The first time Stanley Pines died, it was an accident. An action born of anger and the fear of being left behind which lashed back, snapping in his face with all the force of a broken suspension cable.
"It was an accident," he said, but it didn't matter. He didn't matter. Not to them.
The fearful teenager was left standing on the sidewalk outside his home of 17 years, hand reached out for a gesture of affirmation that would never come.
That naive scared kid died that night and was replaced by a man of many names, an identity as shifting and restless as the sea he dreamed of. He was hardened as time went by, but a part of him clung to a small hope. The memory of sunshine and sailboats and promises of a future together.
The second time Stanley Pines died, it was a deliberate suicide. Ten years had passed and a post card from far away had lead him to the cold snowy north. The long awaited reunion ended in heartbreak and tragedy. A wounded man screaming at a machine to give back the brother he lost long ago. For the sake of the one most important to him he chose to kill his own identity.
A new Stanford Pines rose out of the ashes of the car crash. Not the scholarly man that the name truly belonged to, nor the wandering vagabond who had taken his place. This was a new man. A grim man seeking atonement. His mission drove him though sleepless nights and years of lies.
The third time Stanley Pines died, it was his brother who pulled the trigger. But what Stanford never realized was that he was killing a man who had been gone for a long time. As the blue flames burned away his consciousness, he was satisfied that he had finally done right with his life.
For the first time his death was mourned. Stanley pines was a hero, but he didn't know it. He didn't know anything. An empty shell of a man had taken his place.
A scrapbook stirred the ashes of memory. This time Stanley Pines was rebirthed like a phoenix, renewed and finally ready to move forward. The past was atoned for, the future was golden.
The last time Stanley Pines died, he was surrounded by family. Kids who had grown up to be like sons and daughters to him were near-by. His brother was reading a book at his side, an arm looped absently over his shoulder.
He was comfortable on the couch on the front porch of the Mystery Shack. The sun was warm and cheerful chatter soothed his nerves, as his eyes slowly drifted closed.
He didn't even realize death was coming until it was right beside him. For the first time in his life, he didn't feel the need to fight it. He was ready. So he left. His life force slipping out in a final sigh of contentment.
And so Stan Pines finally died.