It was the next morning when Grunkle Stan insisted on Dipper coming with them for a chat – with Stan dropping off the evidence from their big break-in down the bottomless pit.

The knuckles, the balaclava, Preston's newly emptied wallet, the bell… Come to think of it, Stan wasn't sure if Preston had even noticed he'd been pickpocketed in the middle of the fist fight.

Not his problem, he reasoned.

It was still early and fresh – the girls had been through another sleepover and hadn't yet awoken to take Candy off of the ceiling – their friend, not the gummi koalas they had glued up there - so there wasn't any chance of them being interrupted. It was just Dipper and his Grunkles, having a slightly uncomfortable talk about ground rules that would be required if Pacifica was going to be living in the same house as them.

Dipper wasn't comfortable with any of the talk. He was still feeling more awkward than ever about how close things had gotten yesterday, and the insinuations of there being more to come made him feel sweaty. And awkward. It was bad enough that Wendy of all people had given one of the biggest pushes yet. Dipper wasn't confident or social enough to deal with these things.

"Y'know, Dip, your Gramps, Shermie, he was every bit as awkward and noodly as you are, at your age." Stan smiled as he reminisced, looking up at the sky. "He ended up with a rich girl too."

"Grandma was rich?"

"Sorta. I mean, we grew up in a Pawn Shop, kid." Stan chuckled. "A lot of folks were richer than we were. How many families in Jersey do you know with the whole white picket fence deal? Shermie did well for himself. Thought the world of you two." He crouched down and looked Dipper up and down. "You look a bit like him, Y'know. He'd be proud of how smart you've gotten."

Stanford smiled. "And of your morals. You've really made a difference to the town and its people, Dipper."

"And, frankly, kid," Stan continued, "I think Blondie needs you. And Mabel. Helps to get her life on track this summer, y'know?"

Dipper glanced back at the shack. "..And after summer?"

"Who knows. We'll deal with it when we get there. We're Pineses...ses. Pines? Pineses. Forward planning isn't our strong point. For now, just look after her, Dip." Stan grinned, patting his nephew's shoulder.

"Well do our bit too, of course." Ford continued. "A bit of training for monster hunts here and there, she could do some work for Soos..."

Dipper sighed. "I think what she'd really like is the diner back."

"Heh. Well we can't quite afford to rebuild that place, slick."

Stanford paused as the penny suddenly dropped. "But we know someone who can afford it."

McGucket's Hootenanny Hut had an open door policy, these days. Quite a change for the town that once never saw the inside of the Great Mansion. It had become a tourist attraction in its own right, visitors flocking to hear tell of the building's dark past, and investigate all of that fine, fine lumber.

There, in the centre of the lounge, Fiddleford sat, strumming away at his banjo, glasses on his face, beard trimmed and with shoes, not to mention a particularly nice designer shirt and slacks. Sure, the shirt was still an utterly hideous Hawaiian number, but beggars can't be choosers.

Not that Fiddleford had to beg for anything. Not anymore. The world was his Oyster.

The old Northwest Manor was no less grand – but had lost its air of pomp and providence, now feeling more welcoming and warm, with staff on hand and people happily visiting its grand rooms and structures.

The brilliant inventor looked up from his instrument and smiled. "Howdy, Ford! Stan! That guy I once tried to eat!"

"Yo, Fiddlebro!" Soos tipped his hat. "These are some nice digs."

"If I had any more digs I'd be able to start a quarry!" hollered the chirpy millionaire, standing to shake hands firmly with the trio. "What can I do for you?"

"Well," smiled Ford, "We have a business proposition for you, Fiddleford."

"Business?" Fiddleford's face dropped. "Fellers, why would I want more business? I've too much money. Why, the fourteenth bedroom of this place is full of Cauliflower Patch Kid Dolls. I don't even like the damned things!"
His eyes stared off into the distance. "...But I have to protect the world somehow."

Stanford blinked. He decided to forgo that story for another time. "Oh no, Fiddleford, you see, that's the thing. We think this proposal will lose you money."

"Lose me money?" Fiddleford scratched his head. "Well, I mean – I don't want to make a bad investment. Met this guy called Iger last Christmas, and he takes like six months to reply to my messages. Who's got the time? Nobody takes me seriously as is."

"You remember Greasy's?" Ford offered.

"Still banned from the place."

"Not if you invest in it."

Fiddleford raised an eyebrow. "Free breakfasts?"

"Every day. Bacon, eggs-"

"And oh boy, those pancakes dude." Soos grinned. "Best in the state."

McGucket rubbed his chin. "I'm listening."

"We could use it to advertise your banjo lessons," Ford winked. "Could name the coffee machine after you..."

"That's a pretty big honour, dude." Soos put in.

"And you could fill it with some of the clutter you've built up." Stan offered. "Folks go nuts for crap on the walls these, days. Could make it a concept place.

"I do have a lot of clown paintings..." Fiddleford sighed. "Temporary hobby, I guess."

Stan's eyes widened as he gave a hasty reply. "They won't fit in a Diner. Best give those to us to sort out."

"Do we have a deal, Fiddleford?" Ford held his old friend's shoulder.

"How much do you need, Ford? I'm getting Tate a pony for his birthday. Don't want to splash out too much, y'know?"

Ford winced. "Well... You had better take a seat."