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prettyinpwn-blog · 1 year

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Truest Reflection (Short Story for Stanuary 2023 Week One: Mystery)

Stan and Ford start off their Stan-O'-War II adventure by returning to where it all began.

Excerpt:

“Do you remember this place, Stanley?”

Stan nodded. He wasn’t sure he liked it, though. Like Ford wearing both red and blue, it confused him. Or Ford calling him a hero. It looked right at times, and it sure sparkled pretty, but then the fog came and muddied things, tattering the landscape into patchwork pieces, never one whole, coherent picture.

It got worse the closer they got to that place. Dread anchored in Stan’s chest at the sight of that faded brick building on the first paved street after the sand. It still had the yellow and white stripe awning - although sunken now - and the mezuzah by the door. But the neon ‘PHONE PSYCHIC’ sign in the window was black and dead, and the other sign that once read two full words now simply said ‘P____S P____S’, a nudging whisper of what once had been.

(Happy Stanuary 2023! This is my submission for the first week’s theme: Mystery. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it. All hail the Grunkle with the world’s biggest heart. <3)

(Also, if you like listening to music while writing/reading, I had this song playing on repeat while I wrote this short story. I felt it fit well for Stan in the first days of his Stan-O’-War II adventures with Ford).

If you prefer to read on AO3, here is a link to that version: https://archiveofourown.org/works/44034489

Full short story under the cut ---

Truest Reflection

Silver fog fingers twined through its bow rails, down the gunwales, then flowed back over the boat’s side. Afar, this ship had no identity; a vague shadow upon the waters. But if one got close enough, they could piece out part of a name: -----O’-War II in bold white lettering over a red line freshly painted across the hull.

The prior day’s storm had made for an imperfect first night, lightning shattering the sky with glitchy white fractures, thunder rumbling so loud it reverberated in their chests. By morning the storm had passed, leaving Stanley and Stanford Pines to wake up to a bloody dawn, the fog the last sinking clutches of a dead monster.

Stanley found himself at their breakfast nook table in the ship’s cabin, right hand wrapped around a mug of steaming coffee, left hand twirling a puzzle piece.

He’d been working on the puzzle laying before him on the table for years now. It was some musty thing from the sixties, so faded - even torn in places - that it was hard to tell what it was depicting. He’d scrounged it up from his bedroom closet back at the Mystery Shack before he and Ford had left on this adventure, having forgotten it was even there until then.

But he’d felt oddly attached to it. It’d been a puzzle from their childhood home, and it was something to do between port launch and their first expedition of “plunging headfirst into the world’s greatest anomalies”, as Ford had described it.

As if the world's greatest anomaly wasn't already on their boat. A man who had forgiven him for all he'd done. Now that was a true mystery.

Two lights carved through the cabin’s morning dark. One buzzed over Stanley’s head, trapping him in a cold, rectangular cage of gray. The other - gold - surrounded Ford as he toiled over a pan on the stove.

Pancakes and eggs, buttery and warm. A smell like that could get Stan grinning.

But Stan’s smile faded when he glanced back down to the puzzle, and a mumble scratched through his throat. There seemed to be a part or two missing. Or was there? He glanced at the piece in his hand, rotating it, then back at the wretched, patchwork thing. Then at the other pieces.

Nothing fit quite right.

“How are your memories holding up this morning, Stan?” Ford asked, deep voice piercing through the radio static tune of sizzling breakfast.

Stan put the puzzle piece down and crossed his arms, then leaned back and closed his eyes. Ever since the Bill Cipher incident and, you know, the near end of the whole damn world, his memories had been slowly returning. At first, in strong surges, going down and as dizzy as easy shots of vodka. But then the recollection had slowed to sips.

The worst part was not even that, but the futile attempts he’d made at trying to fit those fire-bitten scraps back together into one whole story.

“I dunno,” Stan finally replied with a shrug. “They’re there. They don’t always make the most sense, though.”

Ford’s brows furrowed. When he noticed Stan had caught his sour expression, he quickly switched it to a faint smile. Stan remembered that habit of his brother’s, at least. It was the kind Ford pulled when he forgot he had to give perfect responses for a moment, then tried to cover his human slip up quick. It was hard to truly know what Ford was thinking at any given moment for that reason. A leftover from childhood, Stan knew.

