LAST TALES OF MONKEY ISLAND - EPISODE 4

A NEW AGE

I open my eyes. I feel as if I’d slept with a walrus on my stomach for ages. I cough as strongly as a man who wants to get rid once and for all of liver, trachea, lungs and all those useless, aching bowels, so heavy, so complicated, so clogged and crammed. Where the hell am I? It’s a small, bare room, and it’s locked by a solid armoured door on the wall in front of me. I’d venture a steel, molybdenum and clam shell triple plate. The white stones of the wall are dimly lit by some little lanterns and across the thick bars at the only one window in the room I can see that it’s still deep in the night. Armoured doors. Bars at the window. I’ll have to congratulate with the landlord. Really, those are responsible precautions, with all those crooks around, waiting for nothing but spitting on your new carpet and screwing off the chandel… wait a minute! My well proportioned pirate legs… definetely can’t touch the ground! Right, the good news is that it looks like those traumatic effects caused by Largo’s poison are gone! The terrifying news is… the most complex movement I can make is… dangling! My wrists are firmly chained onto the wall behind me with a hardy padlock! I’m in a prison cell! Again! Though I must admit it… this one is reasonably welcoming, and pleasantly thermoregulated. And it also has some lovely balsamic fragrances! It’s got nothing to do with those humid armpit - flavoured draughts, or the well mannered beatles bending over backwards to make up your cot on Flotsam Island. But… what’s this annoying ticking???

LCK: “Look, Largo, the young sack of pus be flain’ about!”

LeChuck! There’s LeChuck in the room with me! He’s at my left, trapped and hanged like a smelly, ticking rat sausage! The old skunk’s beard has been partially ripped to shreds during the explosion, and now that sort of eccentric clock is peeping out through it! The very same clock announcing how much time my nemesis has got before leaving once and for all his vale of tears and grog. Uhm… if only I could interpret the run of those frantic hands, I’d get properly ready just in time for his passing away. I’d be really punctual, dressed to kill and with a large amount of confetti, festoons and beef ice cream cups.

LL: “Oh, come on, shut up now! I’m trying to… “

At my right, held prisoner by the same chains, the most insignificant pipsqueak in all the oceans, that is, Largo LaGrande! According to his tense facial expression, he’d be trying to distinguish the voices behind the door. Or maybe finding the right concentration to ease his intestinal constipation, who knows?

I look again at LeChuck. This time he’s gazing at me with that typical expression of someone who’s never tried to find a solution for his relational problems.

LCK: “Aye, Freetwood! By this time yer heart should be already frozen and petrified, while yer stagnant blood should have already started congealing and putrefying. But just wait for me ta open these lockets, and we’ll make up for the unpleasant inconvenience… “

G: “Ha! Seeing your legendary stupidity, you couldn’t even open a good speech!”

LCK:” Ooh… ya’ll see! Once we’re out of here I’ll open YOU, maybe! I’ll disembowel ya with an old rusty hook, doing me best to keep ya alive. Then, when ya’ll be still wrigglin’ with pain, I’ll take all yer intestine out of yer swollen and infected belly metre by metre. I’ll roll them carefully around a red-hot support: after that, I’ll use ya as an anchor for me ship!”

G: “I could rub you out even with my arms chopped off and the feet moulded in a concrete block, while sinking in piranha infested waters. As soon as we’re out of here, I’ll show you the meaning of the word… “

“Nevermore. You’ll never come out alive from the prison of Roca Redenciòn. Nevermore.”

G: “What? Who’s there? Anyone?”

LL: “No, Threepwood! There’s no jailer guarding the cell! Instead, they brought us rum and fried doughnuts for breakfast, and they also said we can leave whenever we want. We’ll just have to walk on tiptoes in order not to disturb the other tenants and leave the keys in the postbox.”

G: “Someone went to a clown school here. And he was around robbing old ladies the day they taught how to be funny.”

JAILER: “The prisoners are invited to keep order, strictness and decency.”

LCK: “Hey, Largo! The jailer’s jokes be funnier than yers!”

G: “I’ve already heard this voice!”

LCK: “It belongs to yer bearded angel of death, who’s been claimin’ the sacred right ta sit on a chair built with a wisely planned joint of yer bones stripped of their flesh! And it be claimin’ it for ten years!”

