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gravityskittles · 6 months ago

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Chapter 14: Shadows of the Things That Were

There was a recurring dream that Stan had had since the day he broke the perpetual motion machine. In it, he would watch the events of that night play out over again. He would curse and hit the table. Popping off the grate on the machine. Ruining two futures in one reckless action.

Except here, the dream would twist away from the reality of that night. Stan would watch as Ford appeared at the back of the auditorium. He would run towards Stan, shoving him to the ground and reaching for the project, cursing at him the whole time.

Then Ford would touch the machine, and the dream would fracture and bend. The perpetual motion machine would grow gigantic, trapping Ford within it, caught in a maze of grates and levers.

No matter how close Stan got to saving him in these dreams, he always broke something along the way, and after the machine was broken, Ford would vanish before Stan had the chance to apologize.

After those dreams, he would always scrounge around for quarters and drive to the nearest payphone. He’d dig out the scrap of paper he kept in the inside pocket of his jacket and painstakingly put in the same number every time. He never actually mustered up the courage to talk to Ford, but just hearing his voice at the other end of the phone was enough to remind him his brother was safe. Enough to prove that Ford was happy and better off without him.

After the portal incident, these dreams had become a lot more straightforward, swapping out one broken science experiment for another. When he had woken from those dreams however, startling awake in Ford’s drafty, empty house, there had been no one left to call.

Stan hung in darkness. He felt panic, knew he should be fighting back against whatever had just happened to him, but he couldn’t seem to move. He realized faintly, as light started to glow around him, that he didn’t even seem to have a body anymore. His body stood beneath him, drowning in the long shadow of the machine that was slowly being revealed as the world settled. He stared in horror at it. It was a monster of twisted metal and cable. The perpetual motion machine from his nightmares melded into the portal of his reality.

For a horrifying second, he wondered if he was being possessed somehow. He remembered Dipper describing floating outside of his body while Bill puppeted him around. But, as he watched two versions of Ford walk out from around the sides of the machine, and watched his body stumble back in poorly hidden fear, he realized while it was him down there, it wasn’t him. The body below him was still young, still seventeen, still on the precipice of what the next 40 years were going to bring. The small amount of relief he felt at the understanding that he wasn’t being possessed, was immediately overshadowed by the renewed panic that he didn’t know what was happening, and no matter how hard he tried, he still couldn’t move. Then he felt his awareness split, and the nightmare started up around him.

He stumbled backwards, staring up in horror at the machine above him as two separate versions of Ford screamed at him for help. He launched himself forward, but their fingers didn’t quite reach his in time as they were pulled away into a maze of steel and wire.

For a while he ran, panicked, through the machines, screaming Ford’s name as he went. Eventually, despite his best efforts, he tripped, slamming his shoulder into a panel. The glass around it shattered and wires inside sparked briefly before the entire machine flickered into darkness. He stared at it in horror. He had broken it again. Both Fords were gone.

Stan stumbled, defeated, through the machinery’s wreckage. As he walked, the edges of his vision began to fuzz out slowly, like a TV with bad reception. His awareness blurred steadily, and piece by piece, he slipped away into the darkness of his own mind, as though being pulled by invisible hands.

Stan didn’t remember.

And there was something about that which felt familiar.

He couldn’t exactly put his finger on it. But lying there, in the dark, shivering uncontrollably, he couldn’t remember anything.

He rolled onto his side, and then everything came back in a rush, as he opened his eyes to the scuffed leather seats of his car. His home.

No, that isn’t right. Something itched in the back of his skull. Alongside a voice he almost thought he recognized. Something about this whole situation is wrong.

But it wasn’t wrong. He’d screwed up. Again. He should have known better than to try stealing from such a small store, but he was so cold. He hadn’t realized they would send the cops after him for a blanket and a can of soup. Stupid. He was always so stupid. He couldn’t even go back to New Jersey now, and of course the very next state he had tried he was already screwing up.

He watched the snow pile up outside. He was pulled up on the side of a highway, miles away from anywhere he could have stayed the night. If he’d even had money to stay the night. No one would find him in this. No one would want to anyway. Less than a year after getting kicked out and he was going to freeze to death in his car and Ford wouldn’t even—

Ford.

The itch in the back of his mind intensified. He shook his head, blowing carefully on his hands to try to warm them up. He didn’t want to think about Ford. It hurt too much.

‘This isn’t how it happened.’ The small, insistent voice at the back of his brain piped up as the stinging cold began to worm its way into his bones. He blinked, confused. This had never happened before. ‘But this isn’t how it happened. You remember this—You have to remember—'

He remembered driving through the blizzard, remembered sliding across the roads, remembered the semi that had almost flattened him as it fishtailed across the highway. He remembered helping the man in the cab out of the truck, offering him a ride to the nearest gas station. He remembered cash being pressed into his hands. A hotel, a hot shower. Hope.

‘You survived this.’ He remembered surviving this. He remembered Ford, he—the itching suddenly became painful. A blinding ache that sent spots swimming across his vision. He felt himself lose consciousness. Again.

Stan didn’t remember.

He didn’t have time to reflect on why that felt familiar before he was slammed up against a wall outside of a pool hall.

Two men, both taller than him, each one built like a slab of muscle, had him pinned up against the rough bricks.

He knew what he had done. He’d hustled the wrong guy. ‘Like always.’ He’d been hustling the tables at this establishment for over a week. Had almost enough money to send some of it home.

Always in envelopes with no return address. As much as he could spare. Often more than he could spare. He remembered that it was never enough, never enough to go home.

‘You didn’t stop until Pa died—'

Pa wasn’t dead. He knew that. It had only been a few years; he talked to Ma when he could. She would have told him, she would have—

A punch to the gut knocked the wind out of him and he curled in on himself as much as he was able. He tried futilely to protect himself as the men beside him held him firm. A third man had appeared, the man who had punched him. He wore a crisp white suit and a disappointed smile. ‘Rico.’ The voice in the back of his head supplied, although he knew he had never met this man before.

‘You’ll wish you had never met this man at all.’

The man smoothed his suit jacket carefully. He shook out his hands like he was flicking water off of them and delicately began to slide off each of his heavy gold rings, before reaching for Stan.

The voice in the back of his head was screaming now. Stan may not know this man, but the voice knew that motion. He knew that motion. The little ritual Rico had. Rings were always left on for a beating, acting as his own twisted form of brass knuckles. But he always took his rings off before he killed someone. Before he killed someone—

Rico’s hand grabbed Stan’s hair, roughly yanking his head up so he was forced to meet his gaze. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Rico’s other hand pull out a shining, wickedly sharp knife from his jacket pocket.

