It would be fair to say that a bombing raid by geese lacked much of the atmosphere and noise provided by aircraft. Especially when the bombing raid was being led by an errant American president playing a mouth harp.

"Show them sweet, sugary justice, my sweet, sugary cygnets!" He bellowed, as huge chunks of the confection fell around the Pines, stacking into a large, tumbledown drystone (stickystone?) wall.

The beavers paused.

The Pines paused.

Slowly, one of the revenant creatures took a step forward, cocking its head as it outstretched a clawed foot towards the half-molten mixture of caramel, nuts and butter. The effect was visceral and instantaneous, as, with a sound not dissimilar to a short-circuiting waffle iron, the furry creature was shot back like a cannonball, its hoarse, ghostly voice echoing into a high pieced, hissing shriek as it bounced and flew back over the wall.

...With a paintball for good measure.

The silence was utterly deafening as the family realised - however bizarre it seemed - that Quentin Trembley was absolutely, one hundred percent correct. The peanut brittle not only repelled the beavers, but did so forcefully .

That revenant had flown what, forty feet? And rolled away like a red eyed, black furry football. Impressive, really. They stared, silent, wide eyed, as they peered through the semi-transparent confectionary at the furry army's response.

"Can you believe this crap?" Stan asked his brother under his breath.

The old scientist blinked, open jawed. "I - I think when all of this is over, I'll need to rethink a few of my prejudices…"

"Boom! Weirdness nuggets!" Mabel grinned. "He's a hero!"

"Please don't call the stuff the birds drop as 'nuggets'." Dipper winced, scrunching his nose. "This is weird enough."

"Hot, sticky weirdness nuggets." Mabel reaffirmed, poking him repeatedly as he protested weakly between awkward chuckles. "Weird-ness-nugg-ets!"

Pacifica was still more than a little concerned at the situation, regardless of what seemed - for now, at least - to be an inner sanctum, provided by Quentin's forces. "Guys, can we please try not to forget the fact we're surrounded by killer… water rats."

"Pacifica is right. We might not be in the clear yet, guys. These things are everywhere." Dipper said. "They aren't going to be dumb enough to just, like, rush at the peanut brittle."

"Frankly, they're still creepy as hell." the socialite muttered. "And still staring at me…"

Sure enough, the leading troupe of possessed creatures was glaring - all six of the remaining revenants standing, motionless. Their burning red eyes seared with frustration, their expressionless faces dribbling white, rabid foam as their prominent bucked mouths salivated at the prospect of their revenge. Their wrinkled claws writhed around their weapons, their whiskers twitching, their ears pinned back like an annoyed cat. Their dark profiles were only broken by the fluorescent pink splatters in their fur.

All the same, the relative intelligence of drunken human performers and the dim nature of slightly irradiated, permanently blundering beavers was one of conflict. Whatever allocation was given to the creatures' two minds was tumultuous, one that seemed to rock left and right. For at least a brief moment, Dipper wondered how cognitive the creatures really were - if there was a voice of conscience, telling them to stop, to calm down, to move on, to retreat… a voice that told them revenge wasn't the answer. That Northwest Manor wasn't the answer. That Pacifica need not suffer for her heritage. That they didn't need lumber to live their lives…

If there was such a voice of reason, it was quickly overturned by the wrath of the bizarre, furry creatures - who began storming the peanut brittle construct as if they, through will alone, would be impervious to its effects.

The effect, as before, was instantaneous - the fizzling and instant bounceback giving the impression they had been subject to thousands of volts. The creatures flew backwards with such force that the infamous Northwest Walls - those terrible, looming barriers built to keep the poor, the weird and the supernatural at bay - crumbled like a sandcastle, collapsing to the floor in the wake of the flat-tailed army slamming against it.

It seemed revenants were pretty damned hardy. They were like lumps of cast iron; startled but uninjured by the fact they had just demolished a wall.

Fiddleford blinked. "Dang. Those things are like cannonballs."

"S-sorry about the wall, Mr. McGucket…" Pacifica mumbled gingerly. She was shell-shocked herself; something about those walls. They had been her boundaries, once upon a time. Now they had fallen in a way she'd never dare imagine; crumbled into nothing against the forces of the town's weirdness - against a rebellion aimed squarely at the Northwest family that had persecuted it and attempted to block it out whenever it was inconvenient.

She looked up to the Manor's new owner, who seemed substantially less concerned.

"Shucks," McGucket grinned. "Tain't gonna bother me none. No idea how you managed to live with those big ol' things around you."

"Heh. Me neither."

"Be nice to let more people in. Figure that's exactly what this manor always needed."

"Yeah…" Pacifica smiled and looked back to Dipper. "Yeah. Definitely."

The heartwarming moment - being as quiet as it was - was quickly overtaken by the honks of war as more geese flew with their beaver-repellent nuggets of sugar, bombing the retreating beavernants with fury in wild, feathered pursuit of the enemy.

The cacophony of the creatures even drowned out the mouth harp between the lips of their leader, who was perched on top of the Gooseliath in his tin hat trying to rattle out a somewhat wonky version of Flight of the Valkyries.

They stormed frantically through the town's streets like a furry tidal wave. Streetlamps fell, traffic signals plummeting, fountains and statues falling to the floor as the frantic, panicked animals stampeded. Startled by the powerful influence of the brittle, every one of them hurriedly returned to their little brig and hoisted anchor (which, it turned out, was actually a bag of pebbles) - sailing back to the little island of Scuttlebutt, fading back into the drenching fog from whence they came. Those that were left behind swam after the ship desperately, eagerly trying to follow the lead of the revenants.

The town was in tatters; the wood-chip and sawdust smothered streets were now pierced with razor-sharp shards of peanut brittle. Slowly, the group descended down Northwest Hill, returning to the streets of Gravity Falls with eyes wide, adrenaline still coursing through their veins.

As quickly as the threat had developed, it had ended. The Battle of Northwest Manor was over, not in a hail of bullets, but a rain of feathers and oversized cannonballs of old timey, sticky, cavity-inducing weaponry.

The geese picked up their comrades, the errant president now wearing a nurse's cap as he helped them aboard his goose-hauled ambulance cart, ready to see battle another day. All in all, the battle - despite its brutal, wild nature, had been one of relatively little loss or bloodshed.

Tate shortly arrived with the boiling pig fat only to discover it had become obsolete to geese and peanuts. A humbling experience for any man, truthfully.

"So who is the pantless fella?" McGucket asked.

"Uh… long story." Pacifica winced. "Best not to ask."

"Fair 'nuff. Gonna be some clean up operation. Place is carnage." McGucket huffed, pouring sawdust from his sandals.

"It's amazing that nobody's gotten hurt." Ford mumbled.

"Well, 'cept for Toby." Stan shrugged.

"I apppeaaaar to have concussion!" came the familiar, drawling squawk of the reporter from inside his - now holed - office. "I can see a bright liiight! Is this the final curtain for the intrepid Toby Determined?!"

"You… think we should call an ambulance?" Ford asked.

"I shall leave behind an amazing body of work! And an amazing body, periooood!"

The group exchanged glances and hesitated.

"...Fine." Pacifica huffed, pulling out her cellphone. "But he totally owes us."