“I’m sure they’ll come back in time,” Ford said. “It’s miraculous that any survived. Even more so that so many came back quickly. It’s a good sign.”

A good sign, or just a wishful one? Stan replied in thought, but knew better than to grumble it out loud. He had to admit he was just as recklessly wishful as Ford.

“There’s somethin’ weird about it all, though.”

A plate was set in front of Stan by a six-fingered hand. Ford then settled down himself to eat across the pinewood table from Stan.

For a moment, Stan reflected on how strange it was to see Ford wearing that blue hoodie. Ford was supposed to be in a trench coat, wasn’t he? Or did he wear blue, but on his shoes? And why was his turtleneck red? Wasn’t that Stan’s color? So maybe it was ‘right’ for Ford to be wearing blue? Stan supposed no one really owned colors, but-

He had to look away from Ford. Sometimes just staring at his brother gave him a headache.

“What’s weird?”

Stan tried to gather scraps of understanding to explain it just right as they started to dig into their meal. Frustration bubbled and brewed in his gut until he just bit his lip and spat out a half-assed answer:

“Who am I?”

Ford’s resulting expression was that of a school teacher whose favorite student had failed to answer a question they’d just gone over the answer for together.

“Damn it, I don’t mean that, like, literally. I get that I’m Stanford-”

“Stanley.”

Stan pinched his nose’s bridge. He’d done it again. Why couldn’t he get that simple fact right? “Stanley, sorry.”

“You did use Stanford for years. That’s probably why it’s tripping you up so much.”

“Let me put it this way: I know little parts of who Stanley Pines is, but it’s like a mystery I only have little clues to. I don’t mean stupid shit like where I lived, my favorite song, whatever. I mean… who was Stanley Pines? A good guy? A bad guy? You told me about all the crime, but-”

“Stanley Pines is a hero.”

Ugh. Why did that send a shiver down his spine? “That word makes me wanna puke.”

“That’s probably because…” Ford trailed off, pausing mid-lift of his fork to his mouth to glance down to the side. “Never mind. Here’s a question: who’s the smartest person you know?”

“Well, I don’t call you Poindexter for no reason.”

“Exactly. So if I say you’re a hero, then…?”

“That’s just one person sayin’ it. Doesn’t make it true.”

“Dipper and Mabel say it. Soos says it. Stanley, the whole damn town of Gravity Falls says it.”

“Then why does it feel so wrong? It’s like you wearin’ blue. It’s weird!”

Ford glanced down at his hoodie. “Weird? Stan, that’s always been my favorite color.”

“But you always wear red!”

“I started wearing red because…”

Ford sighed and set his fork down, took his glasses off, and put his face in his hands. Then he looked back up at Stan, brown eyes lined with more bags than usual. For a moment, Stan wondered if it really had been the storm last night that had kept Ford tossing and turning endlessly in the bunk atop his own.

A hand found Stan’s shoulder. Those six fingers squeezed harder than they ever had before. “We’re going to put your memory back together exactly the way it was, no matter what it takes. Then you’ll see I’m right. You’ll see just how much of a hero Stanley Pines really is.”

“Yeesh, quit usin’ that word! It gives me the willies.”

“Never.”

They finished their breakfast in silence. Stan insisted on cleaning up since Ford had done the cooking. Meanwhile, Ford headed to the stern to steer the ship.

When he got back, Stan had finished with the dishes and was already back at the nook, though he’d pushed the puzzle aside for now.

“Where we headed today, anyway?”

Ford adjusted his glasses over a smile. “I’m glad you asked! I know I said we’d head to the Arctic Ocean for our first dive into the unknown, but I wanted to stop somewhere on the way. It’s somewhere I think you’ll recognize. I thought it might help jog your memories even more before we officially set off.”

---

Hot Belgian waffles, Stan never thought he’d be standing on these shores again. Their boat was moored and bobbing behind them at a long dock stretching out into the waters. Ahead was Ford, his hand in Stan’s, dragging him forward like an excited child.

A blue and white lighthouse to the north beamed into the fog wreathing around the pier, its lens spinning, trying to pierce the murk and make sense of the coast’s whole outline. Smaller lights in fairytale colors responded at its feet; amusement rides coming to life as day died to dusk.

