Hi, folks. Here's my new small fanfic about, Stan, Ford, alcohol and a little well-earned vacation from their epic weirdness hunt in the Atlantic. Rated T for language. Read and review, if you're interested. Stay weird.
"Hawaiian?" - Ford asked, sniffing the smoke. Stan fell back on the lawn chair with a blissful smile on his face.
"Wrong one thousand," - he said finally, after another long puff, exhaling a new cloud of smoke. - "Nicaragua, brother. Nica Libre, one of my favourite brands. Damn, I love this taste!"
"Smells like coffee," - Ford remarked.
"Wanna try?" - his brother offered. The scientist shook his head. - "Why not? The smoke is mild, and it tastes really good."
"Years, Stanley," - Ford replied. - "In our age, it's better not to start."
"What, you're concerned with your health?" - Stan asked suspiciously. When his brother nodded, he tossed a look at the pile of empty whisky bottles beside their table. - "Come on, with our lifestyle it is more likely that monsters and weirdness kill us long before heart attack does. If we decided to have ourselves a holiday, why even hold back?" - Ford let out a sigh and reached our with his hand. Stan put a fresh cigar, a cutter and a matchbox on his palm. For some time they were silent, while the scientist studied this new activity. When Ford started coughing and beating himself in the chest, Stan only smiled and took a sip of whisky. Stan-o-War III rocked lightly on the waves, and an evening breeze of west Atlantic Ocean moved the collar of Stan's aloha short. Life was beautiful.
"You were right, the taste is exquisite," - Ford managed to say finally. He put his cigar on the table. - "But I'm afraid I'll pass."
"Suit yourself," - Stan shrugged, feeling too lazy to insist. He let out another cloud of flavorous smoke. - "Stanford, it feels so strange right now. Like we are talking for the first time since- well, since I left home, I guess."
"Yeah," - his brother agreed. - "We're talking about nonsense. About nothing. It feels so great."
"Hey, you never told me how was your life- you know, on the other side," - Stan muttered. - "Or if it was too bad, if you don't want to talk about it, it's OK."
"Why, it wasn't that bad," - Ford sighed. - "At least not as bad as one could imagine. The first couple of month were hell, won't lie about that. Still can't figure out how I survived. But then I kind of got used to it. Fit in, in a way. It was still tough, but it was at least predictably tough. And the further it went, the better it was. Well, in a general direction. There were moments when I thought I was done for, dead or worse, but ultimately I persevered. It was even really good sometimes. Different dimensions present different possibilities."
"Sixer, if you could travel between the worlds, why didn't you just get back home?" - Stan asked, pouring his brother some more whisky.
"It's all more complicated than you think, brother," - Ford looked to the sky. - "Don't think I travelled between dimensions freely. It was not so simple. But I've visited some very interesting places, seen some pretty entertaining things, made some very pleasant acquaintances."
"Babes?" - Stan asked with a mischievous smile.
"Stanley please," - Ford waved his hand. - "Most of the sentient creatures in other dimensions reproduce differently than humans, so females of most species are not- I don't even know how to say- compatible with a human. If that's the right word?"
"Some, but not all," - his brother continued to tease. The scientist fell silent for some time.
"Yeah," - he said finally, smiling. - "Not all."
"Cheers," - Stan announced, raising his glass. - "To babes."
"To babes," - Ford laughed, raising his in response. They gulped down the liquor and sat in silence for some time, enjoying the moment. - "And what about you?" - Ford asked then. - "How was your life? Aside from what I already know."
"Mine? Couldn't have been better. I was making more money than I knew what to do with, I was respected and loved around the town, I mended my ways with the law-"
"Yeah, yeah, I get it," - Ford tossed him a strange look. - "But I asked about what I didn't know. You better tell me, how did you cope with guilt?"
"Whaddaya mean?" - Stan asked suspiciously. The friendly sibling chat has lost its pleasant lazy charm in one instant.
"I mean, what did you do to choke the feeling of guilt?" - Ford repeated like nothing happened. Stanley jumped to his feet, clutching the whisky bottle in his fist.