G: “I know your voice rather well. It usually comes with that feeling of ancient slaughter your breath can recall. But you’ll have to sit on the usual broomsticks you like so much. And besides, I was speaking of the jailer’s voice!”

LL: “Will you shut that sewer up once and for all?!? I hear… there must be some high ranking officer visiting the prison. Maybe even the Baron Soze himself!!!”

LCK: “We been locked here by a lazy nobleman who be always dozin’ off?”

LL: “Not Baron Doze! Baron Soze! The mysterious supreme commander of the organization which captured us! The man with no face, the man who turned that embarrassing “Great League in favour of the Fierce Dissent against LeChuck” into the Triad, the most powerful organization of the entire Caribbean. And he did it only in a few months!”

LCK: “What? League of the Dissent against me? And what the hell be that? Maybe an association of aching fanatics who, after havin’ eaten those rotten antisocial antelopes, find themselves at the square to do their business together screamin’ me name?”

LL: “Uhm… now you’re confusing “dissent” with “dysentery”. No, it was more like… an alliance between the three most powerful governors of the Three Islands, and it was meant to cross the power of the Pirate God LeChuck and his army of the undead! They provided all their men, all their ships and all their resources. Uhm, if only I could remember who the hell they were… oh, yeah! Horatio Torquemada Marley! That old man who never lost that rustic aroma of a hermit who lived for years on an island with no showers. And the second was… Lucius Phatt! Yeah, yeah, that man who’s able to gorge himself on the same amount of food produced by a medium - large nation in six years! And all between the 11:00 am breakfast and the 11:05 snack! And… I think the third one was Salomon Spittle, that megalomaniac who was convinced of being “the most intelligent man in the Caribbean”!”

G: “Convinced? Salomon Spittle WAS a genius! He invented the rubber chickens with the pulley in the middle! And the custom of putting up funny small voices breathing in helium ballons! And the banana pickers! And the hangover remedies based on mixing eggs, red pepper and hair of the dog that bit you together! And I don’t know how many other knick-knacks which could drive crazy a… “

LL: “Eggs and hair of the dog that bit you? If he had been really THAT clever, like you said he was, then he would have never forced people to gulp down such a junk food.”

LCK: “Oooh, now that looks interesting! And did I face them then? Did I draw all of their bones out of their flesh with a spoon? Blew up their stomach? Filled their hearts with sharp needles an’ colourful drawing pins?”

LL: “I’d say not. They never managed to find you. They had lost so much time with all those bureaucratic formalities, frivolous arguments and with those “Lucius Phatt’s creative breakfasts”, that by the time their massive fleet set sail after you in the middle of splendid celebrations, Threepwood had already defeated you… six months earlier! It was a complete fiasco. And the jokes about the “Latecomor Governors ” have been the most popular among the touchy regulars of the filthiest and worst-known taverns.”

G: ” Wouldn’t “Latecomer” be more correct?”

LL: “It would, but the last one who pointed that out to those fellows is now sleeping with the fish.”

LCK: “We… we been captured by the most pathetic organization ever created?”

LL: “No, LeChuck, you don’t have the slightest idea of how much things have changed since then. Mind every word you say in front of the men of the Triad, for their organization has built up such a power that the Pirate God’s fleet is a fishing boat of old grumpy aunts compared with them. They’re fanatics, subdued to an ideal that… “

G: “What’s this ideal supposed to be? Do to the others as you wouldn’t like them to do to you, before they think of doing it? Do not throw objects out of the window? No smoking in presence of pregnant women and/or particularly prickly health fanatics?”

J: “Silence! May the Triad triumph! The supreme admiral Rodrigo Cortèz enters the cell 1138 for a visit!”

Twenty six locks. The door is slammed open onto the wall with a heavy metal-cartilaginous thud. A hideous old man comes in. He’s wearing a modest and outworn white cloak which underlines the deformity of his hunched back and leaves only a face uncovered. A face which has been horribly disfigured by scars and burns of all sorts. On the corner covering his head there’s a number: “1138”. Now that I really look at him, I’d say it’s his age, but… I’ve seen him before!

And then… a bighead, wearing a white uniform, studded with flashy medals, and a long cloak hanging from his shoulders follows him immediately. He’s exuding that kind of dislike that deep inside inspires you to trip him over the edge of a high cliff. He’s got a tacky hat, and he’s wearing an awful moustache shaped like… what the hell is that shape? It looks like… something between… the helm of a pirogue and the kernel of an indian walnut.