Stan stared at the ferris wheel the longest, watching it turn in place again and again and again. An eye with a never ending cycle of ups and downs, moving but never really shifting back or forward.

As always in September, the Glass Shard Beach skies were overcast and sprinkling, and the air a damp, cloying blend of salt, fish, and popcorn.

“Do you remember this place, Stanley?”

Ford wrapped an arm around Stan’s shoulders. That part felt nice. That warm embrace, the smell of Old Spice and aged books as his brother drew close. “Thoughts?”

Stan glanced sideways and found one half of a smile on his twin’s face. The other half - his own mouth - should have been the balancing second upcrest of that smile. Stan knew that. But his lips betrayed what he should have felt here, sinking lower than they had all day.

Stan stared at the building again. “I’m… not sure.”

“You know what this place is, though, right? You at least remember that much?”

Stan’s hands tightened to fists. “Yeah. I do.”

“Great! Let’s go inside.”

“Inside?”

Ford had already started to reach for the red and gold door. He paused and turned around. “Is that okay?”

Stan bit his lip. He couldn’t remember why he hated this place. The memories surrounding that sour taste weren’t even full scraps, just tiny bits like ashes on his eyelashes every time he blinked, dotting his vision with fuzzy holes of gray.

“Come on. Take my hand. We’ll go in together.”

Ford grabbed onto Stan and pulled him forward. Stan followed with hesitant bootsteps. His feet met the threshold.

The crumbling brick had been steady moments before. But doom and guilt and anguish struck Stan’s heart like a duffel bag of lead, and he collapsed to the ground like he had all those years ago, concrete grating into his back, the shadow of a familiar man rising above him in the doorway.

Then came a push that sent him down a hole so deep it took him thirty years to drag himself back out.

The gray holes in his memory reawaken to orange fangs of flame, biting in reverse. How could a burning photograph put a picture back together?

“All you ever do is lie and cheat, and ride on your brother's coattails!”

Those words chisel sharp into his tombstone heart. Ford’s above him again, a ghost of a disappointed echo staring down.

“Stanford! Tell ‘im he’s bein’ crazy!”

The curtains draw closed, blocking out the light. Dust gathers on them. Thirty years of it.

“Stanford, don’t leave me hangin’...”

“Stanley, I’m right here!”

A lie. The curtains were still closed, because they were never reopened even after all these years. Why would he expect them to be? He didn’t deserve for them to open and to see the light again.

There were ashes beyond them. Or was it snow? He slept on that couch in the shadows for days after as the dust fell around him and buried him, his eyes unblinking, his arms crossed stiff over his chest. A perfect grave for Stanley Pines. He'd just burned himself alive to bring Stanford back from the dead, after all.

“I don’t need you! I don’t need anyone!”

“Don’t push me away! Stanley! Stanley!”

The thunder of that familiar voice clapped him back to awareness.

He was no longer on the ground. There was warmth and hair and scratchy stubble beside his face, tangling with his own in indistinguishable strands of silver, and two arms wrapped around his waist, nearly squeezing the breath out of him.

“Wha..?” Stan slurred.

Ford - in his late fifties again - reluctantly released from the hug, but still kept his hands on Stan’s shoulders. “Stanley, are you okay?”

“I… what happened? I was fine ‘til you went through that bright door.”

Ford glanced at the shop’s door, face warped with confusion. It was anything but bright after years of rust and rot.

He turned back to Stan and smiled anyway. Deep and genuine, not a worry covering smile. “It was one of your spells. You’ve had them before. But don’t worry.” Ford hugged him again. “I always make sure to stay with you until they’re over.”

“Why did you help me back up? You didn’t do that the first time.”

“What? I always help you back up after your spells.”

Stan shook his head. “Sorry… brain fog.”

“It’s alright. I should be the one apologizing, actually.” Ford looked up at the building again, then back to Stan, his eyes squinched. “I shouldn’t have brought you here in the first place. I thought it might help more of your memories return, but maybe this step is too much for now?”

“Well…” Stan looked up at the building himself. Yeah, this place hurt, but a deeper part of him told him he had every right to be here. To walk back in that door. It turned the shame in his gut into a little ember of anger. “It’s fine. Let’s go in.”

