#and also those two are the worstest

[izpira-se-zlato]

Munich, Strom 04.12.2023

Picture by me

[kenjacku]

.

[terato-is-life]

Bullying it's not a joke

Somehow, I decided to post this since I felt a big mood to do so, I am going to share it with all of yours (feel free to reblog with your thoughts, I'd love to read about all of those)

First of all, I take myself as a bullying survivor for being Plus Size since I was always surrounded by 'classmates' whom really liked to put me down by telling me things like "You're so fat that it makes you being a dumb" or "We won't befriend someone who seems like a whale".

Well, I always tried my best to handle all of those things since it always left harms in my heart since I've never made friends until my last Middle school year I guess.

Everyone was always looking at me and judging me, in a way that the only friends I made since the beggining were the janitors (whom I hug and kiss until nowadays 'cause I love them) and the teachers that felt like parents towards me.

I've never had strenght to tell my parents what I was going into at school since I always had fear of them yelling at me for not being strong or anything else, so I endured it all alone.

One of the worstest things that happened in my middle school used to happen most on english classes (that used to always being about verb 'to be' 😂😧) when I was at the time the only one in the class whom everyone knew that could speak english (even though at that time my english pretty basic if I compare nowadays), the most common thing they used to ask me was things like "How it is 'can' in english?", and filled by the anger of those bullies asking me for help, I simply wrote on their notebooks "Cum", they were like "But it wouldn't be 'can'" and I "No, it is truly 'cum'". No need to say I had to control my laugh as I saw the teacher looking at their notebooks. Oh my, that was like tasting honey through my mouth 😂😂

Another thing that I used to do was that two years remaining for me to graduating from Middle School, the school's library finally opened for the students, and me, as someone who always used to devour books instead of simply reading (I read Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban in 9 hours by one day at my first time since the movie is my fav from all the series) and with that I always managed to enter the library (even when it was supposed to be closed) to take a book without nobody noticing, reading it through the class day, and returning it without no one noticing me.

Until one day I was reading 'Hugo Cabret' next to the Sports Court, when one of my bullies simply ripped off the book from my hands right when the school's coordinator was walking in front of me, and telling him I took that without allowance.

I know I was wrong about taking books with nobody watching, but I used to do it simply because I loved to read but also because when I was reading (and when I read) I feel like I am out of the real world as I am getting evem deeper in those universes.By reading you simply travel to another state,country,planet and by the ocean without leaving the comfort of your bed and that is just amazing and one of the bests feelings I have ❤

[nightfoliage]

Fic - Trick, Treat, or Change

Series: Gravity Falls

Pairing: Stanford Pines/Stanley Pines - Stancest

For: @wannabeagrunklefan

Prompt: Ford and Stan’s first Halloween together after the finale.

Prompts for @a-stancest-halloween (traditional category): Candy flavored kisses, pumpkins and jack o lanterns, Halloween on the Stan o War, Trick or Treat

Tags: incest, twincest, canon verse, third person, mostly Ford’s POV, unreliable narrator, injuries and description of injuries, amnesia, selective amnesia, lies of omissions, Halloween, Pines Family, extended family and friends, gratuitous amount of emotions, fluff, romance, kissing, tropes tropes tropes, A Stancest Halloween

Word Count ~16.3k

Summary: It’s like a dream come true on the Stan o’ War. Stan and Ford are having the time of their lives; having action packed adventures, traveling to unknown lands, and discovering anomalies together.

But when the adventures end, they find themselves unsure what to do with themselves. They haven’t lived together or talked to each other in years and it shows with every awkward silence.

Then October rolls around and Stan bring a blast from the past. They decide to celebrate Halloween like they’re kids again. Suddenly they’re getting along and are closer than ever. Ford’s enjoying all these changes and the celebrations. Stan is really going to town with all these very familiar Halloween traditions...

Author’s Note: I had a lot a lot of fun with this one, but it was a pain to edit. It’s a whopping 50 page oneshot. If you enjoy the fic, let me know. I was considering doing one from Stan’s POV. Hope you guys enjoy~

Read below or on ao3:

“Pines! Pines! Pines!”

The kraken swings a tentacle in their direction, but it’s too late, their boat is sailing off into the distance. The creature makes a truly dreadful croaking sound, but the Stan’s are already laughing it up. They wind their arms around each other’s shoulders and cheer even with the wind and the waves crashing against them.

The boat swings dangerously towards the water and they break apart to man the ship. Ford goes to steer while Stan controls the sail. They work in tandem with each other, easily navigating the rough waters.

There are a few close waves, but they eventually break out of the storm into calm waters. The rain clouds are behind them and they can see the stars. The starlight shines brilliantly against the night sky and reflect against the water.

Then Stan breaks into a yawn, which causes Ford to break into a yawn.

They chuckle and start slapping each other’s backs before getting to their nightly routines. They set the anchor down and start folding the sail. Then they enter the cabin.

Stan immediately starts stripping and piles his wet clothes in the corner for later. He snags some water, then he strides off towards the bathroom.

Ford frowns at the mess.

“Stan, I’m going to throw your clothes outside!” Ford hollars after him.

Stan makes a positive sound, which makes Ford sigh. It was supposed to be a threat not a favor. Maybe Stan could endure salt crusted clothing, but Ford been on the run for enough years that he was going to enjoy having clean clothes after an adventure.

Instead of tossing Stan’s clothes out like he threatened, Ford scoops them up so he can hang them up to dry. Then he takes off his jacket and his shoes and puts those aside. He can deal with those later after chronicling their latest adventure. Pulling his latest journal out, he starts writing about their encounter. It was always best to write things down while the events were fresh.

Meanwhile, Stan heats up the water in the tank and makes sure to drink his water. He takes out just enough hot water to wipe himself off and to rinse himself. He doesn’t like roughing it, but old habits die hard. Even the word “rationing” makes Stan want to start to counting their money. Instead he takes inventory of their pantry everyday and keeps the showers to a minimum.

Once he’s clean and dry he goes out to the kitchen to heat up some hot soup for them before they go to sleep.

Then he spots Ford.

The man is still in his wet clothes for pete's sake! All twelve of his fingers must be going blue and Stan bets that Ford hadn’t even hydrated. They were miles and miles away from shore. What would happen if Ford got sick?

To add insult to injury, the thing that grabbed Ford’s attention is one of those dang journals. Didn’t those things cause enough trouble?

Stan goes over to the table and snatches the journal.

“Hey! The ink wasn’t dry!” Ford cries out.

“The ink wasn’t dry,” Stan snorts. Before Ford can protest, Stan manhandles his brother out of his chair, then out of his wet clothes, and pushes him into the shower.

Ford grumbles the whole time, but goes about taking a shower when he realizes the water is hot.

In the meantime, Stan hangs up his brother’s clothing then heats up vegetable soup for the two of them. It’s one of the recipes Mabel and Dipper sent over, which means it has plenty of fiber, is easy to eat without his dentures, but flavorful enough that Stan won’t complain about eating old people food. He waters it down. It’ll last longer and they’ll get more water this way.

When it’s heating, Stan’s attention is brought back to the journal on the table.

He sighs and turns it towards him. A picture of the Kraken looks out from the page at him. Stan admires the picture. It’s a great rendition and the story will be a hit with the kids. He gently brushes a finger against one of the tentacles and his fingers come back black. Stan frowns. The ink really wasn’t dry.

Keeping an eye on the soup, Stan gently blows on the page until the image is dry. He double checks the rest of the pages, also dry, then gently shelves the journal along with the others.

In the other room, Ford is enjoying his shower. The hot water is heavenly and he makes sure to use his favorite soap and loofah. He lets the water wash his previous irritation with Stan away and indulges in thinking about what adventure the two of them will have next.

When he’s finally done and dry he goes to get dressed in their room.

Ford lightly shivers. It was probably a good idea to take a hot shower after the cold rain.

He shivers again and rubs his arms. Or maybe the boat was getting cold. It wasn’t summer anymore, they were well into September and they were traveling pretty far north.

He puts on another layer and grabs a layer for Stan. Then he starts the heater. Ford’s coming off the adrenaline and it isn’t long before they both crash. Stan in particular has worries about the cold, so Ford points the heater towards Stan’s bed.

When Ford goes into the kitchen, Stan has already doled out soup for the both of them. He tosses the jacket to Stan, who puts it on.

They’re both exhausted and crashing from their high so they eat in silence.

Or maybe that’s just on Stan’s end, because Ford would love to talk about the kraken, but Stan has already put away his journal. Sometimes Ford can get passionate about the journals, so he can understand why Stan might want some quiet time before bed.

Unbeknownst to Ford, Stan is having similar thoughts. Stan wants to ask how the soup is so he can report back to the kids. And he wouldn’t mind staying up longer, but Ford seems a little subdued. Maybe he’s still sour about Stan putting away the journal.

After they finish their meal they quietly get ready for bed. They settle in for the night. The room is warm, their bellies are full, and it’s quiet. The conditions are perfect for sleeping, however neither of them do.

Instead, Ford is perfectly still, turned away from his brother, pretending to sleep. He keeps his breathing even and silent because he doesn’t want to disturb Stan.

Stan is turning and adjusting every few moments, trying to get comfortable. His breathing is a bit heavy, but the movement and the sound isn’t very different from his resting state.

Neither of them talk to each other even though they desperately want to.

-000-

Ford and Stan have a few more adventures that go perfectly (depending on your definition of perfect). The important thing is that they’re the best of partners and manage to get through every obstacle whole and alive.

However, they’re still working on being civil to each other in their downtime. Often times, they avoid each other. One is outside while the other is indoor, or they’re in different areas of the deck, or they try not to be in the same with each other besides when they sleep or talk to the kids.

It’s tiring and when they find themselves restocking at a port city, they make excuses to separate from each other.

When Ford is out of range, Stan calls Mabel and Dipper. He opts out of calling them face to face, instead only leaving the audio on.

“Grunkle Stan!” Mabel shrieks into the phone.

“Hey, Grunkle Stan!” Dipper says, just enthusiastically but not as loud.

It makes Stan chuckle and smile. Totally worth the loss of hearing. “Hey, kids! I had a few minutes so I wanted to call.”

Immediately Mabel and Dipper fill in their uncle about the going ons in their lives. Middle school is both simultaneously the greatest and the worstest (Mabel’s exact words). The worstest, because of puberty, cliques, and they’re in separate classes all the time (on purpose, the school tries to separate twins). But the greatest because unlike elementary, there are tons of people and they’ve found their respective niches in school.

Luckily, their new friends are cool enough to accept Dipper and Mabel’s close relationship. They’ve gotten more friends out of it as a result.

“So what about you, Grunkle Stan? What’s shaking?” Mabel asks when they’ve finally exhausted the topic of school.

Well, Stan was hoping being on a boat together would solve all of his problems with his brother, but apparently even the Stan o’ War can’t produce miracles.

Instead, Stan talks about teenage appropriate adventures for the twins. However, he makes the mistake of mentioning the soup.

“Oh yeah, Ford and I tried the soup recipe. It was great,” Stan says off-handedly. He’s staring at some potential provisions for the boat.

“You liked it? How about Grunkle Ford? Was there enough fiber?” Dipper asks.

“Uh...” Now that he thinks about it, Ford never mentioned whether or not he liked the soup. And he never did ask.

Well, a small fib couldn’t hurt them.

“Oh, he thought it was great, and a great source of nutrition,” Stan says.

There, that was something Ford would say.

“Can I talk to him? He had some strong opinions on the necessity of onions, but I thought it might be okay if they were cooked instead of raw,” Dipper goes on.

“Yeah! You there, Grunkle Ford?” Mabel pipes in.

Stan mentally curses.

“Sorry kids, he can’t come to the phone,” Stan says.

“Can’t come to the phone? Is he okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, he’s fine. We just aren’t shopping together.”

There’s silence from the other end. Then the twins start whispering quietly enough that Stan can’t pick up their words.

Mabel speaks first: “Are you two fighting, Grunkle Stan?”

“What? No,” Stan automatically says.

“Are you sure, Grunkle Stan? Everything’s okay between you and Grunkle Ford?” This time, Dipper is the one to pose the question.

Stan hesitates, which was probably the worst thing he could do. The kids could smell blood in the water.

“Ah ha!” Mabel exclaims loudly into the receiver. “Grunkle Stan! Just tell us what’s wrong!”

“There’s nothing wrong between the nerd and I,” Stan says.

“If there’s nothing wrong, then why are you so defensive?” Dipper asks, while Mabel makes a noise of agreement.

There’s nothing wrong with him and Ford, it’s just not going right.

“You know, Grunkle Stan,” Dipper starts, “If there’s something I’ve learned over this summer it’s that talking things out can solve a lot of problems.”

“Yeah! And that you shouldn’t assume everything is okay,” Mabel adds.

“Oh, and you should definitely not keep secrets that could affect the fate of the world from your twin. That’s a big one,” Dipper says quite sagely.

“And if worse comes to worse, just hug it out!” Mabel finishes.

“Yeah, that couldn’t hurt to try,” Dipper agrees.

“We’ll see, kids,” Stan says, not agreeing or promising them anything.

Luckily, they do not call him out on his ambiguous statement. They let him change the subject to another adventure. Then they talk a bit more before hanging up.

The world is suddenly silent after the call ends. He doesn’t allow himself to wallow in the silence, instead he considers the twins’ advice. If there was anyone that knew how to work out twin problems, Mabel and Dipper would be the ones to ask. And their advice was sound: talking through things, don’t assume, don’t keep secrets, and hugging it out.