"Fuck you, Sixer?!" - he yelled on the top of his lungs. - "How can you!- After what I've done at that Weirdsday that almost cost me- being me! After I've spent thirty years dragging you out of whatever hell you've been in! When I thought that we're finally good, that we're finally brothers again, do you absolutely need to bombard me with accusations, why you!-"
"Stanley, calm down!" - his brother pleaded, taken aback by Stan's outburst. - "I didn't mean to-"
"Yes you did, because why else would you ask that? To shove it to my face that I've done wrong, cost you thirty years of life, or-"
"Stanley, I'm sorry," - Ford exclaimed. He was now on his feet, too. - "I was not accusing you of anything, I was just asking. Just curious. I, for example, at first was mostly concerned with my day-to-day survival, and it distracted me and helped me cope with it."
"Cope with what?" - the conman asked dumbly.
"With guilt, of course, what else?" - the scientist shrugged. - "And then I've been, I guess, going with the flow, so to say."
"Why would you feel guilt?" - Stan asked mistrustfully.
"What?" - Ford laughed. - "You're kidding me, right? How could I have not felt the guilt? After all I did. After Dad kicked you out of the house," - he sighed heavily. - "After I started all that commotion with portal that summoned Bill Cipher."
"But," - Stan trailed - "you didn't exactly start it, yeah? It was, like, Bill tricked you, or something?"
"Aha," - Ford laughed bitterly, - "He tricked me. Me, the smart, brilliant, genius Stanford Pines. All Bill Cipher had to do to trick me was saying: 'Hey, wanna learn some secrets about the universe humanity might not uncover for another five centuries?'" - he made a surprisingly good impression of Bill's voice, making Stan laugh. - "Making me forget that knowledge is not simply a gift, but a goal to achieve trough hard and challenging work. That a road to knowledge often brings scientist more results than the knowledge itself," - he sighed again. - "He appealed to my ego. Made me think I am special, that I deserve to be the first to learn the secrets of creation. Bill didn't trick me because I was smart or outstanding. He tricked me because I was a fool."
The brothers sat down on their lawn chairs. An awkward silence fell between them, like they felt the shaky equilibrium of their relations reeled too much.
"And that's not all," - Ford said bitterly. - "You know that was not the worst thing I did. I felt guilt ever since Dad threw you out of the house." - Stan gulped down. - "I never wanted it like this. I was mad at you, true, but not that mad. I didn't want it, it was just- Dad was so furious, I was afraid to stand up to him, to take your side. I could never forget that day."
"It's OK," - Stan said huskily. - "It was a bad day, but it happened so long ago that it'd be best not to talk about it."
"You're not mad at me?" - Ford asked sheepishly.
"Oh, cut the crap, Sixer," - Stan waved his hand. - "I blamed your for a very long time, but what does it matter now, as we're sitting on our boat in the Atlantic Ocean, drink Jameson and smoke Nica Libre - it's long past time I could be mad at you."
"Thanks, Stan," - Ford smiled. Then his face lowered again. - "And have you seen Fiddleford?"
"Sure. Where's he, by the way?"
"No, I mean- he'd been living in the car dump and eating leftovers, the whole town laughed on him and thought he was crazy, he, one of the most talented inventors of our time! And that was all because of what I did."
"Hey, Sixer, don't sweat it," - Stanley said firmly. - "We both made a lot of mistakes. What's the use lamenting that now? Now, when everything is finally going nicely? You lost thirty years because of me - but you don't blame me anymore, right? Fidds lost thirty years because of what you did - but he doesn't blame you. You're not a bad guy. You only wanted to make good things, but you were- I don't know, caught in the chain of events, I guess? And now - well, we're finally aboard our own ship, as we wanted for so long, everything's going our way. And the kids - they love you, you know. Especially Dipper, he's just as much of a freaking brainiac as you are. So lest say we're done with self-flagellation, OK?"
"Yeah," - Ford sighed heartedly. - "I think it's about time. So, again, how did you manage with the guilt? I know you felt it. What did you do?"
"I managed though work, I guess," - Stan shrugged. - "During daytime, I was too busy bleeding the tourists dry. At night, I was rebuilding the portal. Sometimes, alcohol helped," - he looked at the bottle in his hand and poured whisky into the glasses. - "But I was doing something I was good at, perhaps for the first time in my life. I, kind of- you know- liked it, living like that," - Stanley finally admitted, looking to the side. - "I had income. I had my own business, no matter how stupid or lousy it was. My business where I could be creative, inventive to make money. I had friends, although by the end of it they all drifted their own way."
"Well," - Ford rubbed the back of his neck, - "that makes the two of us."