Ford grabbed his hand. “Stanley, are you sure? I don’t want to cause another of your spells again.”

“I’ll be fine, Ford. ‘Sides, I gotta show you how a real criminal trespasses on private property.” Stan chuckled and cracked his knuckles. “I’ve been wanting to see this dump again for years.”

“Oh. You have?”

“Maybe comin’ back here will help me put together who Stanley Pines really was?”

“Stan, I already told you, you’re a hero.”

“Don’t think I don’t remember how pops threw me out.”

Ford’s eyes widened. A response tried to crawl from his throat multiple times, but no words managed to escape.

“Dad tossed me into the street, and you let me leave. What kind of hero is treated like that by their own damn family?”

“Stanley…”

“Whatever. Call me whatever you want. But I don’t believe you.”

“Why would I lie to you, Stan? Look, that whole night was-”

Stan pushed past Ford and walked inside.

The shelves and glass cases were still there, albeit covered with dust instead of mismatched items. Even the barf green wallpaper was the same, tattered in long strips over wood panels and creaky floor.

“Yeesh! What even happened to this dump? Looks worse than it did when we were kids.”

“Ma and dad lost it in that recession in the early eighties. They moved in with Shermie after that.”

“Good ol’ Sherm.”

Stan pictured a man that resembled their mother more than they ever had, nose aquiline, hair a shade darker, and his frame slighter like Ford’s. What little he did remember of Shermie was a much taller, older figure in a navy uniform. Someone that gave him affectionate noogies with tattooed arms, taught him to swim and ride a bike, and “scared” monsters out of his and Ford’s closet.

“We’ll need to check in with him at some point, too.”

“Think he’ll punch, or hug me?”

“Yes.”

They shared a chuckle.

“So, what happened to Ma and Dad, anyway? Do I wanna know?”

Ford hesitated for a long while after that question. It wasn’t until they went up the stairs that an answer finally came out. Stan looked up as Ford spoke, paused on the last step behind him. It was strange to see Ford’s face outlined in the fading, ghostly light from the front window. The familiar golden wallpaper behind him fit right, though.

Stan stayed in the shadows of the stairwell. He didn’t belong up there with Ford in the gold and light.

“They died after I disappeared. You were the one that told me about them, actually.”

“Oh.”

“I bet they’d be pretty proud of you, though.”

No. Stan knew that instinctively. Ford was the son to be proud of, with some scraps left over for Shermie’s white picket fence and two kids. Stan glanced over to the living room cabinet. There were never trophies or military awards with the name ‘Stanley Pines’ on them there.

Stan walked to the front window by the large dead neon eye.

Closed. Never blinking ever again.

He stands above the casket, the walls of it as velvet red as her lipstick. Gray hair falls in careful waves down her shoulders. Then there’s the peace on her face. No one living ever looks that calm, especially not Ma, who guzzles coffee like fish drink water. And she doesn’t smell comforting like she used to - like incense and Virginia Slims and Charlie perfume.

All her traces are gone. Cleaned and embalmed and made so perfect it’s untrue and disgusting.

At his side stands the man who looks like him. He isn’t right, either. A black suit has taken the place of the yellow one.

“They’re both dead now, Ford.”

That’s not his name. But Stanford nods. Stanley is dead, remember? His gravelly voice has been buried by a smoother, deeper one, scrubbed of its Jersey swank, polished to academic, elevated perfection. It was funny how the less Ford was like Dad, the more Dad was proud of him.

He has another finger now, too, made of styrofoam stuffed into a black glove. Thank God it’s Winter, otherwise it’d have caught some stares. Now he knows how his brother felt trying to hide it all the time.

But Winter…

Why did snow always surround death?

“I know, Dad.”

“That idiot broke her heart, you know.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“She was never the same after he left. First was the asthma. She stopped eating much at all. But she held on for years ‘til the can-”

Dad was never a man of many words. But few could choke that thick throat of his with a lump like that. Stanford puts a reluctant arm around him. To his surprise, Dad leans into it.

“She did Tarot readings on it every night, you know? Stupid cards always said Stanley’d be back here. Always. Never did, though.”

“Did she really miss Stan that much?”