Stan has to blink a few times to stop himself from getting emotional. He’s proud of these kids. They’ve grown so much since they first came to Gravity Falls, they’ve become so brave and smart.

He just doesn’t know if he can do the same.

After all, the root of the issue is that everything is perfect. He’s living the dream. Going on adventures with Ford on the Stan o’ War was everything he ever wanted. Hell, he’s gotten more than what he ever dreamed of: a family and a great place he can call home.

So maybe the root of the problem is just Stan and the fact that he’s in love with his twin and wants more.

-000-

“I don’t know what it is, Fiddleford. There’s this tension between us that just doesn’t dissipate,” Ford explains.

Apparently, Ford and Stan had the same idea. While Stan was restocking and talking to the kids, Ford was restocking and calling Fiddleford. (Although he and Fiddleford were repairing their friendship, Ford found talking to a fellow colleague about his issues much less embarrassing than talking to his niblings. At least Fiddleford was a good sport about listening to his problems.)

“What kind of tension, Ford?” Fiddleford asked.

“I don’t know how to describe it. We work together perfectly, we have each other’s backs, we practically read each other’s minds! I’ve never had a better partner- oh, I mean-”

“It’s fine, Ford. I get that you and Stan are twins. You have a relationship that is unique. There’s not much that can match that, I understand,” Fiddleford says.

Ford lets out a sigh of relief. They haven't gotten around to talking about their past partnership. Fiddleford doesn’t remember all of it and Ford was possessed for more time than he would care to admit.

“How about we try something, Ford? Instead of thinking of the now, what about the future? What do you want to change about your guys’ relationship?”

Ford thinks of his journals and their adventures.

“I’ll go first,” Fiddleford starts.

Ford’s lucky that Fiddleford’s leading this conversation and that he knows what he’s talking about. The man has always been the people person out of the two of them.

“I’m glad to be living with my son, Tate again. We’re reconnecting. However, I’ve been away for so long, not myself for so long, that he hasn’t relied on me for anything for years…”

That sounded familiar.

And it sounded like a good idea…

“Now your turn, Ford. And you can’t use what I said.”

Damn.

“Well...” Ford didn’t know where he was going with this. He started with their most recent interactions. “It would be nice if Stan stopped draping his wet clothes everywhere.”

“Go on,” Fiddleford encourages. His voice is very non judgemental and Ford feels himself relaxing.

“He could take better care of himself.” Then Ford thinks back to Stan slamming his journals shut. “And if he has a issue with things he should be able to tell me.”

“What else?”

“I think that’s the biggest problem,” Ford thinks of all the time they spend in silence around each other. “We’re just not talking to each other. It’s not like how things used to be.”

“Stanford…” Fiddleford’s voice is gentle and Ford is almost afraid to hear what the man will say next. “From what you’ve told me, not talking was an issue you two had in the beginning.”

Ah yes, the science fair experiment. Maybe if they had just talked- no. They had started down different paths even before that tragedy.

“I think that you two should talk,” Fiddleford suggestions.

Ford made a pained noise into the phone.

Fiddleford chuckled.

“At the very least, how about trying to be friendly again?”

That was a little more doable. They were best friends before when they had lived together for years. Maybe living together again would rekindle things.

“Thanks, old friend. The advice is appreciated,” Ford says after a sigh.

“Why all you have to do is ask,” Fiddleford teases.

Ford snorts. “Are you sure you aren’t helping me because you love gossip? How’s the town, know everybody’s business now?”

Fiddleford mock gasps. “Why Stanford Pines, how could you accuse me of such a thing.”

“Quite easily, Fiddleford,” Ford says. “Thank you.”

“Well, you’ve learned how to say thank you, talking and getting along with your brother will be as easy as pie,” Fiddleford says.

Ford chuckles, “I suppose it could be.”

Unable to take anymore discussion about feelings, Ford segues into their most recent scientific discoveries. Fiddleford allows it and they chat about their recent projects. Ford focuses on the adventures instead of the creatures (Fiddleford was never interested in them and now had negative associations with them), and Fiddleford tells him about all the inventions that he’s made within the last week (over a dozen). Fiddleford also keeps him appraised about the town. Everybody seems to be doing well. Soon Ford and Stan will receive their own update from Soos and Wendy.

Finally, they end their call.

Ford is glad to have a friend like Fiddleford. That man was the most well-adjusted soul he ever met, and that including the Old Man McGucket personality.

Ford ponders Fiddleford’s advice, slowly reviewing their conversation. In conclusion, Ford decides that the only course of action is to try and get along with his brother.

Talking about their feelings, getting everything out in the open, admitting his feelings, well, that can wait.

-000-

In the end, neither of them get the chance to talk.

When they leave port it starts raining everyday. Each day is wet and gloomy and neither Ford nor Stan feel like doing anything but trying to stay dry and warm. They talk about going back to land, but decide to tough it out. A little rain never killed anyone.

Then the storm rolls in.

One moment they’re asleep in their beds, the next moment Ford finds himself falling out of bed while Stan finds himself pressed against the wall.

They scramble to get dressed and run outside. Bad idea. The door barely opens because they’re being battered in all directs by the wind. They force the door open and see their boat in the middle of a hurricane.

“HOW DID WE NOT NOTICE A HURRICANE!” Stan yells so he can be heard over the roar of water and wind.

“IT DOESN'T LOOK NATURAL!” Ford yells back.

“NO KIDDING!”

They both hustle to make sure their sail doesn’t get ripped off by the wind. After that’s done, they go and secure the rest of the deck.

Then things start to get weird.

“Is that a fucking face in the clouds?” Stan swears. They’re roped together for safety, now within hearing distance of each other. Unfortunately they need to stay outside to make sure the boat doesn’t capsize.

“It’s an illusion in the clouds- oh that is a face.”

Something inhuman peeks out from out of the clouds, lightning surrounding its features. The face is round and storm cloud grey with large round eyes and a large grin. It is gigantic and their small boat doesn’t even register to such a giant.

Lighting cracks down from the sky and rain continues to pelt them as the wind tosses them around.

Then the lightning arcs across the water.

“What the-“

Then droplets start to fly across their vision.

“Oh no,” Ford manages to say before he starts to cling to the ship.

The anomaly is starting to affect gravity.

Ford immediately reaches for Stan, who reaches back.

Ford tells himself that they’re tied together, that they’re holding each other, that it’s only a storm they have to weather through. This is nothing like the portal.

His body starts to lift of the ship.

He hates gravity anomalies.

Until this event is over, he won’t let go of Stan.

Their boat get pulls in every direction and the end up in the eye of the storm. Thunder continuously cracks and booms around them, while the lightning seems to be coming from all directions. It’s not just coming from the sky but from the air and the water.

They hold onto the boat for dear life and manage to wrap their arms around each other. Only the rope from the sail and their combined weight is holding them down.

The winds and rain are beating against their back, practically blinding them but out of the corner of Ford’s eyes he spies a bolt of lightning streak closer to them.

Ford pales. He thinks of the metal plate in his skull. It’s only a matter of time before he’s hit.

“We’re getting out of here!” Stan yells.

He starts to move and Ford clings to him.

“Hold onto the rope!” Stan yells and moves to let go.

Ford grabs onto the rope (which is attached to Stanley, he hasn’t let go of him yet), as Stan maneuvers to the cabin so they can get inside.

The boat jolts and Ford finds himself thrown upward. He’s still holding onto the rope as Stan yells his name.

The lightning is closer now and any moment he’ll be hit.

The rope becomes slack in his hands and he tries to twist towards Stan. He can see Stan, see that he’s approaching Ford now. He hopes Stan doesn’t slip off the boat, because he’s not in the position to save him.

Then he feels himself move in a different direction.

Another gravity change?

The rope is now tight in his hands and he’s moving. It’s Stan, reeling him in.

Wait, he’s not pulling him in, he’s actually using himself as a pivot to spin Ford towards the cabin.

Gravity changes again and instead of floating, Ford finds himself starting to move through the air. His body starts spinning and he can’t maneuver himself. He stops when his body hits something solid. He hisses at the pain, but doesn’t let go of the rope. Instead he curls in on himself, trying to protect himself as he slams into something else when the gravity changes again.

Eventually, the gravity shifts stop and Ford finds himself on solid ground. He takes a moment to catch his breath. Every part of him is cold and numb and everything that isn’t, hurts to hell. Ford forces himself to flex his fingers which makes him groan in pain when he realizes they’re smushed against the floor and his body.

Luckily, he is still holding onto the rope.

Ford manages to tug up on it and feels a weight at the end. There’s an answering tug back.

Ford wants to laugh in relief. He’s glad he didn’t let go.

The pain from his fingers makes him roll onto his back where he spasms and gasps in pain. His whole back is on fire, but he can’t move, can only let his body tremble to relieve the sensation.

After what feels like eons, Ford curls in on himself. It brings him some relief, brings back that numb sensation and Ford feels his mind slowly lower into itself and he drifts off...

-000-

Ford feels himself sit up and start hacking. He’s not getting enough oxygen, but his body doesn’t want to breath. Instead his body wants to spit out all the phlegm and god-awful water that’s blocking his throat. He takes a few shuddery gasps before he’s forced to start coughing again. His throat burns and his head hurts, but even more terrible is how sore he is. Every forceful movement is hell on his body and he clutches at himself trying to get a hold of himself.

After coughing up what feels like the whole damn ocean, Ford manages to breath normally.

He takes his time to simply breath.

He would collapse into himself except he knows that will only bring him more pain. He sways and he tries to steady himself.

Ford hisses when his hands hit the floor. His hands are on fire, but the ground is cool and brings him some relief. After cooling them, he manages to unglue his eyes open. Surprisingly his glasses are still on his face, but the lenses are terribly smudged. There’s no energy left in him to clean them so he sweeps them above his head. Then he squints at his hands.

They’re red and raw, with deep indents in them.

He hadn’t even noticed the pain when he was holding the rope-

Stan!

Ford scrambles up and attempts to tugs on the rope. Unfortunately he finds his balance has left him and he walks sideways until his side meets a wall.

He swallows a curse and uses the wall to keep himself upright.

Then he notices that he’s actually in the cabin. Stan’s maneuver worked. He ended up inside.

The rope trails outside onto the deck.

There hasn’t been an answering tug.

The thought of Stan lying unconscious while he’s safe inside-

Ford manages to gather his strength and slowly makes his way out. Despite the terrible rope burns, he grabs the rope again and starts following it to its end.

The sun is too bright when he leaves the safety of the cabin and he squints, willing his eyes to adjust faster.

There’s a low groan in front of him which spurs Ford forward.

There’s Stan, alive, sitting up, and groaning.

“Stan,” Ford rasps. The words sends him into another coughing frenzy. Not again, not when he’s so close.

“Ford,” Stan says.

Ford tries to answer, but he can’t stop coughing.

“Ford.”

Stan sounds closer now and more urgent. Ford manages to calm his coughs into gentle wheezing with gasping breaths when he feels a familiar hand grasp his arm.

“I’m fine,” Ford manages to say. Luckily his coughing seems to have abated.

Stan grasps at him desperately and maneuvers so his rubbing Ford’s back

Finally Ford gets a good look at Stan.

He looks terrible. His whole body is hunched and one of his arms is dangling next to his side. There are deep bags under his eyes and his nose is crooked, there’s even blood on his face. He must have broken his nose. His hair is messy, but luckily that’s it.

Burned hair would have been a clear indicator that Stan had taken a lightning strike meant for him. He’ll have to do a more in depth examination later, but at least his biggest worry had been abated.

“You look like shit. Good thing I’m the good looking twin,” Stan says, a quirk to his lips. Trust him to be able to find humor in such a situation.

Ford finds himself chuckling anyway. “Well, you were never the smart one,” he answers.

“Heh, that’s for sure,” Stan says. “Come on, let’s go back in.”

Stan uses his good arm to help support Ford. He doesn’t protest this time, he’ll probably return the favor all too soon.

They somehow make their way into the bedroom where they shed their clothes and collapse into bed. They fall asleep immediately.

-000-

Ford wakes up feeling like a giant bruise.

Unfortunately it’s a familiar feeling and Ford manages to get up slowly, but easily. He fumbles around for his glasses and his hands meet something warm.

Stan.

Ford freezes.

Stan doesn’t move and instead continues to doze unperturbed. Ford gingerly removes himself from the bed.

Ford comes to the conclusion that they must have collapsed in Stan’s bed together. No wonder he can’t find his glasses. He finds them, cleans them, and puts them on.

Now he can see Stanley more clearly. His brother is turned away from him and he’s greeted with the sight of Stan’s back. Ford winces, Stan’s back is mottled purple and red from bruises. They make Stan’s burn stand out even brighter; silvery burned skin against dark bruises.

The sight makes Ford want to reach out and trace the lines of the burn.

Just lifting his hand out of the covers makes him shiver. He’s still undressed. First he tucks the blankets around Stan’s shoulder, then he grabs some clean clothes. There’s salt crusting on his skin, but he can take a shower later. Food and drink first, hygiene second.

Ford starts the kettle and looks into the fridge for something to heat up. There’s chili and cornbread in the fridge, one of Stan’s favorites.

Ford’s stomach rumbles at the thought of hot chili and warm cornbread. He starts heating them up when he hears a soft beeping noise.

Oh, its the communication device that Fiddleford made so that they could communicate at sea. The kids must have tried to call them. He checks the calendar and spots that they must have missed a call with them. Ford feels and probably looks like a giant bruise, but the kids would worry. Ford and Stan almost never missed a call. He finishes setting up the food and calls them back.

“Grunkle Ford,” Mabel whispers.