‘Rico always did like things personal.’

He knew with certainty he was going to die. He’d seen Rico kill before. He knew just how efficient this man was, knew that he would walk away leaving Stan gutted like a fish, bleeding out in the filthy alleyway, without a single drop of blood on his suit.

His brain screeched to a halt as he watched the blade come nearer.

The itch at the back of his head had started up again. ‘This is wrong.’

If Rico had killed him now, he’d never know all of this. If Rico had killed him now, he never would have ended up in the car trunk, never would have ended up in prison in Columbia, never would have ended up in Tijuana, never would have ended up in Gravity Falls.

Gravity Falls.

The knife swung towards him and pain erupted in his skull as the voice in the back of his head desperately tried to hang on to the ghost of a memory. There was a blue, glowing light at the corners of his vision. And then everything went black. Again.

Stan didn’t remember.

He was getting tired of this.

‘You’ve been tired of it since the first time it happened.’ But—this hadn’t happened before. He would remember if he had been in this situation before.

He could feel rough rope digging into his wrists and ankles. Blood trickled slowly into his eye from a stinging cut on his scalp and the pounding pain in his skull told him he probably had a concussion. ‘Definitely have a concussion.’

Wherever he was it was dark and small.

He’d always hated small spaces after this, even the cabin on the boat was difficult sometimes. He hadn’t been able to open his car trunk for months afterwards.

Car—

Fuck. He felt the rough carpet under him now, and the steady thrum of the engine and the wheels beneath him. For a while, he struggled, trying to get his foot around to kick out the tail-light, but they had him tied in a way where he could barely move. After an eternity, an eternity that felt horribly familiar, the car stopped.

He held his breath, listened as doors slammed and footsteps crunched on the ground outside. He heard muffled voices speaking rapid fire Spanish above him and allowed himself to hope that they were going to let him out. That this was just one of Rico’s ‘lessons’. The voice in the back of his head told him that ‘They aren’t. And it isn’t.’

It sounded resigned in a way he hadn’t heard the voice sound before.

He’d never heard this voice before. Right? His head swam with the heat and pain as he listened to the footsteps grow fainter and the sound of another car speeding off, away from him.

Tears pricked his eyes. He was going to die in here.

‘Fuck.’

It was getting hotter and hotter in the trunk. He remembered this as well. Remembered burning his arms on the hot metal at the end but first—

First—

His jaw ached and he realized with horror he could taste blood in his mouth. ‘You haven’t even started chewing on the ropes yet.’ He hadn’t even thought he was going to do that. Surely there was another way out. Surely there was—

‘No.’

He remembered this. He remembered the blood, the feeling of breaking his teeth.

He hated this, hated the resigned way the voice was speaking. Hated that somewhere deep inside of himself he knew it was right. He didn’t want to remember this. The other times he had remembered. The other times with the blizzard and with Rico. They hadn’t happened like he had thought they would. They had been different. They had been. Better.

‘Not this one.’ The voice shook slightly. ‘Not this one.’

It took him another eternity. He felt every excruciating part of it. He wished he hadn’t.

Three times of living through this felt like too many.

Eventually, after the thick bloodied rope, and the shattered glass of the tail-light, and the twisted broken lock of the trunk. He lay on the sand, blood dripping slowly from his ruined mouth and raw fingers. He knew he needed to get up, needed to hotwire the car and get away before the adrenaline wore off and the muted pain became sharp and real and overwhelming. But he couldn’t seem to focus on anything but his teeth. Or where his teeth had been. Fuck. He was going to need dentures. Dentures at the age of 24. He glanced blearily down at his wrist where his cheap blood-spattered watch was still glowing faintly. It was past midnight.

He began to laugh wildly. A high, broken, wheeze that went on until they turned into shuddering sobs which he tried desperately to stifle against his hands. Dentures at the age of 25. Happy birthday Ford.

‘Happy Birthday.’ Images flashed through his head of two small children and a bright pink cake with far too much glitter on top of it. Huh he hadn’t been able to remember them before.

He tried to focus on the images, tried to pull names out from the fuzzy blankness of his memory but the pain in his mouth and hands steadily grew unbearable, and he felt himself fade away. Again.

Stan didn’t remember.

At least. He didn’t think he did. The voice in the back of his head felt closer somehow. The familiarity of it was on the tip of his tongue he just couldn’t quite—

He shivered violently and opened his eyes. Above him, the light of a naked bulb flickered weakly. He could tell it had originally had some sort of light fixture surrounding it but now it just dangled loosely from the pale, yellowed ceiling. He stared up at it, watching the walls swim gently around him. He was cold, but his mind was pleasantly detached. It felt like floating. It felt like—'No.’

No, he was clean now, had been since the last stint in prison. He knew he hadn’t—so why? He blinked trying to clear the fog away and peered around him. There was a cracked sink, rusted faucet dripping water in irregular brown colored drops, a closed door made of cheap wood veneer which was peeling and cracking in dusty strips.

He was in a bathroom. ‘Oh.’

More specifically he was in a bathtub. ‘Oh no.’

He struggled to sit up, feeling cold water slosh around him. What was happening, why didn’t he remember? He did remember. Oh Moses, he remembered too well.

He turned to look at himself, at the pink tinged bathwater, and the ice cubes scattered around. His vision swam again, sending the room spinning. He gripped the sides of the bathtub for support, a motion that pulled at his skin.

There was a pain in his side.

He looked down.

‘NO! No, not again, no I don’t want to live this again I don’t I—'

The voice in his head was drowned out by his own screams which echoed off the walls, bouncing back around him in a hideous cacophony of fear.

There was a wound on his side. A curved cut like a smile that stretched up from his left hip to just below his ribcage. It was stitched up. Something that would be a small mercy if the bastards had bothered to do it correctly. Instead, the thread was loose in some places, leaving the wound lethargically seeping blood into the dirty bath water, and far too tight in others, cutting into the skin around the incision.

Someone had taken his fucking kidney.

He remembered walking back to the hotel he was staying at in New Mexico. A seedy long-term place he’d finally been able to actually afford for a month or two. He’d been working as a mechanic downtown; he’d finally been good at something. Finally, been able to save money for the first time in ages. He almost had enough to start looking for an apartment nearby. He almost had enough to finally put down roots somewhere for the first time in almost ten years.

