesitate. They swarm over Admiral Uber Pirate. One forces his jaws apart, another pours a dark liquid down his protesting gullet, and a third follows it with a number of strange capsules. They drag the Admiral to his feet, and stand back. The Admiral stands defiantly, regaining his composure. "You call zat an attack? You call zat poison? I haf had vorse eating candy as a -- " Suddenly his eyes bulge in alarm. A fizzing sound is heard. His abdomen distends to grotesque proportions, and a liquid, gurgling explosion is heard to emanate from his entrails. As his ruined midsection subsides, he gasps, from the floor, "Vat vas zat?" Inigo shugs, and turns his back disdainfully. "Coca Cola and Mentos. Jour reign of terror ees over, Uber."

The Cardinal eyes the Admiral coldly, a repressed fury glowing faintly in his eyes. 'So, we meet again, Admiral. You told me in your last ... confession ... that you would stop this nonsense in the future. Have you relapsed? Need I subject you once again to the torture of "The Ladies' Underwear"?'

The Cardinal turns to Merrydeath with unctuous solicitude. "My dear Ms. Death, where was it ever said that I disapprove? We merely tailor our ... mortifications ... to the particular perceptions of the recipient. For example, for you," suddenly his gaze turns steely cold, " we have... the Feather Boa! And ... the Glass of Cognac!"

Montoya glances up at Lady B, consternation on his face. "Jou sure about dis, Lady B? My HMO always make me get second opinion on major surgery. Second, I allergic to calamari." Lady Barbossa merely crosses her arms and looks implacable. "Ohhhh...kay, den. I ... ehhhh.... choose what's behind Door Number Juan." A random pirate leaps up and shouts enthusiastically, "It's a BRAND NEW CAR!" A thrown knife thunks into the doorjamb, missing his nose by a fraction of an inch. He blanches and swallows hard. "I mean, uh, it's uh, an all-new, expense paid vaction in TENOCHTITLAN!" Lady Barbossa nods in a satisfied manner. The door bursts open and is filled with a boiling mass of natives. They sweep into the pub, and all is obscured in the ferocity of their occupation. A voice, Montoya's, is heard thinly above the din: "Don't turn over any tables! Rumba Rue weel be bery unhappyeeeee...." The throng rushes out the door, carrying Montoya, Andamun, and one or two spares with it.

But dat's just an opinion, right? Nothing dere to indicate friendliness or unfriendliness?

It ... I ... er ... uh ... oh. One of dese days, Joaquin. I warn jou... one of dese days jou gon' be Joaquin Andamun. H'okay, den. Whose turn ees eet "to do ... something ... really ... stupid?"

Oh, for God's sake. I give up. Just shoot me, LadyB. I'm sure that will make everyone laugh.

Montoya rises from the lap of LadyBarbossa, and addresses Mad Jack. "Who say anyt'ing about roughing up ladies, jou eedeeot? I say she gon' enjoy sheself, once she ties sheself up! Doan' jou just hear dis Rumba Rue? She say, 'No hanging, no tables over, no rough stuff.' Jou know she run a tight pub. No rough stuff! No accordion players. No cow tipping. She hav' iron fist, she Rumba does." He continues circling the periphery of the pub, skirting Mad Jack's reach, but regarding him angrily. "Who jou theenk you are, anyway: "The Pirate Hunter Hunter?" Well, two can play at that game, Meester Jack. (Can I jus' call you "Mad" for short?) I had hoped to avoid thees, but jou leaves me no choice. Prepare to meet..."The Pirate Hunter Hunter Hunter!" He steps briskly to the door, withdraws a small silver whistle from beneath his shirt (wincing at the red stripe across his shoulder), and blows three sharp blasts. The door bursts open and is filled with a sudden mass of men in red satin robes. The one in the lead, brandishing a crozier, glares wildly round the room. He twirls the end of his mustache and shouts, "No one expects the Spanish Inquisition!" At a brief nod from Montoya in the direction of Mad Jack, the Cardinal mutters to his subordinates, "We start with this one. Bring out...the rack!" Instantly several red-robed interlopers surround Jack, pinion his arms, yank him to his feet, and tie him to a dishrack. (Montoya watches their rapid progress with the ropes with deep approval, and some puzzlement.) Jack looks down at his abdomen in disbelief. The Cardinal paces up and down past the bar, declaiming. "Yes, we have one weapon against the likes of you... Fear! Yes, fear, and sarcasm -- two...two weapons against you: fear, sarcasm, and whining--(sigh) all right, three, three weapons we have against you evil pirates: fear, sarcasm, and whining. And being holier than thou. ...Gahhh! Our four weapons are--" Suddenly he stops in front of a particularly well-dressed pirate. "As for jou, Senor...Capitan...we have prepared our most diabolical torture. Oh jes, senor, we know too well that the rack and even the comfy chair are merely to be laughed at," the Spanish primate continues, "but there is one thing, one of our seegnature tortures, that will break even jou! Can jou guess what it is? Think!" The pirate's defiant stare wavers slightly, as the realization dawns. "Surely not..." he begins, tentatively. The Cardinal's eyebrow raises sardonically. "Jes, Capitan. What ees the worst theeng to haunt your nightmares?" The hapless man's lower lip begins to tremble almost imperceptibly. "No...not..." "Jes!" the Spaniard crows triumphantly. "Jeeeeessssss! ...The Hot Tub!" "No! All that...!" The Pyrat's reserve cracks, and he emits a small shriek, in spite of himself. "Not that! Anything but that, I beg you!" "Hahahahahahahh!" the Monsignor cackles. "And afterwards, one hundred posts in "The Dating Game!" The color drains from the pirate's face, his eyes roll backwards and he slumps to the floor.