“Hi, Grunkle Ford,” Dipper says, just as softly.

“Hello, Mabel. Hello, Dipper.” How odd that they would be so subdued. They were normally quite rowdy.

“Are you okay? You’re calling pretty late,” Dipper asks.

“Yeah, you also look terrible, although I guess that could be the lighting,” Mabel says squinting at the camera.

The lights are off. Ford didn’t realize because he’s gotten used to gritty darkness and they do their best to save on electricity on the boat. Then he realizes how dark it is on the kids’ side. Oh, he must have called the kids in the middle of the night, his early morning. Well, they’re awake so it would be a waste not to talk.

“I just woke up,” Ford says in way of explanation. “Stan and I had a rather invigorating adventure.

“But we called yesterday, were you sleeping for a whole day?” Mabel asks, worry in her voice. Dipper now takes a moment to try and stare at him through the screen.

“I suppose we did sleep the day away,” Ford answers. He’ll have to check the clock to see if that’s true, but he’ll try to act nonchalant about it. “Anyways, why don’t you two give me a quick update and then it’s off to bed.”

Thankfully, they give him the benefit of the doubt and drop the subject. They chatter on about school, giving him updates and telling him that he and Stan should call Soos and Wendy. Ford manages to keep the conversations short and promises to call them again soon with Stan. Soon they’re ending the call with ‘I miss you’s.’

When the call ends, Ford sits back in his chair. The kettle starts to whistle but he doesn’t get up just yet.

“What are you making?”

Ford jumps. It’s Stan, he’s finally awake. Other than the bruises and the sleepiness he looks to be in good shape.

“Let me get that,” Ford says and offers Stan his seat. Surprisingly, Stan goes along with it and sits.

Ford quickly dishes the chili and cornbread, as well as some hot cocoa (another present from Mabel). They have a quiet meal together. Afterwards they do the dishes and go back to sleep.

This is their pattern for a few days: eating, resting, and sleeping. Ford does his best to give Stan some space to recover and use the time alone to think about ways to recover their relationship. He’s comfortable like this, but not satisfied.

Stan uses his time to, well, Ford’s not exactly sure. Maybe he’s using the time to talk to the kids and their friends? Ford found him staring at the calendar one day. He must have hated missing the kids’ call. Stan loves talking to them with or without Ford.

They continue like that, resting, making sure to recover until it all comes to a head.

-000-

“Ford!”

Ford jumps up from his bed and immediately whips his gun towards the door. Stan miraculously disarms him easily and puts the gun elsewhere. Then he shoves Ford’s glasses on his face.

“Look!”

Ford blinks a few times and rubs his eyes.

In front of him are some pancakes.They’re an alarming shape of orange although the pumpkin drawn on them is adorable. It smiles at him and Ford feels himself smile back.

“Thanks, Stan. I’ll eat these in the kitchen?” Ford makes a move to get up, but Stan presses him back into bed with surprising strength. Huh.

Stan hands him a glass of milk before throwing himself into the bed so he’s pressed up against Ford. Ford makes room for him as Stan grabs a pancake and starts to eat messily. He lounges and looks so at home that Ford can’t bring himself to complain about the lack of room and inevitable crumbs on his bed.

“It’s fine, stay in bed and eat,” Stan says around a mouthful of pancake. He grins and his teeth are now orange.

Ford snorts and tries not to think about the fact that he’s eating pancakes with his hands. They’re delicious of course and it turns out the drawing was in chocolate. “These are great, but what’s the occasion?” Ford asks.

“Occasion! What’s the occasion!” Stan looks at him like he’s crazy. “It’s October, Sixer! Best time of the year!”

Ford blinks and then finally remembers. Halloween used to be their holiday. Their favorite holiday. The candy, the decorations, the costumes, but more importantly, it celebrated the things that Ford loved best. Back when they were kids, they could enjoy everything supernatural the whole month and no one cared.

Ford didn’t think that Stan still did their old traditions. He was flattered and was actually very happy that Halloween was still so beloved to Stan. It also explains the about-face that Stan was pulling. Not even the awkwardness from over thirty years of being apart can stop Stan from loving something.

“We don’t have to celebrate the whole month. I mean, we’re on a boat, Stan,” Ford says, trying to give him an out. Just one day of Halloween fun was good enough for Ford. Trying for the whole month without them fighting was pushing it.

“Come on, Sixer! We’re finally having adventures on the Stan o’ War and you don’t want to celebrate Halloween?” Stan nudges him with a mischievous grin on his face. “Come on, action and adventure is great and all, but you can’t forget about celebrating the holidays.”

Ford takes a bite of the pancake to give himself some time, although Stan isn’t waiting on his answer. Stan seems content in relaxing and bed with Ford and getting crumbs everywhere, just like old times. The return to their past selves is what convinces Ford. He missed this.

“Okay, I’m convinced.” Not that Ford needed much convincing. “Let the month of Halloween begin.”

“Yes! Ha! I’ll go plot a route back to land so we can pick up supplies.” Stan stuffs a final pancake in his mouth and dashes out the door.

Ford stares after him and hears an alarming amount of noise that shouldn't be associated with navigation. However, he stays put and finishes his pancakes and his milk (the milk was the perfect accompaniment to the pancakes). Stan knows his way around the boat, he could plot a course just fine.

In the meantime, Ford would get dressed and check his gun. Then he would fix the door. It looks like his brother kicked it down.

He grins. It would be like old times.

-000-

Overnight, Stan livened up their boat with Halloween decorations. There are paper bats and pumpkins on the walls. Anything of theirs that is black and orange is in the forefront. They’ve received some cat shaped nick knacks from Mabel, which have been set out. He’s taken some of their extra netting to make spider webs and Ford spots a jack o’ lantern face on their sail.

Ford makes sure to point out each Halloween item and praises Stan for his creativity. Stan waves him away but is grinning from ear to ear.

It’s beyond what Ford and he has to admit, it cheers him up more than he thought was possible.

They spend hours discussing potential Halloween activities that they can do on a boat. They can do movies, tell ghost stories, do a test of courage, and looks for classic Halloween creatures. But Stan doesn't stop there, he says that it wouldn’t be Halloween without some of the classics so they're off to land to grab some costumes, pumpkins, and candy.

The talk well into the night about how to fit every Halloween related activity possible.

Even when they get into bed, they continue to talk. However, it’s not long before Stan falls asleep. Ford lets him, he had obviously been awake for a long time to put up all the decorations. Ford isn’t even sure Stan can be woken up when he’s sleeping like this: sprawled with his limbs everywhere, snoring away. Stan hasn’t slept like this recently.

Ford quietly gets up from his bed to tuck the blankets under Stan’s chin. Then he heads back to his own bed to get some sleep. It’s difficult, he’s excited about their plans, but eventually he too falls asleep.

-000-

The bad weather seems to follow them and they won’t be able to get back to land for a few days at least.

That doesn’t dampen Stan’s spirits. Instead he scrounges up some fruits and sugar to make ‘candied apples.’

In reality he takes whatever fruit he can find, a rather beaten up apple, some plums, an orange, and dips them in some melted sugar. Then he draws on them with chocolate, cute cartoony black cats and bats and ghosts.

The fruit falls apart at the first bite, and it’s a delicious mess. Stan gets it all over his face, although Ford can’t eat them without getting messy either. He ends up licking his fingers in between bites.

At one point, Stan points at one of the fruit in particular. “Check this one out, Ford.”

Ford looks, but doesn’t see anything unusual about the picture.

Then he feels something warm and wet press against his face.

“Stan!” Ford yelps. Did Stan just lick his face?

Stan waggles his eyebrows and his tongue at Ford. “You’re getting it all over yourself, Sixer.” Then he licks his fingers and goes to wipe Ford’s face again.

Ford bats his hand away.

“Hygiene, Stanley,” he snaps, embarrassed. Luckily, Stan takes no offense and snickers at him while Ford wipes his face. Ford balls up the towel he was using and throws is at Stan, hitting him in the face. “You need this more than me,” he quips.

Stan wipes his face and then tries to whip him with the towel. Ford dodges and uses the table to separate them.

Stan considers the table and then jumps right over it.

They tussle, using all of their wits to make the other concede without messing with the ship. Stan manages to get Ford in a headlock and gives him a gentle noogie. Ford could easily break out of it, but he doesn’t want to hurt Stan. Instead, he lets Stan ruffle his hair.

“Okay, I give,” Ford says with a laugh.

Stan laughs with him and lets him go.

They continue to snicker and laugh as Stan continues to make sweets. He makes more candied fruit that are bite sized and spins the remaining sugar into candies.

Along with the candy, Stan has panned a scary story night. They bundle up and create a makeshift tent against the cabin to block out the worst of the cold. They bring in hot drinks and the leftover candy to munch on. Stan grabs some candles to create the proper ‘atmosphere.’

Amused, Ford goes along with it. Between the light from the stars and the soft light from the candles the atmosphere is anything but spooky. In fact, it’s very comfortable and inviting inside their tent. A great way to enjoy their boat.

“Okay, okay, so I’ll start,” Stan says as soon as they settle. He brings a candle underneath him, trying to be scary, but all it does is cast a glow across his face while the stars illuminate his back.

“It was a normal night, dark and cold and wet, but to the people of a town called Glass Shard Beach, this was nothing new. They slept peacefully not knowing that in the ocean next to them something spooky was brewing…”

Ford settles in for the night as Stan tells the tale. He takes a sip of his drink, letting himself enjoy the story. It’s one he’s heard before, a Glass Shard classic, but it’s the first time he’s ever heard it in Stan’s gravelly tones.

Stan is a great storyteller, building the suspense with every word. Ford oohs and gasps at the right moment even though he knows what’s coming.

When Stan ends the story, Ford claps for him.

“You’re supposed to be scared out of your wits after a scary story, not clapping. I guess the story wasn’t that scary,” Stan says with a shrug. “Why don’t you tell one next?”

Ford makes a ‘hm’ noise and considers his options, “Well, there’s the Jersey Devil, Bigfoot, Mothman-”

“No, no. The Sea Creature story was just a warm-up,” Stan interrupts. “Why don’t you tell a really scary story.”

Falling silent, Ford racks his brain for an appropriate tale. There are a couple that he’s heard in college that would be sufficiently scary and unlikely for Stan to have encountered. But Ford doesn’t want to recycle old material. Stan’s story was fine because it was nostalgic and started the night on a fun note. Now Ford needed a highly original, quality tale.

“Alright,” Ford says aloud, choice in mind. “This is a tale from one of the many alternate universes I visited.”

“You mean…”

“That’s right. This one’s true.

Stan falls silent and frowns. Then he scoots closer so that they’re sitting next to each other, instead of across. Ford moves so that they’re comfortably pressed up against each other. The contact makes it easier for Ford to speak.

“In a far away galaxy…” Ford starts.

Stan gently nudges Ford for that start. Ford grins and continues, the words coming out even easier.

“In a galaxy far far away, I found myself stranded on a terrible planet. Bill’s minions and bounty hunters had chased me through many galaxies and universes, but I managed to lose them. I soon found out why, the surface was uninhabitable to many creatures but below its surface were caverns stretching miles.

“Civilizations and cities all lived in these caves, but the systems stretched for miles further than the people could ever touch. They spanned an impossible distance and these labyrinths were too dangerous to explore.

“My hosts had…”

Ford falters for a moment. The leaders of the city he had been living with had threatened to turn in the bounty. He had felt like he had no choice but to go along with their request. It left a sour taste in his mouth at the thought. Maybe that was a detail he could forgo.

“...pleaded to me to become their champion. And from that day it was decided that I would be the one to conquer the labyrinths.

“The caves were enormous and each turn was deadlier than the next. I encountered every form of wildlife and plantlife that the planet had to offer. I solved puzzles and mazes, seeing places that have never been seen by civilized eyes. I encountered things that would be considered anomalies on that planet and with my wits managed to beat each one.”

Ford continues describing each encounter. In the beginning he had been optimistic, not realizing the scope of his task. Then when he had journeyed further than anyone had every went before did he realize the monumental task that had been in front of him.

He had almost lost hope and perhaps the desperation of his encounters had been made obvious, because Stan slings an arm over his shoulder. Stan stays silent, allowing Ford to continue without interruption.

The touch bolsters him and Ford is able to continue through his bleak experience. It’s almost easy talking about the planet. He’s not there anymore. He’s not in an underground cave, he’s clearly with Stan in the Stan o War, enjoying the stars, the furthest he could be from that experience.

Finally Ford manages to finish this story.

“After the explosion I had discovered a wonderful resource for the people of that city: a sustainable food source and water. They hailed me as a hero and I left that dimension afterwards,” Ford says.

It had been a lucky and favorable outcome for all. In reality he had tried creating a controlled explosion to facilitate his escape, but had discovered the resources instead. The city people had thanked him with supplies that he could fashion into a dimension travel device. He had left before the leaders could use him again.

It was in the past now.

He looks at Stan who’s looking at him sadly.

“I suppose that wasn’t a very scary story, was it,” Ford says. He mentally curses for ruining scary story night. He should have gone with a college horror story, not trauma from his days in the multiverse.

Stan shrugs and Ford can feel the movement because they’re so close to each other.

“Nah, you were fine,” Stan says. “Sounded lonely, though.”

Ford doesn’t reply.

“How about another story then?” Stan says before launching into another tale. He presses some candy into Ford’s hands and Ford munches on them as he listens to Stan tell the tale.

It’s another classic for them, one of Ford’s favorites. Ford lets himself enjoy the telling the human contact, and the sweets. When Stan reaches the end, Ford realizes it’s not the normal ending, but the alternate one they had written together as children to ensure the monster in the story had a happy ending.