Then he had noticed the men following him. He’d tried to ignore it, tried to tell himself he was just being paranoid. He hadn’t done anything to warrant being chased out of New Mexico yet, he hadn’t even stolen anything other than some shoplifted gas-station sandwiches a few weeks back. Then he heard a small snippet of Spanish, and his blood froze as he flashed back to Columbia, to Rico. To the man he had still crawled back to after the goddamn trunk because where else was he supposed to go. To the man who had finally asked him to cross a line he wouldn’t. To the man who he owed more money than he owed his own fucking father.

He had tried to run. But they had grabbed him before he got very far, and the prick of a needle against his arm had stopped any chance he’d ever had of fighting his way out.

Stan sat shivering on the bathroom floor, hunched around himself like a wounded animal. In one hand he clutched the note Rico’s men had left for him. It was simple. What had been paid and what was still owed. The former amount seemed laughably small for what had been done to him, and the latter far too large to ever dream of paying back. The note told him he had 72 hours.

In his other hand he was holding a needle and thread, which he had dug out of his bag after crawling out of the tub and into the hotel room. They had taken all his money from his job, and anything else he owned that they had deemed valuable enough to steal. He had thanked whatever gods existed that they had left him his car, and his poor excuse for a first aid kit.

He leaned his head back against the cold tile. This was it. There was nothing he could do. Sure, he could stitch himself up properly, but he couldn’t get Rico’s money in 72 hours. He had finally reached the end of the road. After everything he had done, every failed business idea, every failed scheme, every deal gone bad, it was finally catching up with him. He realized now he was never going to get to go home. Never going to make that million dollars to earn his way back.

‘You never should have had to earn a family.’

He was going to die here in this hotel and not a single person would care.

‘That’s not true.’

The voice was getting angrier. He ignored it. He deserved this, he always had.

‘No. You didn’t. I didn’t. We never deserved any of this.’

The itch in the back of his mind burned. And then something snapped inside of him, and he felt someone grab his hands. You survived this.

The blackness crashed over him. Again.

Stan Didn’t Remember

And he was tired of this.

His shoulder was consumed with a sick heat. Every time he shifted it stung and burned, the skin cracking open over what he knew was an infected wound.

He stood up unsteadily from the couch he had been lying on, immediately overwhelmed by the sharp tug of the stitches in his side as he stretched slightly too far. He gasped and doubled over, prodding softly at the space around the stitches. He couldn’t afford two infected wounds. Hell, he couldn’t even afford one but. He had to get Ford back. He had to. He couldn’t wait for his shoulder to heal. He couldn’t wait for the stitches to heal. The stitches he had ripped out a second time in his fight with Ford. The fight where he had killed his brother.

‘You didn’t kill him.’

Stan jumped. The familiar voice sounded like it had come from directly behind him. He spun around, still doubled over in pain. For a half second, he could have sworn he saw Pa standing next to him but then he was gone, and Stan saw nothing except an empty couch and a worn red journal lying mockingly on the floor beside it.

He cursed in every language he knew as he slowly straightened up. It couldn’t have been Pa. Hell, he hadn’t seen Pa since the night he was kicked out, and he knew Ford hadn’t been home since college. That thought made bitterness bubble up in the back of his throat. Ford had literally had the one thing Stan had always wanted and had thrown it away the second he could.

‘Eh. He had his reasons.’

Stan flinched again, ignoring the pain in his shoulder as he grabbed for Ford’s crossbow. He brandished it wildly around the room, catching sight of himself in the window’s reflection. He looked terrible. It had been a week since Ford had fallen through the portal and in that time, he had barely slept or eaten. Even in the wavy glass of the reflection he could see the bags under his eyes and the unhealthy paleness of his face. He had refused to change into Ford’s clothes, so he was still wearing the ratty burned jacket which was now covered in patches of dried blood.

Then the window shimmered slightly and there was a figure standing next to him. He yelped and brandished the weapon again but there was nothing there. He glanced back to the window. The old man standing beside him was almost Pa but not quite. He looked softer than Pa ever had. His rough edges smoothed over underneath a dark blue sweater and a red beanie. He had a sad smile on his face and kind eyes that had the barest ghost of the same hunted look in them as his own did. Realization stole over him.

“You’re Ford. Oh god I’m so sorry I—”

‘Nah. Five fingers see?’

The figure raised his hand and waved at him slowly.

“You’re—”

‘Stanley Pines, at your service.’

“I get old?”

The man’s smile grew slightly sadder.

You are old. He said softly. This already happened, a long time ago. And you need to remember now. Because we need to wake up.

Remember.

Stan ignored the faint itch at the back of his skull. He stared at the reflection in the window. He looked at the sweater and the knit hat and the glasses he knew he needed but always refused. He looked at this man who was claiming to be him and he tried to slot his present and his, apparent, future together.

He remembered the portal; he remembered night after night of calculus and physics and math he had no business learning. He remembered taking his car apart over and over again before he worked up the nerve to try taking apart the portal’s engine. He remembered the townsfolk and the Murder Hut—no—the Mystery Shack. He remembered years and years of time slipping by him in this sleepy little town. Winters and summers and decades of time.

He watched himself in the reflection, watched himself heal and grow and change. Watched himself age.

He remembered Soos and Wendy and then the twins and then the portal and then Ford and the end of the world. He remembered remembering nothing at all and the years that came after it.

He remembered a phone call and a rage he hadn’t felt since he punched that triangle out of existence. He remembered a parking lot and a horse that wasn’t a horse and the worst memories he had playing out in a sick nightmarish loop.

He blinked and the identical men in the reflection became one man.

“I remember” He said softly.

…

Stan startled awake on the asphalt next to his car. The word ‘Ford’ was echoing in his ears and he wasn’t sure if he had actually yelled it or not. His head spun as he tried to force himself up off the ground and so he allowed himself a moment to breathe.

He gently ran his hand over his shoulder, even though the pain was nothing more than a dream now, fading as he tried to focus on it. The scar was there, deep and gnarled and exactly as it had been. The scar on his stomach was the same, and gently prodding with fingers that were absolutely only shaking from the cold revealed his dentures firmly in place over long healed gums. He took a deep breath and screamed out every curse he could think of into the frigid air.

Then he laughed.

He laughed for a long time, until his chest hurt, and his face was wet with quickly freezing tears. He was here, he was okay. He had survived everything up until this moment and he would survive everything after it. He didn’t know what those things were, but they’d need to try a lot harder than that if they wanted to break him. His laughter subsided slowly into ragged breathing, and he glanced up at the sky.

The moon certainly hadn’t been that high when they had pulled into this motel. It was odd that Ford hadn’t come looking for him yet.

That thought jolted him to his feet before he had even processed that he was moving.

“FORD!?”