ADMIRAL: “May the Triad triumph, jailer…. twenty-six locks? I’m surprised! Until the day before yesterday our most advanced locks never went beyond the twenty fifth!”

J: “Oh, yes, that’s a Twenty-Six Deluxe TM! A new, revolutionary product made by those eggheads from the Happy Technologic Island of the Triad TM. And… hold tight: there’s a terribly secret rumour in the lodgings of the soldiers at the upper floors about a new model with… TWENTY-SEVEN LOCKS!”

ADM: “Twenty-seven! BY THE GREAT ARCHITECT! How rapidly technology can advance when you force the best scientists in the whole world to work for you in chains, twenty four hours a day and on a remote and desert island. Unbelievable!”

G: “Oh, so you basically improved the social life quality of many of them. But… how did you greet each other earlier? “May the Triad triumph”??? And what if there had been four of you? “Quarter the quartet?”

J: “Silence, prisoner!”

G: “And what if you’d been five? “May the pentagon repent”?”

LL: “You’ re messing the denotations for general groups with those which are typically used in geometry to… “

G: “Six! Exaggerate with the hexagon!”

ADM: “Hem hem!”

G: “Ok, I don’t have a clue about what comes next after the hexagon but… hey, come to think of it, why the “Triad”? Have you got three admirals? Three ships? Three wives? Three nipples? You won’t tell me it’s the number of showers you take in a year!”

ADM: “Every good follower of the sacred doctrine of the Triad knows that daily ablutions are the best way to tone up… Jailer 1138! In your triple-stam-and-signature report you had assured me that the prisoners were taciturn and mild! Why are they so long-winded now?”

G: “Me? Long-winded? How appropriate, you fight like a… “

J: “They were unconscious until a few minutes ago, admiral, and it seemed that… “

ADM: “Two demerit marks on your file, jailer!”

J: “Oh, no sir, please, not two more demerit marks! The old wounds still haven’t closed completely!”

G: “Oh, but of course, it’s because you’re still reporting to those three! Marley, Phatt and Spittle! Let me speak to Herman… Horatio… Toothrot… I mean, the one among them who’s constantly blabbering about colourful trees and refuses obstinately to wear some proper trousers!”

ADM: “Reporting to… I am afraid you are off track, prisoner. Mr. Phatt’s bulky carcass has been serving as high calorie and unhealthy food for worms for a year so far. And I imagine it will do as such for thousands of crawling necrophagous generations. A dose of his “Lard, Peanut Butter and Light Lettuce Fried Swill” seems to have been “mysteriously” poisoned with some unpleasant hippopotamus poison.”

G: “Is there a specific hippopotamus poison? But it’s barbaric! Hippopotamuses are gentle giants! Just like manatees! And those blokes form the wallet control on Zork Island. Uhm… I wonder why they’re taking so long with mine… “

ADM: “And Salomon Spittle? That gruesome “accident” with an experimental incendiary gun made him the most intelligent heap of ashes in the entire Caribbean!”

G: “Marley! I want to talk with Horatio Marley!”

ADM: “I fear it will be very difficult! He has become rather silent since they found him on that morning… with his head split in two by his precious Gubernatorial Seal of Melée Island!”

G: “No…”

ADM: “On the contrary, I am afraid so. And from that merry day the black age of those shabby pirate governors has been finally locked away in the chests of progress, sealed with the solid chains of common sense and forever buried deep down into the abyss of time. The only man in charge of this organization now is the Baron Soze.”

G: “No… I… I couldn’t imagine that… Horatio…. Toothrot Torquemada…. yes, I mean, grandpa… I couldn’t imagine he could have possibly ended up this way. And in spite of everything, I think I’ll miss him.”

LL: “Oh, that’s even less interesting than the decoration on LeChuck’s Friday underpants!”

LCK: “White with a yellowish ring, not originally included in the box.”

LL: “Why didn’t I stick those burning embers up my ears too?”

G: “And what is worse, all of this doesn’t really explain why you call yourself “Triad”!”

ADM: “The jailer will explain it to you. Come on, jailer, reduce this brute’s ignorance.”

J: “But I have no idea about it!”

ADM: “JAILER!”

