The familiar refrain of distant honks should have been the first sign that things were far from over. Ford glared at his niece who simply gave him an innocent, cheeky smile.

"These beavers want to be out on the open sea!" She said. "So we're taking them there!"

"Wait, what? This wasn't part of the plan."

"Dipper, I don't have to tell you everything. We're gonna take these beavers to a nice waterside location, where they can sail, ransack and pillage to their heart's content!"

Ford raised an eyebrow. "I don't think you can just remove the entire beaver population from-"

"Grunkle Ford." Mabel snorted, batting his words away. "Pul-eeze. Do you think I'm so lacking in foresight?"

"Well-"

"I marked the leaders especially with a paintball gun. Just in case." The over-enthusiastic Pines twin put her hand on her hip, smugly. "Piece'a cake."

Dipper slapped his forehead. "Man, I did wonder-"

"There's always a method to madness."

"Like the time you tried to eat twelve Footsie Pops at once?"

"...There's sometimes a method to madness." She faltered. "A-anyway. Anyone who wants to sail on the new Lucinda should get aboard, especially if they have a great big pink splash mark on their hiney!"

The eight pink-stained beavers blinked and exchanged muted glances at eachother. It was clear there was more than simple vacuity in their minds- as reluctant as they were to show it. They were, naturally, rather skeptical of the human's intentions.

"Or we set my pet pig on you, and he just loves Beavernant meat."

That did it. The eight creatures scampered up the gangplank into the ship's decks. The Pines couldn't help but take note that was the second time that Waddles was the ultimate persuader. It was only like, two times - but it was still a bit weird that had worked twice, right?

Quentin promptly arrived with Gooseliath, eagerly playing his mouth harp as the enormous waterfowl flapped through the darkening skies, ropes already hanging from its colossal webbed feet. It slowly took a comfortable landing in the forest clearing and cocked its head obediently at its master.

"Greetings, my futuristic chums!" Quentin beamed, sat astride the goose's neck. "Mabel contacted me via the medium of telegram goose! I know all of these grand plans and agree - America is a just country that demands all creatures live out their lives in peace!"

"Oy, you wanna tell him or shall I?" Stan muttered to his brother.

"Patriots." Ford huffed. "Figures."

"Together," Quentin continued in his eccentric sincerity, "we shall take these creatures to the watery realm of which they crave, a place where no civilised creature lives - a place where all is wild and ripe for destruction, terror and morally reprehensible actions! CANADA!"

Mabel grinned. "It's also why I put these big hookey things all over the ship!"

"I figured it was for mooring it-"

"Silly Dipper. There's no moors in Canada." His sister replied, tethering the ship to the ropes and chains that Quentin had prepared. "That's just for your old-timey horror movies, like English people and werewolves."

Pacifica watched the entire discourse in amazement. She had convinced herself - perhaps understandably - that she'd never see anything quite so bizarre as a possessed alien snack cake, but this conclusion that Mabel had cooked up really did feel like - well, like something only Mabel could cook up.

It didn't help that her most pressing confusion was still the fact that her new family worked to do what was right, rather than what brought them gain. To this day, it was still completely at odds with how she had been raised - and to this day, it still felt like an incredible thing to bear witness to - a bizarre, beautiful thing. The Pines simply didn't seem to judge the things. They were helping them in spite of their behaviour.

She felt those snobby little questions still rattling around in the back of her head from time to time, but they were getting quieter. I mean, the beavernants couldn't really help their circumstances anymore than she could, really. It just made sense to help everyone by removing the problem and giving the revenants their ultimate wish.

Would they disappear as soon as they reached Canada? Would they attack, pillage and terrorise the coast? She didn't really know. But she knew that if she was a born-again Pirate ghost, she'd probably crave a little more ocean action too.

"Is our precious cargo tethered, Congresswoman?!" Quentin bellowed. "I have an appointment with a maple syrup tree called Francois, and I cannot be late!"

"Yessir, Mr. President!" Mabel chirped, jumping off of the ship and into Grunkle Ford's arms, giving Trembley an excitable salute. "Packed, locked and loaded!"

"Then we shall go onwards into a pursuit of pirate glory!" Quentin replied, playing his familiar mouth harp theme tune. "Go, my feathered beauty! We shall feed you a cow when we reach Seattle!"

The Gooseliath followed, obediently, and prepared for take off. It arched its back, wing beats sending rings of wind like helicopter blades, almost knocking the Pines off of their feet. Trees groaned, the harbour creaking, and the ship swaying as its canvas and ropes billowed in the feathered gail.

It began to run, taking two or three massive, pounding steps that felt like they threatened to upend the entire island, beating its wings and finally hitting that cushion of air, rocketing up in a steep arc.

Slowly, the ropes lost slack, the chains tightening - and, as if being lifted by a hundred tons of pixie dust, Lucinda began to move. She scraped against the side of the wooden dock as she rose, grinding against the old harbour and knocking down a warehouse as she slowly ascended.

Up, up and away - trailing comfortably behind its honking haulier towards a new horizon.

"TREMBLEY AWAAAAAY!" came the echoing shout from aboard.

"Godspeed, you… crazy little freaks." she smiled, holding Dipper's waist.

"They aren't going to last a minute out there." He replied.

"Let them have this."

The family and McGucket watched as the creature and the ship shrank away into the horizon - only narrowly missing the railroad bridge as they began their route towards those tyrannical pirate lands of Canada.

Another story was over - another grand saga of Northwest Corruption had come to an end. And as the night fell, a decidedly clear air sank over Scuttlebutt Island. The fog was over - the curse lifted. And, for the first time, the island felt more like a place of beautiful tranquility than a crooked, hateful skirmish of trees and rodents.

Fiddleford rubbed his nose. "Y'all wanna come to the manor fer a cuppa joe?"

"Has it got bacon fat in it?"

"Sure has. That wus the pig's name!"

"Do you know what, Fiddleford? I'll give it a try." Ford smiled and cast a second glance to the silhouette of the Gooseliath - and the errant president.

He silently raised his hand in a respectful salute as they climbed back into the Stan O'War, and made their way home.

For now, at least, the fog had cleared.