They continue to trade stories and eat candy well into the night.

-000-

Eventually, they get to land. Thank goodness, between the long trip and the sweets they’ve been eating, Ford is surprised they hadn’t developed scurvy. Although he’s enjoying the October treats, he can’t wait to have some fresh fruit and vegetables on the ship.

They make a beeline to a local market and manage to purchase their supplies. In addition to their usual things, Stan picks out a selection of local candies and sugar. (Why were there so many types of sugar?) Ford almost groans, but doesn’t want to burst his brother’s bubble.

They’re doing one last trip when Stan stops at a local produce stand. He points at some gourds and attempts to talk to the shopkeeper about them. Ford rifles through his pockets, missing his trans-dimensional translator, but Stan manages to get through a conversation.

Surprisingly, he leaves empty handed.

“Do you need help translating?” Ford asks.

“Did you see how small those things were? Those aren’t proper jack o’ lantern sizes,” Stan says with a shake of his head. Then he starts heading deeper inland. Ford follows him, curious.

Ford looks back and guesses that they’re only about the size of a fist. “Maybe their harvest wasn’t very successful this year.”

“Nah, it turns out that the shopkeeper grew those themself. The ones in the town fields are bigger. Bigger than my head,” Stan gestures.

Ford raises an eyebrow. Gourds that grew larger than human heads? He supposes that if they were related to pumpkins, then they could grow that large.

“But, he said there’s some local superstition that no one can pick them until they receive some okay from their harvest bigwig,” Stan says.

“Interesting. Maybe they aren’t ripe yet,” Ford offers as way of explanation. The other gourds were awfully small.

“Maybe,” Stan says.

They walk out of the populated areas of the market and into the more rural areas of the town.

“We’re going to steal some gourds, aren’t we.”

“Yup. It’s not Halloween without pumpkins and jack o’ lanterns.”

-000-

Hours later they find themselves hiding face down in the mud. A chill sweeps the air making all the hairs stand up on their bodies, but soon the sensation passes. When the coast is clear they peek out from their hiding place.

Ford smacks Stan and hisses, “Stan, when you said that we needed permission from a bigwig, I thought you meant a human! Not- not a blessing from a harvest deity!”

“Shh, not so loud,” Stan says, pulling him down.

Ford shivers as another chill permeates the air.

It leaves again, but it’ll be back.

“We have to run for the ship,” Stan says. “Here take this.”

Out of the mud, Stan pulls out two gourds as big as his head.

“Where were you hiding those?” Ford says, incredulous.

“Doesn’t matter, let’s go,” Stan says ushering them to their feet.

Ford follows Stan’s lead as the man sneaks through the farm and back towards the boat. At one point he starts to sprint and all Ford can do is follow after him.

When there a ways away Stan starts to cackle madly, raising his prize above his head. He looks like a loon and Ford can’t help but chuckle.

“I am the pumpKING!” He yells.

“They’re gourds, Stan,” Ford says, laughing.

“Ha! Then you can be Ford Gourd,” his brother quips back.

Ford groans. “That's terrible.”

A gust of wind presses against their back, followed by a low hiss.

“Shall we..?”

“Yeah, lets book it.”

They save their teasing. Only after they’ve gotten to the boat, taken off, and are unable to see the shore do they laugh. Stan makes sure to scrub them clean before they go to sleep.

-000-

The next day they carve the pumpkins (gourds).

Ford carves out his symbol in his gourd. No need to do anything unnecessary. Stan carves a surprisingly accurate rendition of the Harvest Bigwig (Stan’s name, not his).

It’s a little too realistic. Once they put a light in its the center they back away from it.

“I’m getting pulled into the gravity of its stare,” Ford says. He is unable to look away.

“Yeesh,” Stan quickly takes the light out.

“Maybe we should just eat that one,” Ford suggests, covering it with a towel.

Stan taps at his chin. Then he takes the towel off. “Let me make some changes.”

He grabs the carving knife and gives the ghost some large eyebrows and a wig. Then he draws a gourd into it’s hand. It’s eyes are still soulless abominations, but now they can laugh it off. Stan looks so proud that Ford doesn’t dare suggest they trash it. They set their pumpkins outside. Hopefully Stan’s will get picked off by a bird.

The seeds they toast and the rest of the gourd Stan makes into pancakes and stew.

They spend the rest of their October days fitting in as many Halloween activities as possible in between adventures. There’s food, a lot of their staples made Halloween themed (Ford’s never smiled at oatmeal before, but somehow Stan made it monster themed). There’s games, most of them low tech, food scraps made into fake people parts, a rather destructive game of pin the tail on the lizardman, and a few short games of D, D, and more D.

And they tell each other more stories.

There are scary stories they’ve heard when they’ve been away from each other, some classics, and ones that they made up themselves.

But sometimes they break out the tent just to talk.

They find themselves talking more often. They talk over meals, when they’re manning the boat, and when they’re in bed trying to sleep. Somehow Stan manages to put their beds together (Ford thought they were mounted to the floor) and they continue to talk until they fall asleep.

He’s always had trouble sleeping (something that’s only gotten worse as the years have gone by), from nightmares disturbing his dreams, to an aching paranoia that keeps him awake at night, but lately it’s gotten better. They talk until they tire and even if Ford wakes up from troubled dreams, watching Stan sleep typically pulls him to sleep.

Finally they decide for Halloween they should find land and maybe join in the festivities. Ford has his reservations, he doesn’t know if they’ll get to land, and he doesn’t think they’re near anyplace that celebrates Halloween like they want to, but Stan says it’s an opportunity to share the holiday. If nothing else, they can dress up, project a movie on the sail, and eat more candy.

Over dinner they’re still talking about their plans, when Ford notices that they’re receiving a call from Dipper and Mabel. He glances at their calendar and notes that this is a scheduled call. Time flew by fast. Normally Stan would be raring to talk to them, but they had been rather busy with Halloween plans.

Ford flips open their communication device and connects with them.

“Grunkle Ford! Grunkle Ford!”

His niblings clamor for his attention and it makes him smile.

“Kids!” He exclaims, returning the favor.

“It’s been way too long!” Mabel yells. “ Ooo, are those Halloween decorations?”

“Anomalies and anatomically correct bats, nice Grunkle Ford,” Dipper says.

Ford chuckles, pleased that the kids noticed. It’s nice that their effort get to be seen by others. He should call Fiddleford and the Mystery Shack as well.

“There are more decorations around the boat,” Ford says.

“Oh! Show us!” Mabel says, Dipper nodding along with her.

Ford carries the device, showing them around the boat. He points out the various decorations while the kids ‘ooo’ and ‘ahh.’ He shows them their tent set-up and promises to send them a picture when the stars are out. He points out their gourds and they immediately ask how they got them.

“Let me get, Stan. He started to the whole thing, he should help tell the story,” Ford says and goes back inside.

“Stan, the kids want to hear about how we got the gourds,” Ford says.

“Sure, you know I’m the better storyteller,” Stan says, putting down what he was working on. “Now who’s my audience for today?”

Stan gives Dipper and Mabel a grin.

Ford frowns.

Dipper and Mabel look nervously at each other.

Eventually, Mabel awkwardly laughs and says, “It’s us, Grunkle Stan. Your favorite niece and nephew.”

Stan looks at them confused. “Niece? Nephew?”

Ford almost drops the device.

Mabel is starting to look upset, when Dipper grabs her hand. “Oh Grunkle Stan, I guess you tell every kid that they’re your favorite, huh?” Dipper says, trying to be as nonchalant as possible. He’s doing well, except for the fact that he’s sweating profusely. “We stayed in Gravity Falls last summer, don’t you remember?”

“Oh! The place where Ford and I lived for awhile. I met you kids there?” Stan asks, brightening at the explanation.

Mabel squeezes her brother’s hand. Dipper laughs, clearly pained. “Yeah, we met at the Mystery Shack.”

“Well, sorry I don’t remember kids, but maybe the story of the PumpKing and Ford Gourd will make up for it,” Stan says. He settles in to tell the story. The kids do their part as the audience and listen intently to him. Luckily Mabel and more importantly Dipper are good enough to keep Stan’s attention, because Ford is speechless.

How does Stan not remember the kids!

Ford has no answers or theories even when Stan is finished with the story. The kids clap for him and thank him. Dipper and Mabel tell them to have a good Halloween and to take care of themselves. Dipper says that they shouldn’t be strangers and call more often. They pointedly look at Ford, as Stan amicably agrees.

When they disconnect, Stan turns to him. “Nice kids. We built a pretty good life in Gravity Falls, didn’t we?”

He isn’t prepared to lie, isn’t prepared to deal with this situation. The kids helped him last time in Gravity Falls, how is he supposed to do this again by himself?

“Yes, you built a great life there, Stan. You don’t remember Dipper and Mabel?” Ford asks.  

Stan’s brows furrow. “No, they seem familiar. I feel terrible for not remembering them. They looked really happy see us.”

“Well, I’m sure they enjoyed the story,” Ford says. “Speaking of stories, how about we forgo tonight’s, I could use the extra rest.”

Stan doesn’t even question the change in topic. “Sure, Ford. Maybe we have been staying up too late lately. We gotta be fresh for Halloween.”

They do their nightly routine and get in bed. Luckily, Stan quickly drifts off to sleep. When Ford is sure that he won’t wake him, he sneaks out of bed and back to the communicator. He sends a call out to the kids. They immediately pick up.

“Grunkle Ford, is everything okay?” Dipper asks.

“What’s wrong with Grunkle Stan?” Mabel asks.

“I don’t know,” Ford admits.

“This calls for an emergency all-call,” Mabel says and slams her hand on the device. The communication device unfolds to reveal two additional screens.

One screen blinks on to reveal a sleepy Fiddleford and worried looking Tate. “This is the first time anyone’s used the emergency function, what’s wrong?”

The other screen turns off to reveal Soos in his pajamas with Melody just waking up in bed next to him. “Dudes! The communicator started freaking out, what happened?”

“Guys, this is an emergency,” Dipper says. The others listen intently to him. “Stan has amnesia again.”

They gasp.

“I’ll call Wendy,” Melody says, disappearing off the screen.

“Stanford, I thought Stan regained all his memories back in Gravity Falls,” Fiddleford says.

“He did,” Ford answers. “I’m sure he did.”

“You guys didn’t accidentally get hit by another memory gun, did you?” Soos asks.

“No, and I don’t understand how this could have happened. He’s been perfectly coherent this whole time. This is the first incident that’s even suggested that he’s had memory issues,” Ford says desperately.

“What about any injuries?” Tate asks.

“Injuries?” Ford echoes.

“Head trauma, full body blows, anything like that,” he elaborates.

Ford stands up, “I’ll be right back.”

He hurries back to the bedroom and quietly sneaks over to Stan. Luckily, Stan is sleeping on his back. Ford grabs a maglite and shines it against his back.

Stan’s back is still covered in healing bruises from the incident in the storm. They’re no longer as young as they used to be, healing takes longer for them now. Ford starts to examine Stan’s cranium. Almost immediately he sees a bruise.

Ford jerks back. Then he forces himself to take a closer look. The bruise looks to be healing at the same rate as the ones on his back. He must have received it the same night and didn’t tell him.

Ford’s hand is shaking when he turns his light off and goes back to the communicator.

He takes a seat, the others awaiting his answer. Wendy seems to have joined them and is sitting with Soos and Melody in front of the communicator.

“I’ve just confirmed that Stan did receive a head injury recently,” Ford says.

The others start to murmur amongst themselves.

“Think back, Stanford. Has this been the first sign that Stanley has been having memory problems? What about after the injury?” Fiddleford asks.

“Did he have any changes in his behavior?” Tate offers.

Ford shakes his head at the questions, really nothing had felt different. In fact after the accident Stan had become more like his old self-

Oh.

“Actually, yes. Yes he has,” Ford agrees. “He’s changed back to how he used to be when we were children.”

“You mean he’s a kid again?” Soos asks.

“No, no, he hasn’t lost any knowledge, but he certainly has changed,” Ford says.

“How long has he been like this, Stanford?” Tate asks.

“..Weeks,” Ford admits.

The others gasp.

“How long did it take for him to remember last time?” Melody asks.

“Only a few hours!” Mabel exclaims. “He remembered us in no time!”

“But wait, he remembers you Mister Pines?” Soos brings up.

“I- yes, he does,” Ford says. It’s true. Unlike the last time, Stan remembers him.

“Maybe,” Dipper starts, a serious look of contemplation on his face, “-maybe, Stan just needs exposure to all of us to start remembering?”

It’s not a terrible idea. After all, Ford was with Stan the whole time. Maybe he does need time and exposure to remember everything.

“We can show him around the Mystery Shack,” Soos says.

“Yeah! I can show my scrapbooks, that did the trick last time,” Mabel says, finally smiling for the first time for this whole conversation.

“I could probably find the doodad’s that Stan’s seen last summer,” Fiddleford offers.

“Sounds like a plan, people. Give me a heads up when I should be there,” Wendy says.

The others agree and start to leave when Dipper stops them.

“Wait. Just to make sure we don’t confuse Stan, let’s say we’re all friends with Mr.McGucket. That way it isn’t too weird that Grunkle Ford knows all of us, but Grunkle Stan doesn’t,” Dipper says.

“But,” Mabel isn’t smiling anymore, “Isn’t that kind of, you know…”

“I know, Mabel,” Dipper says with a sigh. “I just think it’s easier if Grunkle Stan doesn’t know that anything’s wrong. It’ll be easier.”

Mabel sighs too. “Yeah, I guess.”