G: “Ok, so obviously none of you knows why you’re called “The Triad”.”

ADM: “Uhm… It goes without saying that I, quite differently from that lower ranking servant, am well aware of the reason why our name is “Triad”. But everything shall be revealed to you… uhm… at the proper moment! Maybe when we shall decide to transform you into an inhuman soldier, in a meek bootlicker or… “

LCK: “Inhuman soldier! Ahr, ahr, ahr! Yeah, right! I bet that behind your warmonger looks ye’re just a bunch o’syssies. Sweet and lovely young girls ready ta run away shriekin’ if a single drop of blood accidentally soils their starched collar.”

ADM: “Ha! I brood over such foolishness and I laugh at it.”

LCK: “AAAAK… PTUI!”

ADM: “Argh! Argh! MY UNIFORM! JAILER, THE PRISONER HAS DROPPED SOME IMPURE FLUID ON MY NEAT AND CLEAN UNIFORM!”

J: “And what can I do?”

ADM: “You didn’t timely shield me with your body! Six more demerit marks on your file!”

J: “No, please! I’ve got only one eye left!”

G: “Move away, you familiar old man! The Phlegm Master wants to soil the Amateur Admiral too.”

ADM: “Damn… filth and dirt! Anarchy and fornication!”

G: “Fornication? What with, some mucus?”

ADM: “But what is worse… superstition! You pirates and shamans managed to infect whole centuries of cosmic plots with your unworthy decadence! But it was clear that a long time ago mankind had already began calling for a new class of enlightened minds! Chosen ones who could guide her into a new age! A new era of new men, ready to march to death under the flags of rigour, reason, science and before everything else… blind submission to a wise and inflexible DISCIPLINE!!!”

LCK: “Or maybe mankind was simply crying out for ya to wash its bottom with yer tongue, but the idle tea room chatter obstructed yer auricular canals and led ya ta a huge misunderstanding.”

ADM: “Ha! I’m mulling over such a conceit and I’m really amused. But fun is over for you now, since you actually are… our property! Speaking of which, the jailer has just delivered me your files. For goodness’ sake, don’t crumple them up in this way next time! Now… “Guybrush Threepwood”… who is it?”

G: “Present! Hey, you got the surname right! Thanks!”

ADM: “It was my duty, boy! You are an alpha class wanted person. You cooked illicit enchanted soups, put together some highly forbidden voodoo dolls, illegally raised the dead, dispensed some forbidden cursed rings, assembled some “ultimate tumults”, whatever they may be, packaged some magic cutlasses and eventually came back into this world in the form of a ghost, a zombie and an demonic dugong. Such forms are absolutely not allowed by our statute.”

G: “What? Libels! Nothing but libels! I don’t even know what a dugong is!”

ADM: “This is not relevant. Guybrush Threepwood, you have been judged to be “impure”. Therefore you shall be granted the honour to start a new life.”

G: “Impure? And… a new life, you said? That doesn’t sound so bad!”

ADM: ““Impure” is one who has infect his flesh with the foul artifices of magic. The one who chose to reclude his precious body among the constricting chains of heresy, mysticism and contamination.”

G: “You may be right, but at least with them I managed to scratch my nose without risks of shoulder blades sprains.”

ADM: “Your nose and your shoulder blades won’t be a problem anymore. Indeed, tomorrow the fiery flames of our furnaces shall finally purify your filthy corpse and your ashes shall be used to fertilize a flower which shall receive your name. In this way you shall begin your New Life, in perfect synch with the marvellous mechanisms of Nature.”

G: “Wonderful! I’ve always wanted to be a… “mighty petunia”!”

ADM: “Such a wish honours you greatly. Then we have… the prisoner LeChuck. Alpha-plus class.”

G: “Alpha-Plus? It’s not fair, I thought I was the mightiest here!”

ADM: “Mr. LeChuck, I could declare ALL of the illicit activities you perpetrated during your inconsistent life, but we do not have two weeks of time. Impure. New Life.”

LCK: “The day I’ll join the vegetable kingdom will be the day when I’ll produce the kind of carnivorous plants which will tear the flesh away from ya and from yer loved ones. I’ll see ya agonizing between me green coils, happily wallowin’ in an explosion of flesh and blood!”

ADM: “I doubt you will be accorded the authorization to do so. Now… The prisoner Largo LaGrande. Epsilon class wanted person… “

LL: “Epsilon class means that I’m very dangerous, doesn’ it?”