"So, ees dat how it ees wit jou, Mees FeetsGerald? (By de way, who ees Gerald?) Well, den, you be safe for time being. I am de Pirate Hunter, not de Cannibal Hunter. But, jou better be nice, eef I eber hab a reason to arrest jou. Jou make me mad now, den later jou be plenty sorry. I make you play miniature golf before I hang jou." He returns his attention to the woman around his waist. "Now, jou.... Jou talk like jou know someting about knots. Joaquin! Fetch de rope from Juan! (aside) Madre! Juan ees no quicker at nooses den I am." He steps back to survey her hopefully, his belt inexplicably lighter, and extends his hand in greeting. "Hello. My name is Inigo Montoya. Jou sank my sheep. Prepare to be tied up and enjoy jou'self enormously."

"...Tain...eleben..." Montoya, hearing his underling's remark, looks over his shoulder. His nearly completed noose dissolves in his fingers into a barely recognizable rat's nest. He looks down, rolls his eyes in disgust, and stumps over to Joaquin Andamun, trailing coils and muttering about how "Sea Scouts neber taught dis dam' knot anyway." He faces Joaquin's intended victim squarely. "Jou, wit de beeg hat. (By de way, I like dat hat. Jou min' eef I hab it, once jou be hanged?) Jou pirate types all be sailors, no? Jou know how to work dis rope stuff, no?" He thrusts the rope at the man. "Well, what jou waiting for? Make it so, number Juan!"

With no warning a rope is in his calloused hand. "What jou all waiting for? Jou not heer me? I say, 'Prepaaare - tooo - die!' Why jou jus' sit t'ere? Jou deef or somet'ing?" He proceeds to take thirteen turns around a bight. "Juan...two...tree... Now, who weel be feerst? ...four...fibe... let me taist the feet roun' jour pirate neck, eh?...Seex...sayben...ayeet...hol' still, where jou going? --ay, Caramba, I lose count." The balance of the rope slithers to the floor. "Juan...two..." "I theenk jou are beeg cowards, for not coming quietly. Eef jou let me hang jou, I promees jou weel come to no harm." He surveys the room, an appraising glance sweeping the floors. "Eh, no takers? What is matter wit' jou? Are jou not stupeed? Anybody? Anybody? Bueller?" "Bery well, eef jou will not comb along, I will make jou go mysailf. Jou theenk I plenty stupeed, try to take all three thousand and eighty nine of jou to yale all by mysailf. Buuut, jou donut know, I have all heelp I weel need." Turning his head insolently over his shoulders, he calls towards the door. "Joaquin!"

The door bursts open and is filled with the sudden silhouetto of a man. A brief strain of Spanish dance music swirls in the stale, fetid air, and his form is illuminated by a burst of thunderbolts and lightning. He steps into the Pub, slams the door behind him, spits the damp, macerated remains of a cigarillo on the floor, takes a rasping breath, and speaks, in a thick accent -- Spanish, but tainted by long years cruising the ports and byways of the Main. "Jou do not know who I aim. But I know who jou are. I haive been seerching for you seence I was only seex years old, but I would know jou by sight anywhere. I recognize jou by the deformities jou carry. Jou, wit' the meeseeng leg; jou, wit' the patch over jour eye. Jou, too, wit' the patch over jour eye. Jou, over there, and there, wit de patches. The whole table, way in de back, wit' the patches over jour eyes." "Now I fin' jou, I say to jou what I have waited my whole life to say. Are jou ready? Okay. --oh, wait." He turns and spritzes twice with Binaca. "...Hello. My name is Inigo Montoya. You sank my sheep. Prepare to die." His gaze sweeps the dumbstruck room. "I am ... the Pirate Hunter!"