He looked around wildly, before catching sight of the door to what was supposed to have been their room. It stood slightly ajar and, for a moment, he could have sworn he saw one of the Not-Horses standing just inside the doorway before it vanished.

He stumbled over to the door, tripping slightly on his numb legs, and threw the door open. Inside one of the Not-Horses was standing over the crumpled form of his brother. Ford was moaning softly in his sleep the way he did when he was having a particularly nasty nightmare.

“Get off of him!” Stan roared, throwing himself at the thing, fists raised to meet it.

It vanished and he toppled onto the carpet next to Ford.

He swore and glanced around but it was gone. That was fine, he could deal with it later. He just had to wake Ford up and then they could deal with it together. He fumbled for his brother, intending to shake him gently out of whatever magical nonsense he was trapped in, but the second his hand brushed Ford’s shoulder he knew he had made a mistake.

He pitched forward into darkness, the last coherent thought ringing through his head was “Not again.”

…

As his eyes opened to a sea of white, Stan thought he was back in his car at the beginning of his own nightmare loop again. Then he realized that this time he was outside, and this time there was only one version of him. Also, he had all his memories, which he figured meant whatever was happening right now wasn’t targeting him. Probably he had somehow gotten himself caught in Ford’s nightmare prison. Figures. Although, he was surprised Ford hadn’t broken out of it yet. Surely, he would have figured it out faster than Stan had. After all, Ford had decades more experience with things like this than he did.

He looked around at the snow, wondering idly where Ford was, when he heard a familiar scream echoing through the trees. Shit.

He ran, slipping in the deep snow, until he came to the edge of a clearing. He stopped short, staring at the Mystery Shack. Well. What would become the Mystery Shack. Currently with all the barbed wire and keep out signs, it was clear this version of the shack still belonged to Ford.

Stan walked towards the house cautiously. He wasn’t sure exactly what Ford was currently re-living. He knew very little about what had happened to Ford after Bill’s betrayal. He had picked up on some things from what he found in the house after the portal incident, and some more things from the puckered scars on Ford’s hands. But it was something Ford had never wanted to talk about with him. Just like he had never wanted to talk about the portal with him. Deep down, Stan resented this. He wanted to know about Ford’s past—the good and the horrible. He wanted to know what his brother had been through so that he could help, so that he could get it on at least some level. But, as his eyes found a crumpled body on the ground in front of the house, he realized that he wanted to know these things because Ford was ready to tell him, not because he had snooped on them by breaking into his mind.

He had to try and wake Ford up as soon as possible.

He walked cautiously towards the body, doing his best to ignore the sick feeling rising in his throat as he watched the bright red stain on the snow around it spreading. He knelt next to Ford. He could tell by the odd angles of his limbs that most of Ford’s bones were broken. He opened his mouth but the words died on his lips. He knew without asking that Ford was gone, there was too much blood for him not to be. Then, the body shimmered and vanished, and above him there was a scuffling noise.

He shot to his feet and looked up at the roof. He could see Ford dragging himself across it, limbs jerky and stiff, and, when he squinted he could see the yellow glint in his brother’s eyes. Bill. The breath caught in his chest. He knew it was only a memory—not even a true one at that. He knew Ford obviously hadn’t died and, given the lack of broken bones during their fight, he probably hadn’t even ended up falling off the roof. But the idea that at least some of this was true, that that fucking corn chip had dragged his brother up here to threaten him, filled him with rage.

He watched Bill walk Ford’s body right up to the edge. He saw the moment when Bill let him go, watched as Ford’s shoulders slumped. Ford hung in the air, arms wheeling as he tried to catch himself, tried to grab the edge of the icy roof. Stan watched in silence as Ford fell backwards with a scream. He looked away before Ford hit the ground, wondering how many times Ford had been forced to live this twisted memory.

When he looked back, he saw that Ford was lying in the same position he had found him in before but the twitching of his fingers and the shallow rise and fall of his chest meant that this time he was still alive. Stan dropped back down next to his brother and carefully placed a hand on his shoulder, hoping that he wasn’t adding to the pain Ford had to be feeling right now. To his shock, his hand phased through Ford as though he himself was made of air. Okay, so he couldn’t touch him but he could talk to him, that would have to do.

“Hey Six, listen to me. This didn’t happen, okay? You’re dreamin’, you have to wake up now.”

Ford’s eyes remained unfocused and glassy, blood dripping lethargically out of one of them. But he opened his mouth weakly, slurring out, “Stan ‘m srry.”

“You don’t have to be sorry for anything, you just need to wake up.”

Ford’s eyes glazed over and Stan watched in horror as his limbs fell slack. Around them the scene twisted into darkness.

Ford Was Gone

Okay, that hadn’t gone nearly as well as Stan had hoped. He wasn’t even convinced that Ford had really known it was him. He was fairly certain that he hadn’t heard most of what Stan had been trying to tell him. But he still wasn’t sure why Ford seemed so much more stuck in here than Stan had been. Even from the first memory he had known that something was wrong, and his younger self hadn’t really listened to him, but he’d at least seemed able to hear him.

The darkness began to fade and Stan readied himself.

When he opened his eyes, he was once again standing in front of Ford’s house. Snow was still covering the ground, but this time there was no sign of Ford on the roof. Hopefully that meant this was going to be a different memory, maybe one where Ford would be able to listen to him.

As he watched, a familiar car pulled into the driveway next to the house and a younger version of himself clambered out, duffle bag in hand. He winced watching the careful way that this version of Stan held himself, and the way he kept checking over his shoulder to see if anyone had followed him. Stan’s hand strayed down to his own stomach, reminding himself again as he brushed his fingers over his scar that this was in the past and he and Ford were both fine now.

He watched Stan knock on the door and watched as Ford threw the door open, crossbow in hand. Stan was just thinking that he probably could try and grab Ford if he followed them down to the portal room, when he heard a harsh ka-chunk noise followed by both twins giving startled yells.

Stan had assumed this memory was going to end with Ford getting sucked into the portal. Surely that, and whatever had happened immediately afterwards, had to be the stuff of nightmares for his brother. Instead, he was staring at his own body, crumpled in the snow, a crossbow bolt sticking out of his neck. Ford threw himself down the stairs, hands fluttering above the bolt as though he could somehow undo it, as though he could somehow fix this.

Stan watched with a grimace as he bled out into the snow. Part of him had always assumed the crossbow was just for show. No rational person would keep a real loaded crossbow by their front door. He didn’t love knowing how close he had come to dying that day.

Ford was pressing his hands against the bolt, begging Stan to stay with him as blood bubbled between his fingers, spilling over into the snow.