ADM: “It means that you are universally acknowledged to be a nobody. Nonetheless, you are a first class initiate of some kind of medieval and noxious alchemichal learning, which is not tolerated in our tolerating society. New Life.”

LL: “Uhm… you won’t catch me alive!”

G: “Now, that’s an awful catchy sentence. They’ve already caught you alive!”

LL: “Shut up, you!”

ADM:“Now, here we have our fourth prisoner. Name: Unknown. No officially acknowledged offence. He was on the raft with the other three, but he was closed into a… sack? Ha! Odd pirate customs! Besides, he’s still unconscious so he cannot confirm us anything… “

Wha… what? Fourth prisoner? Someone in the sack? The sack… of the Shy Cuttlefish! There’s… another, silent prisoner in chains with us in the room! And he’s been together with us from the start! That’s the reason Largo never let me get any closer to the food supplies… not because he deeply cared for me not to go beyond my recommended daily amount of carbohydrates, but because… there was someone inside there! But who the hell is it? I turn around, and I try to understand who’s in here apart from us three, but that large pumpkinhead of LeChuck is in my way and doesn’t let me see a thing. Not to mention that these heavy iron chains certainly do not allow the best mobility. Now Largo’s smiling. His eyes are gleaming with a light never seen before. Something’s going on through his mind. Or, more probably, he’s just been struck by some devastating cerebral embolism.

ADM:“Ugh… an individual which is so offensive to human sight can have been nothing but a victim of some dreadful ritual, curse, blasphemy or ill omen. Jailer 1138, classify the prisoner as “impure”. He will be granted the splendid gift of a New Life!”

J: “But… but… “

ADM: “What is it, jailer? Do you find that revolting hair disgusting too? Are you in favour of a pre-incineration depilatory wax?”

J: “No, admiral, the dreadful looks of our guest make me rather sick. But… I believe he’s simply very ugly.”

ADM:” Jailer, how many demerit marks have you rightly deserved in the last ten minutes?”

J: “I don’t know, but I guess it won’t be long before I earn myself the removal of three pounds of flesh at my own choice, and the new set of fondue casserole for free.”

ADM: “So… ?”

J: “Impure. New Life.”

ADM: “A wise choice! Prisoners, rejoice at your luck, for tomorrow, when the Eternal Star shall rise, your flesh shall be purified by the flames until it will turn to ash. To a white ash rich in highly oxidized substances! May the great Architect, who planned this cosmos, accept you again in his great design.”

G: “And you, please do tell me, what part of the design are you? Maybe the one traced by a great SEAGULL, when he let his divine droppings gently land on the paper while he was flying?!”

ADM: “I…. uhm…. “

J: “Yeah, and your existence is the pile of putrefied and crushed FISH it was flying to!”

G: “Wha…. what?”

ADM: “Jailer, that was some kind of an answer… to the insult?!”

G: “Yes, and it was ready, creative, remarkable and moderately elegant! You… you knew the art of the Insult Duel! And beneath those wounds… while you were speaking, even only for a moment, your expression became unmistakable!”

ADM: “It is absurd! Vile! Obscene!”

G: “What’s with LeChuck now?”

ADM: “Real gentlemen of the Triad IGNORE SUCH FOUL PROVOCATIONS FROM THE SCUM! What will you do now, jailer? Maybe you’ll draw some rusty blade out of your clothes and you’ll wave it like a feather duster, just like back in the Dark Centuries of our age? We shall discuss the details of the removal of your three pounds of flesh in the Superb SlaughterhouseTM.”

J: “No! Not the Super SlaughterhouseTM! I beg you…. “

G: “Beg? BUT… WHAT ARE YOU SAYING? YOU WERE A REAL PIRATE! A swordsman! A warrior! What could turn you into this whining, pathetic, crawling little man who asks for nothing more but licking the boots of the first human mistake who’s so full of himself and won’t wait a second before trampling on you with all his might??? What has become of you… Captain Smirk???”

As the jailer hears this name, he slowly turns around. Then he stares at me in silence for a few seconds with his only, gloomy eye. He causes a feeling between dreadful terror and infinite mercy. When he opens his mouth his voice, already distorted from the swollen lips, sounds even more empty and mechanical than before.