“Okay. Grunkle Ford, let us know when we should all talk again,” Dipper says.

“I will, Dipper,” Ford answers.

Then, one by one, the screens go blank. The communicator folds in on itself and Ford is left alone in the dark.

He sits back in his chair.

He puts his hands over his face and slowly bends over himself. His head gently hits the table in front of him. He takes a shuddery breath and holds it in. He can’t wake up Stan, not now. He curls in and stays absolutely still and silent.

Ford hopes this will work. He doesn't know how he’ll face Dipper and Mabel otherwise. The look on their faces when Stan didn’t realize who they were, it was terrible.

Stan has to remember them.

Ford just hopes that he doesn’t have to give up what they have now after Stan remembers.

-000-

Stan and Ford go on an adventure.

They discover an island that shouldn’t exist in the middle of the ocean. And of course Ford gets swept up in the adventure. There are no anomalies like the ones in Gravity Falls, but the island itself is quite interesting-

And Ford gets swept up in the excitement with Stan right there by his side.

Ford forgets about the phone call. It was really a suggested time, he hadn’t finalized it with Dipper. The date of the call gets pushed back further and they get closer and closer to Halloween. They’re unable to go back to land, the last adventure threw them off their schedule, so they’ll just have a nice Halloween together.

-000-

“Happy Halloween, Sixer!”

Ford jumps and goes to grab his gun, but Stan stops him in time.

“Come on, Ford, it’s just me,” Stan says.

Recognizing Stan’s voice, Ford relaxes. He cracks open his eyes, but somehow it’s too bright. Strange, there shouldn’t be any light. He tries to open his eyes again and is greeted with Stan wearing the most obnoxious orange pumpkin sweaters he’s ever seen.

“I know we said we were going to wear costumes, or something ‘culturally relevant to the area,’ but since we didn’t make it to land, I thought we could at least be in the Halloween spirit,” Stan says. “I noticed you had one too. Come on, we can wear them together.”

Ford looks down at the sweater Stan picked out. It’s a perfectly serviceable orange, an earth tone, not the close to neon monstrosity that Stan is wearing.

“Breakfast is waiting, come on,” Stan says before heading out of the room.

When he turns around, there’s a jack o’ lantern on the back with familiar stitching.

Ford blinks and slowly rubs his face. He remembers now, the sweater had been a gift from Mabel. Ford doesn't know what to do with the information that Stan will still wear a handknit sweater from his grand niece despite it’s questionable color. Instead of continuing that thought, he gets dressed and ready for breakfast.

It’s chili for breakfast. Not bad for the supplies they have in the boat.

“I made your favorite,” Stan says in way of greeting.

Ford blinks and wonders if he heard Stan wrong. Chili is supposed to be Stan’s favorite.

“I figured since we have so many ingredients for it, chili must be your favorite. You can just tell me, you know,” Stan says before starting to eat.

Ford eats at a slower pace.

Their Halloween is rather relaxed, a good ending to the month. They end up watching movies on the sail and eating tons of candy. At the end of the night they clean up and fall asleep next to each other.

Ford’s last thought is to wonder if Stan will start remembering everything after Halloween.

-000-

Ford is the first to wake up in the morning.

He immediately tucks Stan in. Ford sighs. Now that he knows what he’s looking for he can see why this version of Stan sleeps so haphazardly. The man doesn’t remember his hardships or the terrible things he’s done to survive. He’s not childish, but he knows the world like he did as a child, filled with opportunity and adventure.

Is it so terrible for Ford to want Stan to stay like this, unburdened by their past?

However it’s after Halloween now. They’re in November, maybe when Stan wakes up he’ll remember.

Ford gets up and starts some hot water. Then he carefully pulls down their decorations, putting things back in their place, and carefully setting aside the home-made ones. They can save them for next year or maybe for Summerween.

He’s almost done taking everything down when Stan walks into the kitchen.

“Oh, let me grab some of those,” he says with a smile on his face.

Ford can immediately tell that Stan doesn’t remember. His smile was too carefree and not grumpy enough.

Although it is surprising how Stan doesn’t look up that they’re taking down the decorations.

“Too bad, October is over,” Ford says, feeling him out.

Stan chuckles. “It was fun while it lasted. But come on Ford, we’re living the dream: having adventures together on the Stan o’ War. Sure Halloween is great, but we’re having fun everyday. We don’t have to wait a whole year for Halloween to come around, we can look forward to the next adventure.”

Ford stares. Stan may never remember the kids if he never leaves this boat.

Stan notices the staring, “Oh yeah, this sweater?”

Ford looks down and sees another sweater that Mabel had knitted for Stan.

“I found it with the Halloween one. Stitchings a little messy, but it’s pretty comfy. I don’t know why I don’t wear clothes from that drawer more often,” Stan says as a he takes a mug out of the cabinet. It says ‘Grumpy Old Man’ on it. It had been a gag gift from Dipper, but it was Stan’s favorite mug. Or at least it used to be.

They continue with their day like this; Ford realizing how many items they have from their family. There’s a device from Fiddleford. Some fishing gear from Tate. Some furniture and nick knacks from Soos and Melody. A hat from Wendy.

And Stan doesn’t recognize who they’re from. He just instinctively knows that they’re his favorite, the best to use, but doesn’t remember where they came from.

For lunch, Stan serves him a pumpkin and vegetable soup made from the Halloween gourds. The soup is a recipe from the twins and the plates are stolen from the Mystery Shack.

Finally Ford decides that he can’t live like this, tip-toeing around Stan, wondering what he can bring up and what he can’t bring up. Ford can’t live with a Stan that’s forgotten the people he loves and made a family with.

“Hey, Stan? You know those kids we talked to a week back?” Ford asks.

“Yeah?”

“They were wondering if you had any more stories for them.”

-000-

The first call they arrange with the kids turns into a series of ‘coincidences’ that allow for everybody from their emergency call to be on the communicator. They go along with their storyline, saying that they’re friends of Fiddleford’s.

Stan is absolutely charming and sweet. He grins and laughs easily and does his best to entertain the callers.

They arrange call after call, even with some impromptu members from Gravity Falls pitching in to say hello.

Stan doesn’t remember any of them.

Ford sneaks away at night to have an emergency all-call with the group again.

“So that didn’t work,” Dipper says, scratching his head.

“I don’t understand! We did the scrapbooks, the Mystery Shack, Waddles, almost everything! He didn’t remember. You could even tell Stan was being polite when we expected him to know things, that’s not Grunkle Stan!” Mabel exclaims.

The others look worried.

“Isn’t this how Mr.Pines normally acts?” Melody asks. They all look at her. “I mean, I only met the man once, but from your stories this seems like him. A little inappropriate, but a pretty fun Grunkle.”

“Psh, the real Stan would never make a good first impression,” Wendy says.

The others murmur their agreement.

“But maybe it’s okay that Stan doesn’t get his memories back,” Wendy continues.

“What!” The twins say.

“Maybe that would be for the best,” Tate adds in. Fiddleford looks at his son bewildered.

“Now I’m not saying that Stan shouldn’t remember, or that we won’t try to help him remember, but this isn’t like with Dad,” Tate says, squeezing Fiddleford’s shoulder. “Or maybe it’s exactly like with Dad. Stan forgot everything about his past, especially what hurt him. But he might eventually remember the good parts.”

“Like I did,” Fiddleford ends.

Tate nods.

“There was a point where I forgot Tate,” Fiddleford elaborates, looking guilty.

“You remembered eventually, Dad.” Tate says.

“But, but, Stans not even with us. Dipper and I are in California, the rest of us are in Gravity Falls, and Grunkle Ford and Grunkle Stan are all the way across the world! Are we supposed to wait til next summer for him to remember?” Mabel asks.

No one answers.

Ford should be reassuring her. Saying that even if Stan doesn’t remember, that he still loves them all. It’s easy to see; from the way he loves all of their gifts, to the fact that he always smiles when they call.

At the same time, he thinks: what if Stan doesn’t want to go back to Gravity Falls?

“He’ll remember eventually, Mabel,” Dipper reassures.

“That’s right, Mabel. One lousy injury isn’t going to stop Stan,” Soos reassures. “This is the man that punched a pterodactyl!”

Waddles oinks next to her adding in his two cents.

Mabel pets him. “Yeah, Grunkle Stan won’t forget about us.”

“So you have to keep on calling him, Mabel,” Wendy says. “Stan would never want to miss your middle school adventures.”

“We’ll keep calling,” Dipper says and Mabel nods.

“So will we,” Fiddleford adds. “It’s late, you kids should get to bed.”

The ‘kids’ groan, but say their goodbyes. The screen from the Mystery Shack and the twins blink off. The one from the mansion stays on. Tate walks away, leaving the screen.

“Hey, Stanford, how are you holding up?” Fiddleford asks.

Ford shakes his head.

“What’s wrong, Ford?”

“That’s the conundrum, Fiddleford. Nothing's wrong for me,” Ford admits.

“How so?”

“Well- life’s great! I mean, you know the last time we conversed? You had asked me what I wanted to change? I got everything I wanted: Stan relies on me, he takes better care of himself and me, we talk about everything!”

“Even the portal?” Fiddleford asks.

It’s a sore spot between them. While Ford feels like he could talk to Fiddleford about everything, he knows they can’t talk about certain subjects.

“Even the portal,” Ford says.

Fiddleford stays silent and Ford waits for him to give him an answer to his problems. Their last conversation was eye opening. And Ford is hoping that Fiddleford can lay some of his guilt to rest.

“That’s great, Ford. I’m glad you found someone to talk to,” Fiddleford says. He sounds and look sincere.

“And?”

“And what, Stanford?”

“What about this situation?”

Fiddleford pauses, he looks to be in deep thought.

“Listen,” Fiddleford start with, “I think you may have to consider the possibility that Stan might not regain his memories.”

“What-“

“I know that I regained them and that Stan regained them, but you have to remember we’re outliers. I had a video of myself to confront my missing memories. But no one else remembers what they’ve lost,” Fiddleford explains.

It was true.

There had been some experiments, but to their knowledge no one could regain their memories after the memory gun had taken them away. On occasion, bringing up the old memories would bring- distress to the person.

“However, that doesn’t mean that Stan won’t regain them after time,” Fiddleford adds.

That was true as well. Stan was such an outlier in regards to what was normal. The first time around, Stan had been so patient and understanding despite being bombarded with information about from his old life. Then he had actually regained them all with no issues, until now.

“So keep that in mind when dealing with him,” Fiddleford says with an air of finality.

“You’re speaking in circles, Fiddleford. I have to treat Stan like he won’t regain his memories, but he might regain them anyway,” Ford says, parsing out the words.

“That’s right,” Fiddleford agrees.

Ford taps his chin.

“That’s a paradox,” Ford says.

“Sure sounds like one,” Fiddleford says.

“Fiddleford, you were the one to present me this paradox.”

“I suppose I put the paradox into words, but that doesn’t mean it didn’t exist beforehand.”

“Right,” Ford grumbles. Another eye-opener.

Fiddleford sighs. “Look Ford, just use that big brain of yours. This situation is bad and you have to be careful. Why, you don’t even know if another injury may cause more memory issues!”

“I- I hadn’t yet considered that possibility.”

What would happen if Stan regressed completely?

What would happen if he regressed when they were at sea? Or on an uninhabited island? What if Stan were alone?

“I’ll talk to you later, Stanford,” Fiddleford says.

Ford waves him off and the screen goes blank. The man had probably seen this coming. Ford had been so happy with his situation that he hadn’t even thought of the consequences.

He considers his options.

Stan would have to remember. Even if it meant giving this up, Ford couldn’t risk Stan getting worse. And he couldn’t bear seeing the kids’ face look so disappointed every single call.

But how could Ford make Stan remember?

He could always go into the Mindscape. That might be the best way to diagnose the problem and see what other issues may crop up.

But it was also exceptionally dangerous if the Mindscape was deteriorating. It was also a procedure that he wouldn’t want to attempt alone. Perhaps he would save that for last or whenever they would go back to Gravity Falls.

Ford considers other options both supernatural and not. In the end he would go with the tried and true method, talking things out.

While the others had shown off every memory inducing item they had, Ford had not. He had held back in the hopes that the others would be the ones to induce the memories. After all, the memories that Stan didn’t remember that they shared were-

They were memories that Ford didn’t want Stan to remember.

-000-

Ford doesn’t go to sleep that night and ends up sleeping through the day. When he wakes up, it’s completely dark out. However the room is warm and Ford has been undressed. He doesn’t remember falling asleep.

He gets dressed and goes out to the kitchen where Stan is reading.

A werewolf looks out of the cover, distinctly lacking a shirt and his gaze smoldering.

Ah. This must have been a gift from Grenda and Candy. He had been told that everybody had sent a care package to them, but hadn’t realized that everybody had sent them something.

Stan looks up from his book when he realizes Ford is in the room. He closes the book, but doesn’t look ashamed. In fact, he looks a little tired. Had Stan been waiting for him?

“There’s more gourd stew, if you want some,” Stan says.

There’s just enough stew for one, with steam coming from the top.

“Thank you,” Ford says.

He dishes it up and sits across from Stan to eat it.

Stan picks up his book and continues to read. Ford watches him out of the corner of his eyes, but Stan looks rather engrossed.

When he finishes, he puts the dishes away.

He’s ready to tell Stan to go to sleep when Stan places a hand on his shoulder.

“Can you sit, Ford?”

Ford freezes and nods. He doesn’t think he can speak. He can’t lead this conversation, but he can answer any questions that Stan has.