Stan could tell that his counterpart was already gone. He silently willed Ford to figure it out, to see the nightmare for what it really was. Instead, he watched as Ford tugged the other Stan’s body up into his arms. He was sobbing now, alternating between broken apologies and begging Stan to wake up.

“Ford. Ford, listen to me, this didn’t happen.” He walked over, kneeling in the snow next to his brother, trying very hard not to look at his own slack, blood spattered face. “Ford please you have to wake up now, this isn’t how it happened.”

Ford stared through him, unseeing. “Stanley, I’m sorry. Stanley, please please, wake up, I promise I’m sorry, I promise I didn’t mean to. Please, I can’t do this without you, I can’t I. Please I can’t I’m sorry.”

Stan grabbed at his shoulders, trying to gently force Ford to look at him, but, just like last time, his fingers sank insubstantially through Ford’s body. “Ford this isn’t real, ya didn’t hurt me, I promise, you just need to wake up.”

Ford let his head drop against dream Stan’s body, words now a stream of broken muttering that Stan couldn’t quite hear. He tried again to grab Ford’s shoulder, focusing all of his energy on making himself solid and real, but just as he felt his fingers make contact, the darkness pressed in again.

Ford Was Gone

“I’m getting tired of this!” He shouted. Ford’s consciousness had to be around here somewhere, suspended in the dark the way Stan’s had been. He just had to get through to him somehow. “Ford none of this is real, c’mon you know your own memories, I know you do, you weren’t the one who got shot by the memory gun!”

Okay, maybe he shouldn’t have said that.

The scene had changed again. He had been anticipating something from the portal this time, assuming that the nightmares were taking place in order. Instead, he was in a high vaulted room, staring at two men in a glowing blue cage. They were having an argument. He knew how this went. He remembered the defeat in Ford’s eyes when he had realized he couldn’t talk Stan out of this. Stan hadn’t understood why back then. He’d still believed Ford hated him at that point, still genuinely believed that his life just wasn’t worth as much as the rest of theirs. He still believed that, but now he accepted that it didn’t matter what his life was worth to him, because it was worth a whole lot to his family.

He watched them switch clothes, watched Ford’s eyes widen at the scars on Stan’s torso. He remembered hissing at Ford that there wasn’t time to explain, as Ford had pointed wordlessly at the surgical scar on his side. He watched himself place the fez on Ford’s head, straightening it out as Bill stalked back into the room.

When the dream twisted, Stan was ready for it at least. That didn’t make it any more pleasant to see Bill’s eye flash towards Ford’s six fingers wrapped around the bars of the cage. Stan forced himself to keep watching as Bill pulled his hand back from the deal and disintegrated Dipper and Mabel on the spot. The screams from this memory’s version of himself were cut off with a choking noise as Bill grabbed him and threw his body roughly against the wall. Bill was saying something to his soon-to-be corpse, but Stan ignored him, running up to the edge of the cage where his brother was staring vacantly at the scorch marks where the twins had been standing moments before.

“Ford, listen to me. You have to wake up, this isn’t real Poindexter!”

The cage disappeared and glowing blue chains appeared around Ford’s neck, wrists, and ankles. Bill hoisted Ford up off the ground and Stan could only stare at him in horror as Bill coursed electricity through the chains. He watched Ford's body seize and contort but there was nothing Stan could do to free him now. The electricity paused and Bill began to laugh, pulling down one of the tapestries and slowly setting it alight in front of Ford’s eyes. Stan tried not to look, he didn’t want to know who Bill was burning to death. He told himself that it didn’t matter, he knew that none of this was real, he just wished Ford knew that too.

He squared his shoulders. If this wasn’t real then Bill couldn’t hurt him anyway, so it didn’t matter if he was noticed or not. “FORD! Please you gotta listen to me!” His shout echoed through the fearamid.

Finally, Ford looked down at him, and Stan sighed with relief. Ford could finally see him. Now he just had to wake up and all of this could stop.

“It’s all my fault Stanley. I did this. All of this, I failed you and the kids. I deserve this.”

The darkness swept over them before Stan could reply.

Ford Was Gone

As he waited for whatever was about to come, Stan thought about Ford’s words. He knew that Ford had genuinely seen him. But he hadn’t wanted to wake up. Or he still didn’t realize that he could.

Something about what Ford had said was bothering him. It sounded just like what the dream version of himself had said during the memory of his uh, impromptu surgery. Which. Hadn’t that been the nightmare where he had finally been able to take control again? He hummed to himself trying to fit all the pieces together. As the darkness faded, he figured it out. He knew what he had to do.

He was surprised to find himself on the Stan O’ War II. Whatever memory this was pulling from had to be fairly recent because he recognized their anomaly chart on the wall which placed them firmly around Alaska instead of the Arctic. For a second, he was worried it was going to be another nightmare involving the kids, but the calendar on the wall above the stove told him it was sometime in November. Just a few months ago.

He tried to think back to what it might be, he didn’t remember anything specific happening in November, at least nothing he had been aware of. There was a muttering noise coming from the office. Something about the whole scene was sending his anxiety into overdrive, but he couldn’t figure out what it was. Then, the door to the office opened, and Ford walked out. Except it wasn’t Ford. Stan didn’t even have to look at the eyes this time to recognize the jerky movements and overwide smile as Bill inside his brother’s body.

He stumbled back against the counter, panic coursing through him in a way that froze him to the spot. Bill stumbled into the sleeping cabin and Stan heard himself begin to scream from beyond the door. He tried to get his breathing under control. This hadn’t happened. Obviously it hadn’t happened. He had killed Bill himself, it was the most satisfying memory he had. He squeezed his eyes shut against the screaming. He’d heard himself scream enough for a lifetime today. He was really getting tired of this.

After what felt like hours, Bill stumbled back out of the room and into the office. Stan tried not to stare at the blood on the floor. He didn’t need to know what lay beyond the door. He watched blankly as Ford startled back to himself at his desk. His brother brought a shaking hand up to his right eye, which had begun to weep a moderately alarming amount of blood. He drew his hand away and stared at the blood for a long time.

“No. No that can’t. STAN!” Ford shot to his feet, and Stan decided he was done.

He was done with whatever sick, twisted games this creature was trying to play with them. It was one thing to have to relive his own memories, but at least he had known when this thing was trying to mess with him. His own memories were gruesome, but at least he’d never killed Ford, at least he’d never had to feel himself die. Ford didn’t know that this wasn’t real, he believed he had killed Stan multiple times, he had felt himself die at least twice that Stan had seen, probably many more times before he had been able to get into Ford’s head. Worst of all, in the hazy moments of lucidity that Ford had, he seemed to genuinely believe that he deserved all of this for some reason.