J: “I am the Jailer 1138, at the service of the absolute authority of the Triad. Nothing has ever existed before the Triad.”

G: “Yeah, nothing so indecent! You… you taught me the art of the blade! And you saved my life in that annoying matter of the “Mortal Olympiad of Gardening and Tatting of the village of Kaflu”!”

J: “I am the… “

G: “And what about the “Tricuspid Plough and Lace Traycloth Challenge? You basically won hands down! And you did it even though it wasn’t part of the competition requirements! What has become of your pride? Of your dignity? Of your flaming arrogance? The very same caustic spirit that led you to soil the “Frivolous Indigenous Idol of Delicate Fragrances” just because those incredibly gentle natives from Pink Island wouldn’t answer back to your obscene and gratuitous offences?”

J: “I… “

G: “Those sweet natives cried for months!”

ADM: “Come on, Mr. Threepwood! This is not one of those adventure tales of the lowest quality, where you just need the right word and the hero will convince his enemies to join forces with him, all in a blaze of honey-sweet tears and languid palpitations. This Captain Stinky you are talking about was only a… “

G: “Smirk! Captain Smirk! And remember this name, for it’s the name of the one who will sacrifice you to a divinity that he will freely invent on the spot and who will then carve some pulp and coarse insulting post note as your epitaph!”

ADM: “I seriously doubt it. The Triad reserves a path towards the light to those who have wisely renounced to any form of occultism and mysticism. A long, dark and scary one - way road. A road which is beset with burnings, lacerations and multiple displaced fractures, which are obviously nothing more than the inevitable and necessary price of redemption.”

G: “Redemption? REDEMPTION? So you really think that he wanted redemption? A man who would sometimes commit the most disgusting wickedness just so that he could shout them in a church packed with old shivering grannies… you think he wanted REDEMPTION? You beat the living daylights out of him! You humiliated him! Disintegrated him! You took his fighting spirit, you cut it into cubes and you slowly cooked it until you got this kind of black soup that’s barely good for nothing more than emptying a black well! Smirk! In the name all the most repulsive Fettuccini Brothers’ shows, wake up! RISE UP! SET US FREE! SMIRK!!!”

ADM: “Uhm… now, since you seem not to grasp the concept, I would like to show you something… Jailer 1138? By reason of my almost endless powers, I grant you full “Right of Life and Death” over the prisoners. If you consider it appropriate to release them and, who knows, to leave them on a distant island with water, food supplies and some unhealthy book full of obscene pictures, then so be it. As a consequence of such a possible merciful action, your file shall also be cleared of any demerit mark. What do you decide to do?”

G: “Ha! Cortèz, prepare yourself a good pack of rollerbandages and disinfectant, because with this decision you’ve just shot yourself in the foot like you’ve never… “

J: “My demerit marks cannot be worth the preservation of such a tumour in the tissue of existence. I have nothing else to add to what you have just said, Admiral. May the prisoners be burned alive tomorrow at dawn. And may the Triad triumph, from now until the end of time!”

TO BE CONTINUED

Will our (mostly anti-) heroes manage to escape the “New Life sentence”, or will we have to start telling the not so breathtaking stories of plant jars?

Who’s the awfully ugly fourth prisoner in the cell 1138 of the Prison of Roca Redenciòn?

If you undertake the path of the Triad even only once, will it forever control your destiny?

And will the incredibly gentle natives of Pink Island ever stop whining?

Find out about it, and keep up with the next episode!!!

Last Tales of Monkey Island

Plot, idea, writer:

Danilo “Voodoomaster” Lapegna

Thank you to:

Dave Grossman

Danilo “Iena” Puce

Michele “Mightypirate” Giardi

Cover:

Ciro “Olmo” Cangialosi

Other illustrations:

Daniele “Nemiant” Severo

Fabio “Il_Ratman” Venuto

Vito “Vitoner” Lanci

Logo:

Alessio Pianesani

This is a no-profit fan project. Every copyright is owned by Lucasarts LTD

http://www.lasttalesofmonkeyisland.com

http://www.facebook.com/LastTalesOfMonkeyIsland

http://twitter.com/#!/lasttalesofmi

You can listen our Last Tales Soundtrack by Riccardo Messori on:

http://www.youtube.com/user/lasttalesofmonkey

Buy the Telltale and Lucasarts Games!!!