A nod. “Then the crash happened. It was seein’ that newspaper article that did her in. I just know it.”

Breath catches in Stanford’s throat. “I’m sorry.”

“What are you sorry for?”

“Maybe… maybe if I’d been around her more, she would have missed Stanley less?”

“She knew how important your work was to you, Ford. Nah, if anyone’s to blame, it’s Stanley. He was the hub of this wheel. When he left, it spun outta control and broke apart.”

He looks at Ma in the casket again. Her image blurs and the rain starts to fall. “Yeah. You’re right.”

They both let the silent rain fall together for a while. Every glance to his side is a glance into a chisel-jawed, teary mirror.

Then comes a question that hurts to even try to ask: “Did you ever miss Stanley, too?”

A long pause. A shrug. “Maybe a little.”

Flowers and velvet and cleanliness shifted back to dust and torn wallpaper. Stan blinked, still standing over his mother’s table by the window, fingers death-gripping the wood and clawing marks in the dust.

Those Old Spice and aged book arms were around him again.

“Ford?”

“Oh, thank God, you’re back! You blanked out again.” Ford pulled out of the hug. He looked at Stan’s face with concern. “Are you… crying?”

Stan shrugged. “Maybe a little.”

Ford tried to hug him again, but every attempt made the casket and roses come back. Stan tore out of Ford’s grasp and walked off to the side, into another room. There, he found the final piece of furniture his parents left behind.

A three-panel mirror. Stan stopped in front of it, and he saw himself in the light with the gold wallpaper behind him this time, instead of Ford. Cracks etched down the side panels, but the middle mirror was in perfect condition.

“Hey Ford? Got a science question.”

Ford stopped sifting through a stack of moth-eaten comic books in the corner. “Yes, Stan?”

Stan gazed into the mirrors. Three versions of himself stared back, two from different angles, one from face on. They showed a mystery he didn’t recognize, with a red cap on its ashen hair, its white shirt blotched see-through with tears under a long leather coat.

The left panel looked like someone’s beloved son. The right, like a washed-out criminal.

But the one in the middle...

“If you’re lookin’ into different mirrors at the same time, which is the truest reflection?”

Ford raised a brow and he chuckled. “Well, they’re all true. They’re just reflecting light from different perspectives.”

“All Stan, hm?”

That was when Stanley Pines lifted his left hand, smiled at it, and pulled it back in a fist.

Every question mark needed a hole at the bottom to make it complete, right?

---

Stan was back in the breakfast nook on the ship again that night, a wide grin on his face, left hand outstretched. Antiseptic slathered cool on his bloody, cut-up knuckles as six fingers worked over them.

“I don’t know why you’re always hurting yourself, Stanley,” Ford said as he wrapped bandages around Stan’s hand.

Stan chuckled from deep in his gut. “Dunno. Still think I’m a hero? You’re the one always fixing things and patching me up.”

Ford laughed. “Of course you are, Stan. We've gone over this a thousand times.”

They spent the rest of the night anchored in the Glass Shard harbor, surrounded by fog and sparkling lights, some from the pier behind them, millions of others reflected on the sea ahead of them.

By the next morning, the fog and shadows had finally dissipated, and the ship’s full form and identity were unveiled under the bright golden light as it sailed out, the first four-letter word of its name no longer obscured.

Ford made breakfast once more. As the oatmeal warmed on the stove, he took a seat across from Stan at the nook.

“Working on that puzzle again? I thought you’d given up on it?”

Stan shrugged. “I kinda did.”

“Well, I don’t mean to brag, but I do have a mind for mysteries. If you don’t mind, can I help you solve it?”

Stan looked up at Ford and - seeing his reflection in his twin’s glasses - grinned.

“I think you already did.”

#stanuary 2023 #week one: mystery #stanley pines #stanford pines #gravity falls #fic #sea grunks #minor filbrick and ma pines moments #hmm but which four letter word did I mean?#wink wonk

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nour386 · 4 years

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Furry Fortune teller

Stan and Ford are stuck with a dilemma, Filbrick has told them to either find a way for Shanklin to earn his keep, or else the Stab Possum will be kicked back to the streets. Can they find a way to save their pet from the cold cruel outside world?

also on ao3!