That didn’t sit right with Stan. Only one person was allowed to guilt trip Ford and that was him. Besides, Ford didn’t deserve this, none of these things had actually happened. Things were supposed to be okay now. It didn’t matter how long it took, Stan was going to make Ford believe that.

He stepped forward, blocking the door to the cabin, seething with anger. “Ford stop. This isn’t your fault.”

Ford paused, then shook his head and tried to walk through Stan.

“You don’t deserve this Ford. You never did.”

He felt Ford bump into him and freeze. Slowly, Stan reached up a hand to wipe the blood away from Ford’s eye. To his satisfaction, his hand made contact.

“You deserve a happy ending. You always have.”

He took Ford by the shoulders and stared into his eyes.

“Wake up.”

…

The motel floor was not any more comfortable the second time that Stan became aware he was lying on it. He rolled over and sat up, rubbing at his head with one hand. He was definitely going to have bruises in the morning. He was too old to be falling onto the floor.

Ford blinked and pushed himself up against the wall, staring silently into space. That wasn’t good. Stan got up shakily and pushed the motel door shut, noticing as he did so that the sign outside now read Motel 9 instead of The Sobbing Stag. He sighed.

“Hey Sixer, next time you pick the Motel, can we make sure it exists first?”

There was a sharp intake of breath behind him and he cursed silently. Using that nickname had definitely been a mistake. “Sorry Ford, that was my bad. I shouldn’t have said that.”

He turned around. Ford had one hand tangled tightly in his hair and was breathing far too quickly to be healthy. Stan sat down next to him, being careful not to touch him yet. They had a routine for nightmares.

He glanced over, Ford was wiping repeatedly at his right eye, pressing harder and harder against his face with each pass. Stan gently reached out, trying to tug his hand down. Ford flinched away with a shout.

“No! Stanley, no get away, I’m not safe get away from me please--”

“Ford, Stanford.” Stan raised his hands slowly away from his brother, angling his body so that Ford could see he had no weapons on him, while also keeping the closed door in Ford’s line of sight. “Listen to me. It’s okay. We’re awake now. You’re safe.”

Ford shook his head frantically, jamming himself into the corner between the wall and side of the motel dresser. One hand was still tugging sharply at his own hair, the other hand was resting on the handle of his blaster.

Stan took a deep breath, at least Ford knew who he was this time. There had been nightmares in the past where that had not been true. “Okay, I understand. I’m going to sit right here okay? I want you to try and match your breathing to mine. Do you think you can do that Ford?” He took another deep breath. Ford’s eyes flicked frantically around the room, searching for whatever danger he seemed sure was coming for them. Stan kept his eyes fixed on Ford, watching as his breathing grew more and more erratic. This approach wasn’t working.

“So uh. I thought that metal plate in your head was supposed to stop things from gettin’ in there. Seems like you should demand a refund. The fucked up horses got in just fine. Hmmm. That name is too long.” He grinned. Sometimes silence worked best with Ford, but most of the time the best way to jar him out of a panic spiral was plain old annoyance. “Whaddya think about Night Mares? Get it? Like horses? Night Mares? Admit it. I’m hilarious!”

“Stanley…”

Ford’s voice was hoarse, and Stan noticed his eyes brow bright with tears. He stared up at the ceiling, pretending he hadn’t seen anything.

“I wish you hadn’t been there.”

“Well. I mean I can’t say it was a pleasant experience, but I think ya’d probably still be stuck there if I hadn’t seen it.”

Ford thunked his head back against the wall and scrubbed roughly at his face with both hands.

Stan thought about his next words. He knew he could leave it alone. Pretend it hadn’t happened and move on with his life. But he didn’t want to. He was tired of Ford constantly hiding his past from him, he wanted to understand and painful as it might end up being, this was going to be one of the only chances he got to talk about it. “Ford, why couldn’t you get out? You had to have figured out that stuff wasn’t real.”

Ford laughed in a strangled, painful way that made Stan’s chest tighten. “How exactly was I supposed to do that, Stan?”

“Well, I mean I did.”

“Yes well seeing as you haven’t had a dream demon in your head editing your memories and brain functions before, I think that—”

“He did what.” Stan’s voice was low and dangerous.

“Um. It doesn’t matter, Stanley its—”

“What did he do to you, Ford? Don’t fucking lie to me. Not right now. Not after what I just watched you go through.”

Ford flinched again, but didn’t answer.

“Stanford, please.”

Ford yanked his flask out of his coat and unscrewed it roughly, taking a swig and glaring at Stan as though daring him to say something. Stan didn’t comment, tonight Ford could drink as much as he wanted for all he cared. So long as he got answers, he could make peace with that.

Ford opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again. This happened a few more times before he finally seemed to find the words. “There was a point where I was. Foolish enough to try and force Bill out of my head.” He shuddered, taking another drink before continuing. “At the time, I thought he was bound by more rules, I didn’t realize how much power over me our deal had truly given him.”

He met Stan’s eyes tiredly and raised one hand, showing off the scarred mess across his knuckles. “You know that he started hurting me physically when he took over, but he also derived a sick pleasure in toying with my mind.”

Ford took a deep breath, and his next words were so quiet Stan had to strain to hear them. “He made me forget my own name once, just to prove that he could. While I was disoriented, trying to force myself to remember what it was, he made it so all the nerves in my body signaled at once. The pain was…” He trailed off.

Stan hesitantly reached out for him but Ford shook his head, forcing himself to continue. “Another time he deleted my memories of him torturing me so when I woke up I thought we were still…friends. By the time you came to see me I no longer knew what memories were real and what memories Cipher had twisted. Sometimes, I’m still not sure.”

Stan allowed himself to fantasize briefly about tracking down a Time Agent so he could go back in time and kill the evil little corn chip a second time. Ford took another swig from his flask.

“I didn’t know.” He said quietly.

“Of course you didn’t, how could you? I’ve never told you anything about it.” He murmured bitterly.

“Why, Ford?”

“I’m supposed to help you first. That’s the system.”

“What system?”

“The system where you protected me when we were young so I protect you now, because I wasn’t there when I should have been, and so I have to be there now, I have to make up for it all.”

“That’s a stupid system.”

Ford stared at him.

“It’s a stupid system, and if I’d realized that’s what you were up to this whole time I would have put a stop to it years ago. Ford look. I appreciate the sentiment, but I’m okay.”

