Preston strolled down Gravity Falls high street with Priscilla's arm linked with his, both trying to keep their noses high and their stance stiff, disciplined and dignified, ignoring the increasingly unwelcoming stares of the townspeople.

Priscilla, being the far more self assured - and far less egregious than her almost militantly despicable husband - was somewhat confused by the town's increasingly embittered stance towards their family - and even more startled by the signs in shop and restaurant windows that proclaimed him banned.

"Preston, is there something you haven't told me?"

"It's just business issues, Priscilla. It'll clear up. It always does."

"You owe them money?"

"No, no. They're just convinced we're some sort of ogre."

Priscilla grimaced - at least, as much as she was actually able to grimace. "Perhaps we should hire a marketing team. You know, get some PR? We could use that lady who works for the Government, she did some wonderful cover stories."

"No, darling. It'd be wasted in this town. We have our own PR firm here, and he'll work for free, remember?"

"Oh, Prestie, please. I'd rather not visit him again. He's horrid! The drooling, the snorting, and the smell…"

"He gets the job done for a good price, my dear. We have a history."

"I just don't think that dealing with these monsters is good for our image, that's all."

She held onto Preston's arm fearfully as he descended into what felt like the pits of hell, into the darkest pits of the Oregon town through that tumbledown, wooden structure - encountering a fearful silhouette, lurking in the still omni-present darkness, fuelled by the powercut that was still haunting the town.

"I need to ask your services again." Preston said, his stiff upper lip twisting somewhat as he gazed at the grotesque features of his contact. "The people are revolting."

"You've tried the usual charitable donations?"

"I'm no longer willing to spend money on giving charity to low lifes." Preston snorted. "That's why I'm here."

There was a long, tense pause as the creature subject to Preston's words considered them - ruminated on the situation with an increasingly fraught, snorting breath - thin streaks of saliva dripping from its wide, frowning mouth. "...Fine."

"For pity's sake, dry your mouth, Toby."

"S-sorry. It happens when I drink coffee. I think I have allergies!"

Preston sighed and held the bridge of his nose. "You really are the most pathetic individual I've ever met, Determined. Will you just please get some of your poorly written tripe cobbled together? Your newspaper hasn't written anything about us in weeks."

Toby bowed his head. "I- I'm sorry, Mr. Northwest, but you just don't sell newspapers anymore. People want more material from Pacifica and her famil-"

He paused, staring up fearfully at the sudden, burning glare from the Northwest patriarch.

"...The family that she lives with." he murmured.

Preston snarled and grabbed the ugly little man by his suspenders. "Listen to me , you little twerp. You aren't to do anything with my daughter, or that wretched pauper's family."

"I-I-I haven't done anything! I'm innocent!"

"You Determineds have never been innocent, and you know it, Toby. You owe us. You work for us. And If I ever see you trying to fraternise with those crooks, I'll see to it that you lose that precious newspaper. Do I make myself clear?"

"You do! You do! Oh marbles, I'm sorry! I would never go against you, Preston!"

"Good." Preston growled. "Keep it that way." He threw the little man back into his chair, letting it reel back on its plastic castors and into the cheap wood panel walls that made up the Gossiper's office.

The two socialites twisted on their heels and began walking out of the door.

"W-what do you want the article to be about?" Toby asked, his voice now quivering.

"Make it any sort of basic fluff piece, Determined. Talk about one of my wife's dresses, or her shoes, or my moustache wax - I don't care. Just make it positive, and make it sell."

"Can- can I at least have some money for a billboard?"

Preston paused in the doorway and gritted his teeth, his fists clenched together and his shoulders rankling. "Fine. You can have your damned billboard. But I want us on it. Not Pacifica. Do you understand?"

"I understand. Thank you, Mr. Northwest! Thank you!" Toby nodded enthusiastically.

"You make me sick, Toby. Don't take this as our partnership being mended. It isn't. The moment you cross me, I'll drop you. And you know what happens when I drop people."

"The-they hit the bottom." The little man sighed.

"Oh yes, well done, Toby. And then..." The older man grinned deviously, his eyes being caught in the light as he pulled a cheap cigarillo from his blazer's inner breast pocket. "...They tend to break."

Toby shivered as the wealthy couple left his premises, being left in the dark at his ramshackle desk, a dull gust of wind blowing through the imitation tarpaulin that was acting as his roof, and a hollow pit in his stomach.

He looked down at the ink pen on his desk and took a deep breath.

"We'll see how much PR it takes when the Pines rumble you." the journalist mumbled. "You'll rue the day you took on the razz-dazzler!"

Those warnings, of course, went unheard. Probably just as well. The Northwests wouldn't have taken them seriously, anyway.

"I do love it when you're forceful, Preston, but I dare say that all felt rather violent. I almost felt sorry for the man. Are you sure there's nothing you aren't telling me?"

"No, no, dear. It's just the usual day-to-day, that's all. It's how you've got to approach some of these people. They can be awfully stubborn."

"I don't know, sweetheart. I've never seen Toby act particularly rebellious..."

"Trust me, my darling. The trick is to not even give them the opportunity."

The two continued their stroll through the town, narrowly circumventing all manner of unwanted confrontations - such as the still-work-in progress Gerron street, the wreck of what was intended to be a burger restaurant, and, crucially, avoiding the side of the street that ran against Greasy's Diner.

Sadly, the - ultimately, softer and more compassionate - Priscilla was far less reluctant. In fact, she still found the concept of her daughter working there more… curious than egregious.

"We could always go visit her, darling. She is our daughter, after all."

"Priscilla, I'm not willing to enter that slovenly establishment for love nor money."

"Oh, come now. I'm told the food is rather good."

"Greasy rubbish. The clue is in the name, my dear. It isn't worth visiting for the food, believe me."

"Well, for Pacifica, then? Come now, Preston. I'm sure you miss her too." She replied, pointing as subtly as she could towards the left-most window of the crooked little building. If one, really, could call it a building.

Preston sighed, and glanced over to the restaurant at Priscilla's behest.

A familiar figure stood by one of the windows, taking an order, dressed in her pink waitress frock. His estranged daughter was there, clear to view, bright as day, writing down the grease-addled foods ordered by the disgusting, disrespectful peasants that tended to visit the decrepit little diner.

The failed tycoon's brow lowered and his lip twisted into a sneer as he looked upon what had once been his most powerful bargaining tool, every ounce of frustration, even anger, bubbling to the surface momentarily as he took in the view of the blonde going about her business - while his wife peered over his shoulder with a far friendlier demeanour.

Pacifica, at last, noticed - and looked out of the window at her parents with an obvious level of discomfort. Finally, she blinked and raised a hand in a weak, polite little wave and a concerned smile.

Preston didn't say another word, and kept walking - his confused wife in tow.

Clearly, today was not a day to reinforce connections.