"Say what?" - Stanley narrowed his eyes.
"It must sound crazy, and I suppose, nerdy, think of it - I was in the other dimensions!" - Ford smiled awkwardly. - "How many people can make such a boast? I've seen thing no other man have ever witnessed. I've been places no man has ever tread. Some things I've dome no human can even imagine."
"Well, if you ask me, that practically begs for a toast," - the conman laughed. He tried to pour whisky to his brother, but the bottle was empty. He set it aside and reached to the plastic crate filled with half-melted ice. His hand, however, froze midway as he saw there were no bottles in the crate. "Stanford!" - he called with a panicked voice. - "We're out of booze!"
"Out of booze," - his brother repeated thoughtfully. - "Well, shit. Out of booze in the middle of the party, and twelve miles away from the shore line. Fuck my life. Looks like no way around that - start the engine, Stanley."
"This always happens at the exact moment when you want to continue the most!" - Stan bewailed. - "And now we have to make it back to the town, then find local store, than make it back to the boat and sail off-"
"Hey, do you hear that?" - Stanford asked.
"It will take us what, how long? An hour? Nah, more. Thought that with all your brain and my experience we could have foreseen this."
"Stanley, a drone!" - the scientist pointed his finger at the rapidly approaching small quadrocopter.
"What? The shore police?" - the conman cried out. - "They've found us?"
"What does the shore police have to do with us?" - Ford frowned. - "We didn't do anything illegal."
"Speak for yourself, Poindexter," - Stan retorted, earning a venomous glance from his brother.
"Not again, Stanley! Why can't you just-"
"Look!" - Stan interrupted. They both looked at the drone that, as they could see now, was carrying a square container. In silence, save for the soft buzzing of its propellers, the drone landed on the deck and went dormant. Brothers exchanged looks before approaching. Ford took the machine to inspect, while his brother started opening the crate.
"McGucket labs?" - Ford read aloud the inscription on the small etched table on the copter, with confusion written all over his face.
"Sixer, it's full of whisky!" - Stan called. Ford put the copter on the deck and came closer. Inside the crate, neat rows of bottles with a liquid of warm soothing deep-yellow colour stood. Stan took one of the bottles from the box.
"Bushmills Honey," - he read.
"McGucket," - Ford whispered.
"Where's he, by the way?" - Stan looked around. - "Come to think of it, I haven't seen him in some time."
"We're on a boat, Stanley," - the scientist reasoned. - "Where could he have possibly gone?"
"It's McGucket we're talking about, you can make any wild guess," - the conman said, but stopped short, looking behind Stanford's shoulder. His face told his brother a lot, and he turned around hastily. Behind him, he saw old man McGucket in bright-yellow diving suit, mask and flippers, holding an aqualung under his arm. Water flowed down his white beard. Stanford's brain, somewhat clouded by the amount of consumed spirit, drew an analogy between McGucket's yellow diving suit and famous coverall suit of Bruce Lee. He felt that this comparison threatens his sanity. He exchanged looks with Stanley.
"We were about to raise the anchor without him," - Ford said in a low voice.
"He would've been OK," - Stan replied. - "Probably."
"Well how's it going, fellas?" - McGucket cheerfully said. - "I reckon my courier has appeared, right about time!"
"When did you send the drone?" - Ford asked perplexedly. - "And we didn't know you even have it!"
"I didn't send it myself, it is automatic," - the inventor explained. - "It monitored the amount of remaining alcohol on board, and when it ran low it took off and flew to the shore line, where it bought a crate of fine whisky."
"Since when can the drones participate in commodity-money relations?" - Stan asked in disbelief.
"This one's special," - McGucket explained. - "It had my credit card and a recorded video message from me with a request to buy a crate of whisky. If locates the closest liquor store through GPS, then it plays it by ear. I specially wrote an artificial intelligence fellow to do the shopping for me."
The brothers exchanged looks for the third time.
"Risky," - said Stan. - "I like it."
"You need to tell me about the type of accumulator installed in this drone," - Ford murmured.
"OK, in any event," - the conman opened the bottle he was holding in his hand, - "I'm glad you decided to stick with us. Go fetch another glass. Ford, you go get some ice for these bad boys," - he pointed at the bottles. - "We have a lot to do," - he said, pouring himself some whisky and picking up his cigar. Life was still beautiful.