Ford snorted, “Of course, Stan. I’m sure your experience with the Night Mares was completely fine.”

Stan shrugged. “Honestly. Yeah. I'm okay. Cause look, Ford. I have bad days, bad shit happened to me and sometimes it ‘haunts me’ or whatever. In my opinion it makes me more interestin’. But for the most part, hot chocolate and you and the twins makes it better. Sure, I needed help immediately after the apocalypse, and I appreciate all you did for me, Stanford. I genuinely don’t think I would have my memories back without you.”

“You wouldn’t have lost them without me either.” Ford muttered bitterly.

Stan fixed him with an ‘I’m still talking’ glare. “You gave me the happy ending I always dreamed of. But what you can’t seem to get through your stupid metal skull is that the happy ending isn’t worth anythin’ if you’re miserable. Tonight, I relived some terrible shit. But you’re right, I’ve never had a dream demon mess with my memories. I’ve never had to question what’s real in my own head. The second those horses started trying to twist things I was able to start pullin’ myself out of it.”

“You died.” Ford said quietly. “You watched yourself go through the worst moments from your past and then you came to rescue me and you had to watch yourself die. I killed you.”

“Nope.” He reached out and carefully pulled Ford’s hand out of his hair to place it lightly on his chest. “I’m doin’ jus’ fine see? You never killed me Stanford.”

“I could have.”

“You didn’t, and the cops can’t getcha’ for crimes you didn’t commit.”

For a moment, he saw the ghost of a smile on Ford’s face, but then it slipped away again.

“I thought things were supposed to be better by now.”

“I mean, it’s been like ten minutes since we got out of that shit. It takes you longer than this to recover from a normal nightmare, much less whatever that was.”

Ford looked away, staring up at the ceiling, but Stan held onto his hand tighter, refusing to let him pull away again. “I mean in general Stanley. I thought things were supposed to be better in general. I shouldn’t be flinching when you call me my childhood nickname, I shouldn’t have flashbacks to freezing on my roof when I see snow, I shouldn’t be pulling out a weapon when someone startles me. Logically, I am supposed to be okay now, I’ve run every test I can think of and I know Cipher is gone from our dimension for good. So, why am I not fixed?”

Stan couldn’t remember the last time Ford had been this vulnerable with him. He shifted closer until they were leaning on each other.

“You’re doin’ better.”

“It doesn’t feel like it.”

“Yeah well, tough shit. You are doin’ better. You don’t constantly carry your blaster around with you anymore. You hadn’t had a severe nightmare for months leading up to all this. An’ I know I yelled at you about it las’ night, but before all this you weren’t actually drinking all that much either.”

“Right but now I’m right back where I started. I’m not fixable.”

“Nope.”

“You can’t just say nope as a response Stanley.”

“I can and I did. You aren’t back where you started, you’re just having a bad time right now. And stop tellin’ me you need to be fixed. You aren’t one of your machines, Stanford, you’re a person.”

“But why are things so much worse than they were?”

“Let’s see,” He held up his free hand and sardonically started checking things off on his fingers. “Because for the first time in four years your family is in danger, your routine has been disrupted, you went back to the house you haven’t been in in the winter since you were being physically and psychologically tortured by a sadistic little shape, and you just had to live through all your greatest fears on repeat.”

“Oh.” Ford said quietly, and for the first time Stan heard genuine realization in his voice.

“Yeah, oh.”

Ford slowly leaned into him, letting his head rest on Stan’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, Stanley.”

“For what?”

“I realize now that it might have been not the wisest course of action for me to decide that I no longer needed anyone's help.”

“Yeah well. Once we get the kids back we all should think about going back to therapy.”

Ford groaned into his shoulder, sounding achingly like he had when they were kids. “Do we have to?”

“You know Mabel is going to make us the second she finds out we stopped going last year.”

Ford groaned again, louder. And Stan laughed.

“Stan, I’m sorry I killed you.”

“You didn’t knucklehead. I’m right here.”

“I’m still sorry.”

“Hey, listen Ford, I meant what I said in your head. You didn’t deserve any of that. You never deserved anything he did to you.”

“I appreciate the sentiment Stanley but,” He sighed and gently screwed the cap back onto his flask. “I’m not sure that’s something I will ever be able to truly believe.”

“I know,” Stan said, pulling himself up off the floor and holding out a hand to Ford. “I’ll keep believing it for you ‘til ya figure it out though.”

Ford let out a wet laugh and let himself be pulled upright.

“We should probably get to bed.”

Stan shrugged, the phantom pains starting up in his side and his shoulder meant he definitely wasn’t getting anymore sleep tonight. But he could spend the rest of the night making sure Ford woke up if he started having any more nightmares. “Yeah, we probably should.”

Ford paused awkwardly, staring at him for a moment. “Thank you Stanley. For everything.”

Stan pulled him carefully into a hug, waiting a moment until he felt Ford melt into it, hugging him back fiercely.

“Anytime Poindexter.”

As Ford pulled away and headed for the bathroom, Stan felt something drop into his jacket pocket. He slipped his fingers in, surprised and pleased to feel the smooth metal of Ford’s flask. There was still a lot of work they both needed to do, but this, at least, felt like progress.

#gravity falls #whereverwegoau #my writing #writing #stan and ford #stangst #mullet stan #the trunk #nightmares #ford commits a murder #non-consensual organ stealing #hurt/comfort #i swear the boys are fine at the end of this i promise #this is almost 10 thousand words so if you are reading it on tumblr not ao3 i commend you

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cicitina · 8 months ago

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Importing Car Trunk Organizers from China Made Easy

Ever wondered why car trunk organizers have become a popular product in the booming automotive accessories market? As more people prioritize convenience and organization, these products offer a simple yet effective solution to keep trunks neat and clutter-free. With growing consumer demand for functional storage, they’re a must-have for families, commuters, and outdoor enthusiasts alike. Importing from China brings additional benefits: low manufacturing costs, flexible OEM customization, and bulk availability, making it easy for businesses to meet market needs while maximizing profit margins.

1.Why Choose Car Trunk Organizers for Importing?

Are you looking for a profitable product with growing demand? Car trunk organizers might be your answer. With the increasing need for car storage solutions, these products have become a hit among various consumer groups. Families need them for groceries and kid essentials, while road trip enthusiasts rely on them to keep gear organized. Even daily commuters find them useful to prevent clutter.

There are several types of car trunk organizers to consider when importing:

-Foldable organizers for easy storage when not in use.

-Multi-compartment designs to help separate items.

-Customizable options, allowing businesses to add logos, colors, or specific features.