This was my piece for the @lost-legends-zine. I hoep you enjoy this short adventure with the stans as they try to save their beloved pet possum.

“I can’t believe pop called me bologna!” Stanley threw himself onto his bed with a huff.

“He didn’t call you bologna,” Stanford corrected. “He called your idea bologna.”

“That’s the same thing! My ideas come from my head, my head is me, so he’s calling me bologna.” Stanley threw up his arms angrily.

“To be fair, you didn’t have much of a compelling argument,” Stanford said from behind his math book. “You can’t say he’s got stage fright to explain why we can’t show Pop Shanklin’s laser eyes.”

“I can too say that,” Stanley said. He slunk down to the floor. “I mean, you can’t prove he can’t do it just because you haven’t seen it. It’s like Santa or the Tooth fairy. Just because you didn’t see them doesn’t mean they aren’t real.”

“I can’t argue with you there. However, Pop isn’t going to take that kind of reasoning.”

“I know. It stinks.” Stanley flailed on the floor of the bedroom. “Like old socks.”

“We’ve already tried testing his strength, agility and speed.” Stanford pointed to the obstacle courses that they had set up in their bedroom. “And he hasn’t shown any progress in any of them.”

“He’s made progress in being the toughest possum. Right Shanklin?” Stanley asked.

The stab-possum in question gave a small yawn before curling back to sleep. He’d nested in the shirt that Stan still hadn’t returned to the Sibling Brothers.

“Oh yeah, he’s tough,” Stanley said, grinning.

“Tough isn’t going to be good enough.” Stanford pursed his lips. “Pop said we needed something sellable with Shanklin or else he’ll put him out on the streets. Remember?”

“Don’t worry. This is just like in the latest issue of the Stilted Investigator Dogs! The pack is about to lose their dog house to some snooty poodle who wants to make it into a snooty salad bar unless they can raise the funds and stop her.”

Stanley continued his explanation of the plot line while Stanford nodded along, asking the occasional question about how dogs are able to communicate with humans yet still need to earn money.

“If they can talk to people why don’t they just put on a show and wow a bunch of locals and make money that way?” Stanford asked.

“I don’t know. Besides, if they did that they wouldn’t be able to stop the bank robber and get paid reward money for bein’ heroes!” Stanley said excitedly.

“That sounds contrived.” Stanford rolled his eyes.

“You’re just sayin’ that because there isn’t numbers on every page,” Stanley defended. “I bet if you read the first issue you’d see it’s really cool.” Stanley jumped to his feet and started to rummage through his drawers. “Now where did I leave it? I was reading it last night.”

He felt something bump against his leg. Looking down Stanley saw Shanklin with something in his mouth.

“Whatcha got there buddy?” Stanley asked, reaching down for whatever Shanklin was holding. “C’mon Slick, let ‘er go.”

Shanklin held tight with his teeth, but he was no match for the might of the one and only Stanley Pines. After a minor shake, and the accidental vaulting of Shanklin onto the lower bunk, Stanley found the comic he was looking for.

“Oh my gosh!” Stanley cried. “Sixer, did you see that?”

“I don’t think a possum shot-put will win us many friends,” Stanford deadpanned. “The last thing we need is some animal rights group giving Pop a whole bunch of calls.”

“No, not that!” Stanley bounded over to his brother. “Look, he brought me the comic I was looking for. It's like he knew what I was thinking.”

“He’s in the room with us. He could have just recognised what you were looking for from last night,” Stanford said. He watched as Shanklin scratched at Stan’s leg. “But that does raise the possibility of him having near-canine intelligence.”

“No way. He’s psychic. Like Ma!” Stanley waved his arms excitedly, dropping something from his comic book. “Oh no, my book mark.”

“You used a candy bar as a bookmark?” Stanford questioned. He watched with bemusement as Shanklin snatched the treat mid-fall and scampered under the bed.

“Hey give that back!” Stanley reached under the bed. “I was gonna have it for a midnight snack, but I didn’t stay up long enough.”

“Maybe that was why he took your comic?”

“Nuh-uh,” Stanley said, successfully pulling Shanklin out from under the bed by his tail. “He’s a mind reader possum, like Ma. But less hairy.”

“Probably shouldn’t say that around Ma.” Stanford stifled a giggle.

