Stanford Pines sat in the office area of his small apartment, his head resting morosely in his hands.

Despite all of his thorough preemptive research, the grant board had all but laughed at his proposal to study the anomalies centered around a single point in Oregon. The head of the board took him aside and told him that he had more potential than he'd seen in most applicants even from West Coast Tech, and that he should focus on physics, engineering, or technology development, not waste his genius on something as mundane as anomalies. He told Stanford to think it over and apply again next month if he made up his mind.

All that work and his PhDs seemed to mean nothing, now that he was back at square one. Yes, he was fond of physics and technology, but he had a real passion for the unusual. HE was unusual. He could never truly put his heart and soul into any other study, no matter how gifted he was with it.

He sighed, rubbing his face and putting his glasses back on before grabbing his keys and jacket and heading out of his apartment. Sitting inside his apartment moping wasn't going to solve anything. Maybe sitting inside a bar drunk might.

Stanford had his choice between the dive bar downtown or a fancier lounge in the city. Figuring he was owed a treat, he opted for the lounge, getting himself a seat in the corner so he wouldn't be disturbed. He placed his order for a scotch on the rocks before taking out a small notebook he kept on him, letting his mind wander as he doodled aimlessly, lulled by the smooth jazz that was playing.

He was in his thought-zone, two tumblers of scotch and three pages filled with doodles in, still not coming to a solution to his dilemma. SHOULD he put his passion for anomalies on hold, and perhaps focus his attention to technology? Or should he stick to his dream, no matter how stupid it was to everyone else?

Ugh, it left a sour taste in his mouth, thinking to the reactions of the board members during his proposal. Some looked at him like he was insane, others like he was stupid. God, he'd NEVER been looked at like he was stupid before…it was horrible, and sort of a blow to his ego. The experience began drawing him back to a few years ago, starting to see thing through someone else's eyes, who had the experience of being 'stupid' before…

Stanford's nose twitched, picking up a sharp tobacco smell that snapped him out of his thoughts. He looked up, seeing a river of smoke drifting by him, following it to the source, almost jumping out of his skin when he saw someone else sitting at his table.

The first thought that came to mind was 'big'. The man was big and broad, yet the black suit he was wearing was tailored perfectly, buttons and cufflinks glinting like real gold. It wouldn't be surprising if they were, considering the gold rings on his fingers and gold chain around his neck. The most interesting thing was the red fez on top of his head that held an odd crescent shape on it.

The man took a drag from the cigar, letting the smoke sift from between his lips before turning to Stanford, his face almost shrouded in shadow, but his eyes staring at him with eyes so light a shade of brown they were almost gold.

"Nice atmosphere, aint it?" he said, his voice gruff yet smooth as molten gold. Stanford remained silent, still trying to process the man next to him and why he was there. "Then again, you don't seem to be enjoyin' it that much, poindexter."

Stanford's hands almost instinctively went under the table by habit, but he forced them to remain where they were. "…It's my business whether or not I enjoy myself," he replied, those two glasses of scotch giving him some bravado toward someone who looked like he could snap him in two like a twig. "And I was enjoying my solitude."

The man laughed, and Stanford swore the whole room shook with it. "Good, you've got some bite to your bark," he said, grinding out the remains of his cigar out on the ashtray that was already situated on the table. "Then I know I wont be wastin' my time." He snapped his fingers, and Stanford was amazed when a waitress hurried over moments later with an entire bottle of scotch and two frosted glasses. The man poured out two glasses, pushing one toward Stanford before taking a swig.

Stanford didn't touch his glass, his fingers twiddling around each other nervously. "…Do I KNOW you?" he asked. The man snorted softly.

"Hardly," he replied. "But I know you, Dr. Stanford Pines. And I know the little problem you're having." He drained the rest of his glass. "I'm here to tell ya I can do somethin' about it."

"…I don't know what you're talking about," Stanford said, his hand enclosing around his notebook and pen. "…and I think I should be going." He quickly stood up and turned to leave, only to freeze when he felt something land on his shoulder with a clear indication of a warning. He flicked his eyes to the side, seeing—to his bewilderment—an 8-ball.

"Sit down, Sixer," the man said firmly, his voice seeping into Stanford's bones and coercing him to do just that. Stanford sat stiffly, and the man lifted the 8-ball-topped cane from his shoulder, settling it on the floor. "The pompous asses on the grant board wouldn't give you your grant," he continued, pouring out another glass of scotch and swishing it around in the glass. "So you have several options."

He took a long sip, purposely drawing out the anticipation.

"You can abandon a passion you know to be true and pursue physics or technology. Both of which you excel at, but are not passionate about. But if you're not into something, you lose interest in it. Your work suffers. And eventually, you crumble and crack under the depression."

He slipped a gold coin out of his pocket, flipping it between his long fingers, and Stanford couldn't help but stare almost entranced.

"Or you can take your pick from two of MY options." He flipped the coin several times catching it between his fingers. "And you can use both of which to pursue your passion in Gravity Falls."

Stanford found himself sitting up straighter. "…What do you mean?" he asked. The man grinned, and Stanford felt the blood drain out of his face when he saw rows of razor-sharp teeth.

"It's simple," the man replied, holding up the coin. "You can either take out a loan from me that I'll be collecting…" He turned the coin around. "…Or you can tell a little white lie to the board about why you wanna go to Gravity Falls, and get your grant money there."

Stanford blinked, frowning. "…Falsify my proposal for grant money…?" he demanded weakly, flexing his hands into the table. "That's…"

"…what you'll need to do to get what you want?" The man smirked. "Take it from someone who REALLY gets it…"

His eyes began to glow gold, another set opening right above them.

"…It'll be WORTH it."

Stanford swallowed hard, feeling the temperature rise to almost unbearable for a moment before it went back to normal. He jumped when the man—the CREATURE—reached into his breast pocket and took out a well-worn maroon book with the same crescent shape that was on his fez, handing it to him. Stanford felt compelled to take it with shaking hands, staring at it.

"Details are already written inside," the creature said, standing up and looming like a demonic shadow over Stanford. "You have until the end of the week to decide. When you decide to take my offer, summon me. If, on the off-chance you take too long or decide against it, it'll simply vanish." He picked up his cane, draining the rest of his glass of scotch.

"…what….ARE you…?" Stanford stammered, his hands still shaking. He didn't even need to look up to know the creature was smirking.

"…Call me Mr. Mystery," he replied, twirling his cane as he turned to leave. "…And call your mother, you know how she worries!"

"What the hell—" Stanford looked up, only to find the creature was gone. He looked down at the book in his hands, thinking that this was definitely enough scotch for tonight. He numbly walked back to his apartment, thinking he'd get his car in the morning, and sat down on the couch, staring at the book in his hands.

If that was real, then this supernatural offer was real…it was a taste of what he would be delving into in Gravity Falls. And if so, it wasn't anything he should be rushing into nilly-willy. This sounded dangerously close to a deal with demons, and he didn't want to lose his soul over something that was in the finer details.

He put the book on the coffee table, rubbing his temples as a migraine came on. He needed sleep. As he undressed for the night, he got a sudden impulse, and reached over to his bedside table, picking up his phone.

"…Hey Ma, it's Stanford…"