The profit potential here is significant. As more consumers search for practical and affordable solutions, offering a variety of options can help you capture a larger share of this growing market. According to recent trends, sales in the automotive accessories sector are expected to grow by 6% annually, making now the perfect time to invest.

2.How to Source Reliable Suppliers in China

Wondering how to find reliable suppliers for your car trunk organizers? Choosing the right partner is crucial for a successful import business. Fortunately, platforms like Alibaba, 1688, and Global Sources offer a wide range of suppliers, but how do you pick the best one?

Start by evaluating suppliers based on a few key factors:

-Product quality: Always request samples to verify quality before placing bulk orders.

-Customer reviews: Check feedback from previous buyers to assess reliability.

-Factory certifications: Look for suppliers with ISO or other certifications to ensure they meet international standards.

When it comes to negotiating, focus on reducing the Minimum Order Quantity (MOQ). Many suppliers list a high MOQ, but it’s often flexible. You can lower it by building a strong relationship with the supplier, agreeing to a long-term partnership, or offering to pay slightly more per unit.

Choosing the right platform can also make a difference. Here’s a comparison of the top sourcing platforms:

3.Import Process Overview

So, you’ve found your suppliers—what’s next? To ensure a smooth import process, follow these five crucial steps that will help you get your car trunk organizers from China to your doorstep without major hiccups.

Step 1: Research and Shortlist Suppliers

Start by thoroughly researching suppliers. Look for reliable reviews, evaluate their product range, and ensure they meet the standards you need. Shortlist only those who have a track record of delivering high-quality products on time.

Step 2: Negotiate Pricing, Shipping, and Lead Times

Once you’ve narrowed down your suppliers, it’s time to negotiate. Don’t hesitate to bargain on pricing, especially if you’re ordering in bulk. Also, clarify shipping terms and lead times to avoid unexpected delays. The goal is to lock in a fair price with a reasonable delivery window.

Step 3: Conduct Product Inspections

Before shipping, arrange for a product inspection. This is crucial to ensure that the quality meets your standards. You can hire a third-party inspection service in China or work directly with your supplier to confirm the products are up to spec before they leave the factory.

Step 4: Choose the Right Shipping Method (Sea vs. Air)

Shipping is one of the most important decisions you’ll make, and it boils down to two options: sea freight or air freight. Sea freight is cheaper but slower, while air freight is faster but more expensive. Your choice depends on how quickly you need the products and your budget.

Here’s a comparison:

Step 5: Handle Customs Clearance and Taxes

Finally, navigate the customs clearance process. Make sure you have all the necessary documentation, including commercial invoices, packing lists, and bill of lading. Keep in mind that customs duties and import taxes vary by country, so do your homework to avoid surprises.

为了直观地展示导入过程，这里有一个简单的图表：

By following these steps, you’ll have a clear path from supplier to delivery, ensuring a smooth and efficient importing experience.

4.Common Pitfalls and How to Avoid Them

Importing car trunk organizers from China can be a highly profitable venture, but it’s important to avoid common mistakes that can eat into your profits or cause delays. Here are the key pitfalls and how you can easily sidestep them:

-Misjudging shipping costs and times: Many importers underestimate how long shipping can take, especially if they opt for sea freight. A delay in delivery can result in stock shortages or missed sales opportunities. To avoid this, always account for buffer time in your lead times and double-check shipping costs, especially for smaller orders, where shipping per unit can spike.

-Failing to conduct a pre-shipment quality inspection: Relying solely on supplier assurances is risky. Without a pre-shipment inspection, you could end up with poor-quality products that don’t meet your expectations. To prevent this, hire a third-party inspection service to verify product quality before shipping. This small investment can save you from costly returns and damage to your brand’s reputation.

-Underestimating customs duties and VAT: Import taxes and VAT can catch you off guard, leading to unexpected costs that shrink your margins. Each country has its own import regulations, so do your research and factor these fees into your pricing strategy. Consider consulting with a customs broker to ensure you’re not blindsided by extra costs.

By addressing these issues early, you can ensure a smoother import process and protect your bottom line.

5.Cost Breakdown for Importing Car Trunk Organizers

Understanding the cost structure when importing car trunk organizers is key to ensuring a profitable business. Here’s a breakdown of the costs involved, from wholesale prices to shipping fees, and how to calculate your potential profit margins.

Average Wholesale Prices

The price of car trunk organizers depends largely on the features and quality of the product. Here’s a general price range based on common types:

Estimated Shipping Costs

Shipping costs will vary depending on whether you choose sea or air freight. Below is an estimate of shipping costs per unit, based on typical container sizes and shipment types:

Example Profit Margin Calculations

Let’s say you import a multi-compartment organizer at a wholesale price of $7.00 per unit. If you ship via sea freight, with a shipping cost of $1.00 per unit, your total cost per unit would be $8.00. If you sell the product at a retail price of $20, your gross margin would be:

Selling Price – Total Cost = Profit $20 – $8 = $12 profit per unit

That’s a 60% profit margin, making car trunk organizers a highly lucrative product if you manage your costs effectively.

By carefully calculating your costs and factoring in all variables, you can set competitive pricing while maintaining a healthy profit margin.

6.The Benefits of Customization (OEM)

Ever thought about how customization could give your car trunk organizers a competitive edge? Offering customized designs, such as unique logos and colors, can significantly boost your brand’s value and help differentiate your products in a crowded market. Consumers love personalized products, and OEM (Original Equipment Manufacturer) options from Chinese suppliers make it easier than ever to create items tailored to your brand’s identity.

Final Thoughts and Next Steps

Importing car trunk organizers from China offers a great opportunity to tap into a growing market while maximizing profits. To ensure a smooth process, it’s crucial to follow the right steps, from researching reliable suppliers to managing shipping logistics and customs clearance. Whether you choose to import standard products or opt for customized OEM designs, proper planning will save you time, money, and headaches.

Here’s a quick recap of the essential steps for a successful import process:

Research and shortlist suppliers: Evaluate quality, reviews, and certifications.

Negotiate pricing and shipping terms: Lock in fair pricing and clear timelines.

Conduct product inspections: Ensure quality before shipment with third-party inspections.

Choose the right shipping method: Weigh the costs and delivery times for sea vs. air.

Handle customs and taxes: Be prepared with the correct documentation and duties.

By following this checklist, you’ll be well on your way to importing high-quality car trunk organizers and building a profitable business. Start sourcing today and take advantage of the wide range of reliable suppliers in China.

Know more: https://www.forestshipping.com/

#Import Car Trunk Organizers from China

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