They sit next to each other this time. Stan’s knee gently presses against his. It’s not reassuring, he can it trapping him there and the expectations welling up. Stan looks down at the table with a frown and Ford wonders what he knows.

Maybe he found the journals? They were right there on the shelf for anyone to read. The earlier journals weren’t very flattering, nor did they paint a very happy life with his twin. Hell, they were next to the romance novels.

“I know why you didn’t bring it up,” Stan says.

Ford tenses.

“I mean with me having amnesia-“

“You remember?” Ford blurts out. Since when?

“Well, no.”

Ford deflates.

“I- the me that remembers everything left me a note in case this happened,” Stan explains flippantly. Ford perks up and wonders what Stan wrote. “I only found it recently, and he didn’t leave me much. Just said that I should trust my family,” Stan says with a shrug.

Ford sits back. He had never considered that Stan would leave himself a failsafe in case of amnesia.

“You have questions for me then,” Ford says. The man must have questions. Stan finally knows that he’s missing information.

Stan starts with: “I know that I don’t remember all those people I’ve been telling stories too.”

Ford nods and lets out a mental sigh. At least he didn’t have to explain that point.

“I know that I’ve forgotten about this Gravity Falls place.”

Ford nods again. Stan had forgotten a huge swath about his past.

“And I know that I’ve forgotten somethings about us,” Stan concludes. He scratches his head.

“That’s right,” Ford confirms.

Stan takes a deep breath and lets out a cough.

“Tell me if I’ve gotten this part wrong.”

Ford waits for the accusations and the questions.

Instead, he feels Stan gently grab a hold of his hand. He stares at the hand, puzzled and looks back up at Stan who isn’t looking at him. He looks like he’s desperately trying to be casual. The knee that was pressed against him nudges him gently, but Ford doesn’t pull away.

Stan finally looks at Ford. His face for once is serious and without his usual grin. The intensity of his gaze is almost overwhelming, but Ford can’t look away.

Without breaking eye contact, Stan brings Ford hand up and brushes a kiss against his knuckles.

Ford’s mouth falls open.

“Did I get this wrong, Sixer?” Stan murmurs against his skin.

Ford licks his lips, but can’t speak.

Ford shakes his head, then stops, realizing the message that he’s sending.

Stan’s eyes light up.

Then he realizes exactly what answer he wants to be right.

“You’re not wrong,” Ford chokes out.

Stan grins at him and squeezes his hand. He chuckles, looking away.

“We’re okay?” Stan asks.

“Yes, Stan.” The lies fall easily from Ford’s lips.  “Everything’s okay now.”

-000-

Nothing changes, at least, not in the way that Ford expected things to change.

They have the same routine do the same things, but every gesture has meaning now. Every look is charged. And there’s a tension- no, tension isn’t the right word, there’s frisson between them. It makes Ford’s heart pound and his hands a little sweaty to be honest.

They have a few more adventures together and those are exciting.

But now Ford is aware of everytime they hold hands or touch, even if they’re in life or death situations.

And now he can see the ways that Stan is taking care of him after their adventures are over.

There are these tiny little things he catches now. He thinks about them, mulls over them, replays them in his mind, and turns them over and over in his mind. His thoughts are filled with these nuances that he’s never caught before.

Ford would keep muddling through life like this if it wasn’t for a call from the others.

“Hey everybody!”

“Grunkle Stan!”

“Mr.Pines!”

“Stanley?”

“I���m sorry,” Stan says and all their faces fall. “I don’t remember, but I figured out I have amnesia.”

“Well, at least you know now,” Dipper says.

And the others mumbled their agreement.

“Thanks, everyone. Now do you guys want to hear about our latest adventure?”

“That sounds delightful, Stan” Fiddleford says while fixing a look at Ford.

Well, perhaps Ford would have continued to muddle his way through this situation, not changing a thing, but Fiddleford was giving him a look. It promised disappointment from Fiddleford and a thorough talk that would break down any of Ford’s logical arguments.

He would have to try talking to Stan again.

-000-

After a few more adventures, Ford finally puts everything in motion. Stan is taking a shower and will be occupied long enough for Ford to set up everything. He gets his journals and some props and waits for Stan to finish.

Stan comes out, still drying his hair. Ford is just about to help him, most heat escapes from the head after all- but he manages to hold himself back in time.

“What’s all this?” Stan asks, rummaging around the fridge.

“Stan, we need to talk,” Ford says.

He immediately winces after he says this.

“Sure, what’s up?” Stan makes some coffee for himself, while humming, then comes over to the table.

“I need to tell you something, Stan, something you’ve forgotten,” Ford starts, but is interrupted by some cookies shoved under his nose.

“Your favorite,” Stan offers.

They are his favorite, so Ford instinctively takes one, “Thank you, now as I was saying, there are some things I feel that I should tell you.”

“Sure, just let me fix up some coffee for you,” and Stan goes to freshen up his coffee, just the way Ford likes it.

Stan knows him so well- Ford shook his head. He needed to talk to Stan.

He takes a sip of his coffee, which is perfect, so Ford drains half the mug in one go. The gesture seems to reassure Stan, who finally takes a seat. The man looks at him, a bit disinterested, probably expecting a nerd rant, but totally trusting him.

Holding a journal up, Ford asked: “Do you remember these, Stan?”

Stan looks at it curious and Ford offers him the book. Stan flips through the pages, but shakes his head.

“Not really. I mean it’s one of your diaries-“

“Journals.”

“-One of your journals. You write about our adventures in them,” Stan says without guile.

“Then what about this?” Ford held up a picture of the perpetual motion machine. It’s a perfect rendition. Even now he could remember every single screw and plate.

Stan shrugged. “Am I supposed to?”

“How about these?” Ford gives him a bag of toffee peanuts.

Stan’s face lights up. “Oh hey! You were holding out on me, Ford. I didn’t think we had any more candy left from Halloween.”

“No, that’s not- here,” Ford hands him the bag and Stan digs in. Ford looks over at the rest of his things and Stan lets him, electing to pay attention to his snack instead. He was hoping that Stan would just remember, that he wouldn’t have to say anything specific.

But here Stan was, gobbling toffee peanuts and flipping through Journal 1 like it was nothing. His brother chuckles at one of the entries.

Ford drinks his coffee trying to regroup his thoughts.

Stan flips to the diagram of the portal.

He frowns at the picture and stares.

Ford swallows. It wasn’t the first thing he would’ve liked to discuss with Stan, but if it was the first thing that he remembered then…

Ford flipped Journals 2 and 3 to the portal diagram. He gently grabs the first journal and sets them up.

Stan snaps his fingers and points at the diagram. “Hey…”

The bag of toffee peanuts, now empty, slips out of his hand to rest next to the diagram of Ford’s former science project.

Stan’s wide eyed, looking between the picture of the portal and the science project.

While Stan is staring, Ford finishes a sketch. “What about this?” Ford softly asks.

It’s a picture of Bill Cipher.

Stan sits back in his seat. Then his head lolls back and his eyes close, while his mouth falls open. Ford manages to catch him before he falls out of his seat.

“Stan!”

Stan does not answer. Ford shakes him gently, which does nothing. Carefully, Ford slings him over a shoulder and brings him to bed. Once he’s laid out, Ford checks his eyes and his pulse. His hands are shaking so badly, he doesn’t succeed the first few times.

Ford sits next to Stan’s head which tilts towards him. He runs a hand through his hair which is still a little damp. Ford grabs the sheet to dry Stan’s hair.

It’s the least he can do.

The first and last time he had seen Stan with this expression had been after Stan’s memory was erased. The blank expression had been burned into Ford’s memory. It was exactly the same as last time.

Ford waited, gently running a hand through Stan’s hair, hoping that he would wake up soon.

Like last time, he would have to wait to see what would happen.

-000-

Ford wakes up when someone lets out a loud snort next to him.

He sits up. It’s morning, he must have fallen asleep watching Stan.

Stan, who looks to be waking up.

Ford waits with bated breath.

Stan blinks awake, yawning loudly in Ford’s face. He smacks his mouth a few times and scratches himself.

Stan blinks, realizing Ford is staring at him. He looks away, chucking awkwardly, his cheeks a bit flushed.

“Hey, Sixer, watching someone sleep is a little, you know, don’t you think?”

Stan’s eyes are sparkling and he’s saying this with good humor. He doesn’t remember. Before Ford can formulate a reply Stan sits up and gets out of bed.

“I’m going to hit the john,” Stan says.

With Stan in the bathroom, Ford scrambles to clean everything off the table. Stan doesn’t notice a thing and Ford is going to keep it that way. He tried to help Stan remember and the result was disastrous. Better to let him remember naturally, or wait until they could get to a proper environment to help him remember.

In the meantime, it wasn’t a hardship to be with this Stan.

-000-

The days and nights start to grow longer and colder. Stan and Ford bundle up, but more often than not, find themselves pressed up against each other to stay warm. They often sit next to each other, arm to arm, with their thighs pressed together.

Stan seems unaffected by the change, happy even. He’s unlike Ford who is a nervous wreck from the additional contact. When they’re that close, Ford sweats and gets a little jittery.

They dock one day to resupply when Stan wants to go the local pub.

“Just to get a drink and some information,” Stan reassures.

Ford looks doubtful, but this isn’t the normal version of Stan. Maybe this one wouldn’t get into a fist fight. Maybe they could have a drink and some hot food that wasn’t originally canned. A meal that they didn’t have to make would be wonderful.

-000-

“Come and get some!”

Stan laughs maniacally as he clocks some guy with a chair.

The locals don’t understand Stan and don’t care. They throw themselves at him while Ford tries to open the safe behind the bar.

Ford grumbles. One of the only times they go to a bar together and they find out that the pub was housing some terrible and cursed artifact. It was only right that they take it to protect the town. But here they were, in a bar fight. Maybe it was an anomaly or the artifact that was making the locals attack them.

Ford hears Stan laugh again after a particularly nasty sounding ‘boom.’

Perhaps Ford should have considered that this Stan was still someone who would steal from a Harvest deity. Starting a bar fight was small potatoes in comparison.

There’s another crash that makes Ford wince and throws off his ability to crack the safe.

Screw it. He uses his gun to blast the lock and the door swings open. The statue inside looks unfortunately familiar. Ford stuffs it into his pocket even though it's pointy triangle edges are digging into his side.

With his mission accomplished, Ford jumps over the bar to help Stan.

There are three men advancing on his twin, but Stan keeps them at bay with what looks to be one of the pub decorations; a rusty anchor.

The men are wary and Ford is about to step in, when one the men grabs a bottle and throws it at Stan. Stan dodges the first, but gets clocked by a second. It hits him in the head and he crumples.

Ford finds himself smashing a fist into the one that hit his brother. Then he draws his gun, making sure to shield Stan, and snarls at the others. They back away and try to talk, but Ford isn’t having any of it.

Just when he’s about to shoot them and be done with it, a hand on his leg stops him.

“Let’s go,” Stan rasps.

Ford hesitates, but nods. He helps Stan up and they leave the pub, immediately fleeing to their boat. Stan is steady enough to work the sail, so they take off.

When they’re out on rough waters, Stan stumbles.

Ford drops to his knees trying to catch him.

Stan shakes his head. “Just need to regain my sea legs,” he says, but allows Ford to drag him inside.

Ford wonders if maybe Stan should sit, but decides otherwise. In Stan’s condition, it would be easier to take care of him in bed.

Ford lays him out and Stan groans. Ford starts undressing him so he’s comfortable. Stan tries to fight him off, but it’s easy enough to bat Stan’s hands away.

“I got you, Stan,” he says.

Finally he starts diagnosing: checking Stan’s pulse (erratic but not too fast), his pupils (dilated, but of matching size), and finally his head wound.

Stan flinches away from him and Ford gently shushes him. “I’ll be careful,” he says softly.

It looks like there’s a cut- but it’s partially healed. Ford doesn’t remember the bottle shattering-

Then Ford remembers. The head wound is in the same place as Stan’s last injury.

Ford bites his lip.

It’s his worst nightmare come to pass. He thinks about calling the others, but decides not to. They can’t help him.

He doesn’t know what will happen but he’ll be here right next to Stan’s side.

Ford spends the rest of the night watching and gently waking Stan up every few hours. Stan seems to be sleeping evenly and without issue so Ford goes up to make sure they’re sailing in the right direction.

When he comes back, Stan is completely still.

Fearing the worst, Ford violently shakes him and Stan comes awake swinging. Ford dodges the blows.

“Stan! Stan it’s me!” Ford catches Stan’s fists and holds them.

Stan’s wild eyes finally focus on him.

He scowls, pulling away.

Ford lets him go. He recognizes the expression.

“What happened?” Stan asks, mouth in a deep frown.

“You don’t remember the bar fight?” Ford asks.

Stan rubs his head, “Did we win?” He asks instead of answering.

“Yes, yes we did,” Ford says.

Stan chuckles, “Then I think I remember putting down a couple of guys. But you didn’t have to babysit me, Ford. I’m fine.”

“Yes, I suppose you’ve recovered now.”

-000-

Stan returns back to the way he was before the whole amnesia event occurred. Stan immediately recognizes the fact that he’s forgotten some time once he looks at the date. He has vague recollection of time passing, but Stan can’t remember any details.

Ford gives him a brief summary of the changes, mostly that he forgot about the kids, but that he remembered Ford. He had only realized Stan was having memory issues once he couldn’t remember the kids. Ford also talks about their gourd adventure because he’s sure the kids will bring it up.

Other than that, Ford keeps his mouth shut.

There’s no need to bring up anything that Stan can’t remember. And there’s no reason to feel sad for a version of Stan that wasn’t supposed to exist.