“That’s why you’re the smart one,” Stanley said, grinning.

----------------------

"So you're saying he needs a bigger curtain?" Ma Pines said, grinning.

"No way," Stanley said. "If we make it any bigger then no one'll see him. And then what's the point of setting up the show if no one is gonna see him?"

"Mystique, of course." Ma held up a fabric light. It was covered in stars and constellations. "When you start a show, you need to make a grand entrance. And what, my little free spirit, could be grander than a shadow puppet show?" She pinched Stanley's cheek before getting back to work.

"She does have a point," Stanford said from his perch on the floor. He had his nose in a fortune telling book, the current chapter titled 'Onion predictions and you!' "If we want a large number of people to come and watch Shanklin, then we'll need something really eye catching."

"He's Shanklin! What could be more attention-hogging' than that?" Stanley asked. "How many people have seen a stab-possum before?"

Shanklin was taking another nap, this time on an empty seat in the living room. He had been rushed downstairs the moment the brothers had agreed to ask their mother for help. And while he wasn't necessarily pleased with being so roughly picked up and moved, he was rather excited to smell the delicious lunch that Ma had been cooking.

"Everyone's seen a possum before, Stanley," Stanford said.

"Yeah, but he's a stab-possum!" Stanley insisted.

"The suckers won’t know that. Without his knife, they'll think he's some regular old possum, like your Pa," Ma said. She cut a small square from the fabric in her hand and laid it on Shanklin's back. "Oh, this could make a nice cape for you."

"Well they're dumb," Stanley muttered.

"Maybe instead one belly-aching, maybe you can help your Ma with cleaning up all this possum hair." Ma nodded to the lint roller.

"Aw, why do I have to do chores?" Stanley huffed.

"’Cause - uh, we need him prepped for his show," Ma said quickly. "Yeah, we're gonna need to clean Little Shanklin before his show so that the customers see his best side. You don't want him to get a bad picture do you? Imagine how bad the publicity would be. 'Failed Possum Performer Ruins Tourist Ice Creams with Fur.'"

"Oh no! Not the ice cream!" Stanley gasped.

"Yes the ice cream!" Ma smiled wickedly. "Are you gonna let all those delicious treats get spoiled by Shanklin's messy hair?"

"Never!" Stanley cried. He brandished the lint roller over his head as he ran to clean Shanklin of his loose fur.

"And make sure you get your clothes clean too," his mother called after him. She picked up her fabric once more and started to measure out the length of the curtain bar her sons had decided upon.

"You don't really think that would ruin his show do you?" Stanford had tucked away his book for now. He'd read enough methods of predicting the future that he was seeing stars.

"That depends on how you define 'ruin'," Ma said, smiling. "You know what they say, there's no such thing as bad publicity."

"But if people spread the word of how messy Shanklin is, then less people will come our way," Stanford said.

"That's why we need a good show to put on. How often do you think a tourist comes to this broad walk?"

"Once a vacation?" Stanford adjusted his glasses.

"Correct," Ma said. "And if new people are coming every day, then we've got new people to scam. And if more good news spreads about how amazing Shanklin's fortune telling is, then people will more likely take the risk of coming to see his show. And do you know why?"

"Because people could get their ice cream before coming to watch Shanklin's show?" Stanford asked.

"I knew you'd say that," Ma said, grinning. She reached down and pressed Stanford's nose, who giggled in response. "I was thinking that curiosity killed the cat."

"But satisfaction brought it back," Stanford rhymed. He was about to enjoy a well-deserved break when he heard his brother scream with pain, followed by a loud thud.

"Sixer, help! The lint roller attacked me!"

Stanford stood up to see his brother wrapped in the lint roller paper. It looked like a poorly designed Halloween costume, but stickier.

“I’m coming,” Stanford sighed.

--------------------------------

“Come one, come all!” Stan cheered. He danced along the boardwalk, catching the eye of every tourist and uninterested beach goer. “If you’re bored outta your mind from seeing the same old sand and water, then boy have I got what you’re missing!”

“I have been getting bored,” a tall man said. He wore a line of sunblock across his nose.

“I do hate sand and water,” the woman next to him agreed.

“What do you wanna show me? Is it a dinosaur?” The child with the couple asked.