Ford is in fact grateful that Stan remembers the kids now.

Once Stan had realized what he had forgotten, he immediately called the kids. They looked so happy, and Ford realizes how hard it must have been for Dipper and Mabel to be forgotten by their Grunkle.

He doesn’t begrudge this version of Stan, because with this version their family is whole and healthy.

But now Ford has had a taste of something wonderful that he hadn’t known was possible. And he wants the best of both worlds. He wants a Stan that cares deeply about his family, and who thinks that Ford hung the moon.

When he was young he didn’t appreciate the Stan who thought that Ford hung the moon. Ever since Gravity Falls he could appreciate the Stan who deeply cared for his family. Then getting the Stan who thought highly of him, but losing the other Stan, well, if only it was possible have it both ways.

-000-

Ford often finds himself staring at Stan.

The man isn’t any less handsome than before, still has those intense eyes and wonderful smile. His hands are big and strong as he handles the sail and Ford could feel his heart skip a beat when he hears him laugh.

Ford sighs.

He finally figures out he’s in love with Stan and then loses any possibility of being with him.

Typical.

How did he not realize his feelings?

There wasn’t anything he could do about it now. Well, there was, but Ford was tired. He had such highs and a lows with his brother over these months that he didn’t want to rock the boat anymore.

He would have to be satisfied with the way things were.

Except now he was constantly aware of what was going on in his heart.

As a result, Ford stares at Stan. And he notices that Stan no longer smiles less now That on occasion he frowns and looks sad for no reason. And that he looks tired.

Ford wishes he could fix that.

He forces himself to look away.

Already more than a week has passed since Stan’s recovery, Ford should be over it.

In fact, he should try and follow Fiddlefords advice, try to repair their relationship. He knows what it looks like, but he doesn’t want to take the first step.

He’s staring off into the water, considering his options when Stan coughs behind him.

“Hey,” he says taking a place next to Ford.

Stan stares out at the water while Ford stares at him.

“Sooo…” Stan taps his fingers and starts fiddling with his pockets. “Trick or treat?”

“Pardon me?” Ford asks.

Stan coughs into his hand. “I missed Halloween. Now Trick or Treat, Sixer?”

“Ah, treat then,” Ford answers. Might as well go with the expected answer.

Stan holds something out and Ford opens his hands to receive it. Into his hands drops a small candy wrapped in wax paper. Stan gestures for him to go ahead, so Ford unwraps it and pops it into his mouth.

It’s brown sugar, Ford’s favorite. And it’s homemade like one of the candies that Stan made in October.

“Since there was a treat, I guess it makes sense that there was a trick too. I left some clues for myself so I’ve finally started to remember,” Stan explains.

Oh boy.

Ford wonders what exactly Stan remembers. He’s not sure he can come up with logical explanations for everything that has happened.

“I- I was never tricking you, Stan,” Ford tries to explain.

“Yeah. But we weren’t truthful with each other, were we?” Stan says.

We?

“What about my treat, Ford?”

Stan finally looks into his eyes and he gets pulled in by their intensity.

Stan takes a step closer.

This close now, Ford can feel the heat coming off of his brother.

Stan’s eyes glances down at his mouth.

“You gonna share that?” He asks, a quirk to his lips.

Ford doesn’t reply, just leans in. They meet in the middle for a kiss, sharing the taste of brown sugar candy.

Maybe Stan pulls back first, Ford doesn’t know, but when they do Ford is greeted with a familiar expression. Stan’s face has softened and is looking at him with warmth again. Ford slowly smiles feeling a weight come off his shoulders.

“Happy Halloween, Sixer,” Stan says.

“It’s November, Stanley,” Ford can’t help but say.

Stan rolls his eyes but grabs his hand and laces their fingers together. “Don’t ruin the moment.”

Instead of arguing, Ford leans in for another kiss. He’ll have to keep kissing Stan until they get the moment just right.

[braindamageforbeginners]

Day 41, Radiation 28

I believe I’ve written about how the worstest part of cancer is that almost every single aspect of existence gets about 10-15% harder than it needs to be. Even when you think you’r e on an upswing. Folks, I’ve griped about the weird, werewolf-like sleep patterns imposed on me by that dreadful, Kraken-forsaken temodar. Well, tonight is the final night, so, last night, I thought I’d finally do it; I’d be a real boy and get myself onto some sort of near-human schedule, as opposed to the random possum-like patterns where I go to bed at googly-moogly and wake up at sometime (oh, you think I’m joking; it’s really weird and unpredicable). So, last night, I was tired, I went to bed - and fell asleep - at 11 pm. Which isn’t terribly early, but it’s closer to “human” than “sometime between 9 pm and 4 am.” Like Daedalus, I flew too close to the sun and my wings burned off; I woke up at 3 am. And temodar gives you a weird, anxious-twitchy sensation (I don’t mean physically, I mean you’re gonna go full-frontal Woody Allen and not be able to sit still even when you’re dead-tired), which I thought I’d put to use - I’d double-check all my assorted physician/insurance/research/administrative contacts on the speed-dial (yes, they’re on the speed dial, but more on that later). Then I’d get an hour or two of sleep. Then wake up early and make some useful morning phone calls. My hateful, spiteful body decided - without consulting me - just to sleep until eight. I guess I should just be grateful I got something like a full-night’s sleep, but it still rankles that I can’t even really plan more than 12 hours ahead at any given time. Sometimes, my fellow squid, in the darkness of the abyssal plains, you just have to stop and be grateful that you’re still smart enough to realize how utterly dumb your operating conditions have become.

But I did get a few things done today. One question i get asked - a lot - is, “How do you fill up your time?” And my answer is, “I’m a cancer patient with a pulse. That fills up the days.” So, full itinerary - I took my morning meds, made (and ate) breakfast (and coffee)(lots and lots of coffee, because of the temodar), organized and refilled my meds, called several billing departments, called Research Coordinator about travel/scheduling issues, subsequently called Boston PA about the paperwork to reinstate the driver’s license,called the insurance company with a billing question (and subsequently called another phone number), went to the gym (I go to the gym daily)(that’s critical to neurosurgery recovery, fellow squid, and it’s also worth noting that I’m doing all this while still in recovery), got a better answer from Boston PA about being a real boy (I can submit a licence renewal in two weeks), refilled prescriptions, picked up prescriptions, and got a few groceries. That took from 9-5. For those of you wanting the condensed description, here’s my day, today: 1. Breakfast 2. Organize and refill prescriptions 3. Make assorted bureaucratic phone calls 4. Radiation therapy 5. Gym 6. Picked up prescriptions (and scheduled/negotiated the next pick-up, which will be ready in... let me think... a few days). 7. Bought a cheap, pre-cooked chicken and toilet paper Again, that was a full eight hours. I’m not sitting around pining about my grisly, inevitable demise; I am working my ass off to avert it. Now, should you find yourself at the bottom of the ocean, you need to recognize that you are no longer able to save yourself. BUT, you mustn’t lose faith that somewhere in the depths, there exists another squid who can help you - or a squid who knows a squid. Your full-time job becomes tracking down someone who can help you, and then convincing them to help you. Then the real work starts. Then you get to start taking care of yourself, and anticipating and solving future problems. That’s the one thing that’s identical to surface-dweller existence; the more problems you can foresee and solve right now, the better the long-term outcome. Like, an order-of-magnitude better outcome (which is why you start paying attention to those ones). My hand is feeling a little numb at the moment - could be nothing; it’s been a long-ish day, but I went got that stupid walker out of the closet in case I need it tomorrow morning. And the end reward for all this fast-on-your-tentacles thinking and acting, is, maybe, perhaps, more time in the abyss. Again, that’s all the reward you get, if that’s not enough, well, I don’t know what to say.

Still, I suppose I should remain positive. I have family and friends who support me (read: I mooch like a lamprey)(a cancerous lamprey)(a cancerous lamprey with severe insomnia), and that allows me the sort of time required to give this whole survival-thing my undivided focus. And, all of the phone calls I made today are for things that shouldn’t be an issue for a few weeks or months, so, it seems like the Warlocks are the folks best-set to solve my whole brain-cancer problem (even if it requires more paperwork and coordination than the D-Day invasion)(I mean, come on, people; they’re necromancers; Voldemort didn’t require insurance double-verification to experiment on muggles). And my work-outs are still the most-intense I’ve ever done, so, kudos to Radiation Oncologist. And I wrote the radiation team a lovely thank-you note for when I finish up later this week. And I did get a few concrete answers about a few questions - even if those questions were, “Go ask the DMV.” Still, four-ish damned hours on the phone to coordinate prescriptions and insurance payments as well as other stuff; I could be watching TV. And, hey, tonight’s the last night of hateful, hateful temodar (for a while, anyway), so, hey. Still, I do kind of miss the crazy Captain America serum dreams.

And I found out a few things while in the microwave this afternoon. One of the techs said that cool, hyper-blue shiny light you see in the tube (you’ll see it, too, when you get there), and that weird, burnt-dog-hair smell don’t actually exist. Those are just side effects of sending streams of dangerous, ionizing radiation across the olfactory and optic nerves (the parts of the brain responsible for smell and sight, respectively). Which is the least-comforting thing I have ever learned, but I do appreciate their candor.

[kat2107]

Re: Grenfell Tower fire

There are a few people going around, blowing up the death figures (which we do not know yet) to somehow make this more of a tragedy. 

I read somewhere that there were 600 people in the tower and only 75 could escape. That is not only wrong, it’s a blatant lie. 

To them, let me tell you some facts: 

- There were 120 apartments in the tower. Only 20 floors actually had apartments. The lower 4 floors where community areas.

The figure of 600 people in the tower is based on an estimate of 4 persons per apartment, with 6 apartments on each floor and 24 floors. Now, if you did your math homework, you will find that 20*6*4 = 480.

Which is impossible. We know of two missing families that had more members, but we also know of several people who lived alone. 

If you assume an aver of 2.5 people per apartment, you get a number of 300 people living in the tower. Some of those were not home, instead, there were some visitors to the tower. 

75 people were listed in the hospitals, one of whom died. That leaves us with 226 people unaccounted for.

Now, through a very blessed circumstance, this fire happened during Ramadan and many young Muslims were still awake for Suhur. They managed to wake alert many of their neighbors and got many people out in time. 

No deaths or missing persons have been reported below the 10th floor. Now, we don’t have an idea where the injured came from, so we have to estimate. What we KNOW is that the fire didn’t reach below the 11 floor on the south-east half of the tower and a man was rescued there 12 hours later. 

This is a guestimation, but lets just assume that the resident floors (4-9) got our safely. That’s ~90 people.

We DO know that many people above that were also able to save themselves, with it getting more difficult the higher they lived. The only known survivors from the upper three floors are the two little girls who lived on the 21st. Their parents and little sister are missing, presumed dead and I don’t know how they got out but it’s a freaking miracle. 

Many of those will be included in the injured stats, which is why I won’t speculate any further in that direction. 

What this leaves us with is a MAXIMUM death count of 136, not counting any uninjured survivors above the 9th floor. 

58 persons are so far missing, presumed dead (including all confirmed deaths) and higher numbers are expected to be announced today. 

On the first day, the police chief said very clearly that he “...hopes it [the number of dead] will not rise into the three digits.” Which, turns out, was a pretty accurate estimation and you can’t say you didn’t have at least that.  

So, this is where it stands. At least 58 people dead and feared that it’s up to 100 or slightly below. 

And then I go to tumblr and find people who are blowing it up to “several hundred” dead. 

WHY? Aren’t these people enough for you?

Are you allergic to FACTS? Do you need to add lies to the horror because it’s not horrible enough?

What, if only ten people had died because they fucked up the fire safety measures in the refurbishment and didn’t give a flying fuck? Would you even have cared?

God, I am so mad!

this is not a competition for worstest horror. Each and any of these people are too much and valuable and all you do by spreading lies and exxagerating numbers is taking away from THEM. 

You are putting your own wannabe outrage to the frontline to give yourself an excuse to be more outraged. 

Fuck that shit! These people are dead. 58 is a HORRENDOUS number and we know it will be more. 

So stop it. If you really wanna help, try to clean up your relationship with facts. They are not poisonous. 

PS: the numbers just got upped to 79 missing and presumed dead and 74 injured. 

[defeateddetectives]

for the softer world thing: 32 + the worstest of them all (nevermind that i spent half an hour lookin at the list bc at least 45 of them are Perfect Worst Ship Material)

#32: I think you are beautiful and I would like to kiss you.  I can think up some clever lines, if you’d prefer.  But I wanted to say that, first. (None of those lines seemed to be about you or me.)