“Even better!” Stanley hopped from one foot to the next. “A possum that’ll tell you the future!”

“That’s so cool!” A grin spread along the child’s face. “Mum! Dad! Can we go see the magic possum? Please please please?”

“It’s not by the beach is it?” His mother pursed her lips. Stanley wondered why she wore a swimsuit if she hated the beach this much, but chose to not say so out loud.

“No way. The sand makes his outfit uncomfy,” Stanley said.

“Well, if the possum is that understanding about the dangers of sand, then we have to go see them,” the child’s mother said smiling.

Stanley ran ahead, leading the vacationing family, and a few curious passersby towards Shanklin’s stand. His Ma had taken her crystal ball and its table out of the pawn shop and onto the boardwalk. Sitting on top of the crystal ball, in the centre of a mess of tarot cards, was the possum in question. A star-patterned hat adorned his head as Shanklin looked out at the audience. The possum gave a happy squeak when he saw Stanley return.

“Now Ladies, Gents and Germs, who's brave enough to have their fortune told by the most magical possum in the world?" Ma asked the crowd.

A young girl with pigtails, looking only slightly younger than Stan and Ford, bravely marched over to Shanklin's table.

Ma grinned. "Ah, a brave young lass aren't we?"

"All who approach Shanklin must place an offering in the gift bucket," Stanley tried his best to put on a mysterious voice. He held out a bucket towards the girl. She ran back to her parents and returned with a five dollar bill, which she dropped in the bucket before staring at the possum.

"Mr. Shanklin, where will I have the most fun today?" she asked.

"Take out a card, tell us what it says, and he'll tell you what he sees," Stanley said.

The girl nodded and drew a card from the many that surrounded the crystal ball.

"The Chariot?" she read.

Shanklin chattered his teeth to her.

"Sorry, I don't understand possum," she said in a small voice.

"Normally, a translation costs extra. But for such a pretty little lady, Stanley will give it to you for free," Ma said quickly, before Stanley could shove his bucket in her face again.

"Sure thing." Stanley put his bucket down next to the table. He tucked something into his pocket before walking over to the girl.

"The great Shanklin says that a Chariot card tells you of great enjoyment at the bumper cars at fun land. Or maybe with a toy car car you could get at the local pawn shop,” he added with a wink.

"What if my card was upside down?" the girl asked. "And I read it without turning it around?"

"Well, Shanklin says..." Stanley paused to let the possum in question squeak. "The exact opposite. If it was upside down then you should be careful, you might get bored out of your mind from the bumpers. Or maybe you should check out a doll from that pawn shop instead."

The girl gave Stanley a serious look before putting her card back. "Thank you, Mr. Shanklin," she said, before running back to her parents.

There many hushed whispers as Ma walked around, a small bucket in her hand. "So who’s up next? Shanklin takes advance payments." She grinned as various people dug out their wallets and threw a dollar or two into her bucket.

“Line up and Shanklin will read your fortunes!” Stanley said.

“Psst, Stan! That wasn’t the plan!” A harsh whisper came from somewhere unseen.

Stanley grinned. “C’mon Ford, this is more fun.”

“If we give a wrong prediction, people will be upset,” Stanford insisted. He poked his head out from under the table cloth, careful that no one from the crowd could see him.

“Half these people are here for the fun of it. I don’t think they’ll mind a bologna fortune,” Stanley said grinning, his bucket already full of ‘translation’ fees.

“Can you at least give a couple of the ones I’m suggesting?” Stanford asked. “This book is heavy, and writing predictions super-fast isn’t easy.”

“Are you sure you don’t wanna join me up here?” Stanley whispered. “It’s like storytelling, but more fun!”

“I’ll stick to the facts,” Stanford muttered.

“Here’s a fact. After this pop won’t call Shanklin a waste of space ever again,” Stanley said grinning.

“Definitely,” Stanford agreed.

----

Make sure to check out the companion piece for this fic found here by @garbagegnomes

#Gravity Falls #Staley Pines #Stan pines #Grunkle Stan #Stanford Pines #Ford pines #Grunkle Ford #Fic #Lost legends #Epilogue: Lost legends Zine #Caryn Pines #ma pines #Shanklin The Stab possum #mine

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