*

he’s drifting in and out of sleep and everything about it is fitful, restless, leaves your heart in your throat from watching it alone. 

later, you wake up from sleep, saying his name, reaching out into the air above you and grasping at – nothing.

of course, he will not be found in the air. he is beside you, and you seem to have woken him because he takes your hand regardless, tucks it below his head, his neck now resting against the bones of your wrist, in some kind of silly unconscious motion, and falls back asleep. 

you think that it can’t possibly be comfortable but he seems to drift off in no time at all.along with mikoto, your hand also falls asleep, pins and needles creeping upon your forearm but you don’t move; you hardly breathe.you turn on your side in the morning and somehow he’s tossed midway through the night and dislodged your arm. the blood is flowing back through it well and good, as it should. 

you lay there and soak in the stillness, for minutes, maybe hours. realistically, it must be somewhere in between. you do it long enough for him to wake because it’s a rare day when you can afford it without the usual preparation for the impending bustling downstairs.

the sun is a little bit in your face and you squint against it to see him when he yawns. you take the hand that had been held captive earlier and trace two fingers over his clavicle, then sternum, then ribcage.he says nothing, nearly does nothing, except you know well enough to catch when it’s not nothing: the slightest motion forwards, arching inwards, a slow stir and a gradual unfurling. watching him wake up is watching him come to life. every morning is luxury, an indulgence, an post-impressionistic artwork of sorts. and fair enough, you were always the biggest fucking hopeless romantic of the lot but even then, even then, every time you wonder how you could ever have been prepared for this.your fingertips reach the jut of a hipbone and he’s sleep-addled but awake enough now to respond. when he strikes back, it is without mercy, a slow throw of his body against yours, his whole weight and his whole self against yours, and his slow grin is unapologetic, as it should be. 

the rightness in it lets you know within your bones that this is the only way it should ever be. once, there had been reluctance, questions in the motions even if never in the words.can you carry this? are you sure? are you sure?mostly, you’re glad that that rotten phase is over.yes. you can carry this. 

yes, of course, you can carry this. 

you can carry this, will carry this, and carry this and more.

[cumdumpstiel]

i love philippa and i love dijkstra and i wouldn't say i Ship them exactly (i think at least on philippas end that she is a lesbian) but like thinking about them as a unit and like the circumstances that led to.. all that....... idk like both of them as characters rly Interest me, and their relationship such as it is also really like. i think about it a lot. like those two ppl coming together for all the most worstest reasons and the way it all falls apart and the CONSEQUENCES...... chef kiss

[oldguardaudio]

PowerLine -> From the Carlos Danger files + Power Line’s Top Posts of 2017

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

Daily Digest

From the Carlos Danger files

A New Year’s Eve Miscellany

The Times diversion

Power Line’s Top Posts of 2017

Papadopoulos or the dossier?

From the Carlos Danger files

Posted: 31 Dec 2017 02:17 PM PST

(Paul Mirengoff)The indispensable Judicial Watch, after protracted litigation in federal court, has forced the State Department to begin releasing Huma Abedin’s work-related documents that were found on Anthony Weiner’s personal computer. The documents were provided to the State Department by the FBI, which reviewed them as part of its investigation of the Hillary Clinton email server scandal. The first public release of these documents came on Friday, December 31.

Judicial Watch confirms that the documents include classified information from Hillary Clinton’s email server. Not only that, but at least four of these documents were marked “classified.”

You probably recall that Team Clinton tried to defend Hillary’s mishandling of classified information by arguing that the information was not marked classified at the time the document was produced and when it was sent or received. But this argument, never a strong one, doesn’t apply to at least four of the documents that Abedin shuffled over to her husband’s computer. In addition, as Jazz Shaw points out, by sending this material to Weiner, Abedin put it outside the reach of the government.

Shaw also raises the question of whether Abedin lied to the FBI during its investigation:

[B]oth Abedin and Cheryl Mills were called in by the FBI and told them that they didn’t even know about the existence of the secret server. And that was in 2016. But here we have evidence from 2010 of Abedin forwarding classified documents from the secret server to an account called “Anthony Campaign” which is presumably the email account on her husband’s laptop. So doesn’t that mean that she (and possibly Mills) lied to the Federal Bureau of Investigation during their probe of the case?

He adds:

I’ve been hearing a lot lately about how people who lie to the FBI are in a lot of trouble and could face jail time, even if the subject of the conversation they lied about wasn’t illegal. In this instance we’re talking about a clearly illegal act, specifically sending obviously marked classified State Department documents to a private laptop controlled by someone without a security clearance.

If lying to the FBI is such a big deal, aren’t we being a bit selective in prosecution if somebody isn’t indicted over this? Or does the fact that Clinton and Abedin are no longer in the mix for a national political office mean that we simply don’t bother?

I think the answers to the two questions are “yes” and “yes.”

   A New Year’s Eve Miscellany

Posted: 31 Dec 2017 09:59 AM PST

(Steven Hayward)A few closeout observations before the first bottle of champagne:

• The top story of the year: Trump is still President! Lots of folks on the left and in the media were certain he’d be gone by June. Worse news for the left: he’s gaining strength. Worstest news for the left: The Russia collusion angle is coming up dry, and he isn’t going to be impeached.

Related, from CNN no less:

Gallup: Hillary Clinton’s favorability rating hits new low

(CNN)More than a year after the 2016 presidential election, former Democratic nominee Hillary Clinton’s favorability rating has dropped to a new low, according to a Gallup poll released Tuesday.

The poll showed 36% of respondents rated Clinton favorably compared to 61% who rated her unfavorably, which is a new high for that measure. Gallup said this beat out her previous low of 38% at the outset of the general election last year and in 1992 when she was not yet a household name.

Gallup’s poll marked a five-point drop in the former secretary of state’s favorability rating since June, when a poll of national adults showed 41% rated her favorably.

Still not tired of winning? Okay, then take this, from the Washington Post:

How the Trump era is changing the federal bureaucracy

Nearly a year into his takeover of Washington, President Trump has made a significant down payment on his campaign pledge to shrink the federal bureaucracy, a shift long sought by conservatives that could eventually bring the workforce down to levels not seen in decades. . .

“Morale has never been lower,” said Tony Reardon, president of the National Treasury Employees Union, which represents 150,000 federal workers at more than 30 agencies. “Government is making itself a lot less attractive as an employer.”

Sometimes you just have to take the sweet with the sweet.

• A sign of the times?

The new security measures planned for the Brandenburg Gate party come amid concerns about sexual assaults. . .

Hundreds of thousands of people are expected to attend the New Year’s Eve party in Berlin on Sunday and security will be strict. Large bags, such as rucksacks, and alcoholic drinks will be banned at the Brandenburg Gate.

Gosh, from the sound of this headline Berlin must be like New York City back in the pre-Guiliani era. What’s behind this? The BBC semi-explains:

A large number of assaults and robberies targeting women at Cologne’s New Year’s Eve celebrations two years ago horrified Germany. Hundreds of women reported being attacked by gangs of men with migrant backgrounds.

What kind of “migrant backgrounds” I wonder?

Related:

Sweden’s Socialist minister admits: We made a mistake accepting so many refugees

The Swedish finance minister, Magdalena Andersson, in a Friday interview for the newspaper Dagens Nyheter said that Sweden made a mistake by accepting thousands of asylum seekers in 2015. It is the first such statement of the politician from the ruling Sweden’s Socialist Working Party, whose coalition government together with the Green Party, welcomed over 163,000 asylum seekers in 2015.

Chaser:

• Winston Churchill describing bitcoin perhaps:

I know those people who think they can coin the moonlight into silver and mint the sunshine into gold, are always running about with some of these plans for getting rich quickly and securing wealth without having to work for it. (From his 1909 campaign book, The People’s Rights.)

• Woo-hoo! We’re number 29! Power Line came in ranked 29th in the PJ Media ranking of the Top 50 Conservative Websites for 2017.

• Isn’t this a clear violation of the 8th Amendment’s “cruel and unusual punishment” clause:

   The Times diversion

Posted: 31 Dec 2017 08:07 AM PST

(Scott Johnson)In collusion news today, the New York Times has devoted six reporters to producing the “news” that the previously obscure Trump campaign aide George Papadopoulos lies at the heart of the putative case. Their story is “How the Russia inquiry began: A campaign aide, drinks and talk of political dirt.” Paul wrote about it last night here.

I think the story is ludicrous on its face. The Times has served as a prime purveyor of the Trump/Russia hysteria. Yet reality has deflated it. Now the Times returns to pump it up. The names have changed, but the song remains the same.

The Times has lost the thread on its preferred narrative. Indeed, attention has turned to the Steele/Trump dossier and the apparent wrongdoing related to it. The authorities inside the Obama administration who took advantage of it seek to cover their tracks. The deeply felt needs of the Times and its collaborators are consummated in today’s big story.

Who helped the Times concoct its story today? We have come to expect the usually guarded law enforcement and intelligence sources who cannot be identified because the information is classified and they weren’t authorized to talk about it.

Today’s story is not quite so forthcoming. The six Times reporters disclose only that they relied on “interviews.” Well, not just interviews. Late in the story “current and former officials familiar with the debate” appear. The Times story also relies on “previously undisclosed documents.”

The Times story states: “A team of F.B.I. agents traveled to Europe to interview Mr. Steele in early October 2016. Mr. Steele had shown some of his findings to an F.B.I. agent in Rome three months earlier [coincidentally, at the time the investigation started], but that information was not part of the justification to start a counterintelligence inquiry, American officials said.”

With whom did the Times conduct the interviews? What were the circumstances? Who contacted whom? How can this story have remained dormant until today? The Times doesn’t say.

What are the “previously undisclosed documents”? The Times doesn’t say it directly, but the documents do not demonstrate how the counterintelligence investigation started. They do not establish the story’s thesis.

How can any informed observer take this seriously? We await the disclosure of genuine evidence rather than obvious spin. We don’t have nearly enough information to arrive at a definitive judgment. We must keep our minds open until we are privy to it. In time I may be proved wrong. Yet I don’t think it is rash to say that this Times story is some kind of a joke.

Wall Street Journal columnist Kim Strassel puts it this way in response to Obama hack Tommy Vietor’s demand that she correct her column on the Steele dossier (“one of the dirtiest tricks in U.S. political history”). To borrow the Clinton campaign slogan, I’m with her.

Sure–when the NYT provides any proof (or names, or sources or anything other than anonymous assertion) for its claims. Funny that the FBI cooks up this story right at the point that the House is demanding to see the documents that will show what really happened. https://t.co/cR8iT1XVDP

— Kimberley Strassel (@KimStrassel) December 30, 2017

   Power Line’s Top Posts of 2017

Posted: 31 Dec 2017 07:42 AM PST

(John Hinderaker)“Top” means most widely read, of course, not best or most influential. Still, it is fun to look back and see what posts got the most attention from our readers in 2017.

The year’s most-read post, with 150,933 views, was Proof that James Comey Misled the Senate Intelligence Committee, which I wrote on June 10. It was inevitable, I suppose, that many of our top posts related to the storm of controversy surrounding the 2016 election, the Clinton campaign’s collusion with Russia and the FBI via Fusion GPS, the firing of James Comey, Bob Mueller’s investigation, and so on. This post exposed James Comey as a liar.

You should read (or re-read) the whole thing, but briefly, Comey told the Intelligence Committee that his relationship with President Trump was different from his relationships with prior presidents, because Trump is uniquely dishonest. Comey told the committee:

COMEY: … When I was deputy attorney general, I had one one-on-one meeting with President Bush about a very important and difficult national security matter.

I didn’t write a memo documenting that conversation either — sent a quick e-mail to my staff to let them know there was something going on, but I didn’t feel, with President Bush, the need to document it in that way, again (ph), because of — the combination of those factors just wasn’t present with either President Bush or President Obama.

WARNER: I — I think that is very significant.

Significant? Maybe, but it was a lie. A sharp-eyed reader pointed us to the book Angler, an attack on Dick Cheney, which revealed that Comey actually documented his rather famous conversation with President Bush with a memo that included pages of supposedly verbatim dialogue. When it comes to covering his rear end, Comey is a consummate denizen of the Washington swamp. Likewise when it comes to lying to Congress.

Collectively, Steve’s most popular posts are no doubt The Week In Pictures series, which probably garnered a total of around 1,500,000 views in 2017. But his most-read individual post this year was The Millenial Job Interview, a hilarious but all too true video, which Steve posted on November 27. It continues to get views via social media. Here it is, once more:

Paul’s top post was also a recent one, Panic at the Washington Post, published on Christmas Day. The post documents WaPo’s growing hysteria over the fact that Mueller’s investigation is falling apart, and instead, attention is increasingly focused on the real scandal, which implicates, among others, the FBI.

The Washington Post is worried. The lead headline in today’s paper edition reads: “Mueller criticism grows to a clamor — FBI Conspiracy Claim Takes Hold — Driven by activists, GOP lawmakers, Trump tweets.”

Turnabout is fair play. Last year around this time, an honest newspaper could easily have written: “Trump criticism grows to a clamor — Russia Collusion Takes Hold — Driven by activists, Democratic lawmakers, leaks.” *** The FBI reportedly offered money to Christoper Steele to continue his work on the anti-Trump dossier (in testimony before Congress Rod Rosenstein refused to say whether the FBI paid or offered to pay for the dossier). The FBI may well have used information in the dossier to secure approval of surveillance efforts from the FISA court.

The FBI also helped push the dossier into the public’s consciousness. Its general counsel, James Baker, reportedly told reporter David Corn about the dossier, thus enabling Corn to write about it just before the election. And FBI director Comey briefed president-elect Trump on the dossier, which led to publication of its contents by BuzzFeed.

We also know about the quest of Peter Strzok, a high-level FBI man, for an “insurance policy” against a Trump presidency.

But let’s return to the Washington Post’s story about growing criticism of Mueller. The three distressed Post writers are less than fully open when it comes to informing readers what — other than activists, GOP lawmakers, and Trump tweets — is causing criticism of Mueller to grow to a clamor.

They acknowledge that it has something to do with Strzok’s role as Mueller’s former top investigator. However, they do their best to make Strzok seem innocuous.

Read the whole thing, please.

Scott’s most-read 2017 post was Six Seconds to Live, published on October 26. The post includes an excerpt from a 2010 speech by General John Kelly in which he pays tribute to the heroism of two Marines who were killed in a suicide attack in Afghanistan:

What we didn’t know at the time, and only learned a couple of days later after I wrote a summary and submitted both Yale and Haerter for posthumous Navy Crosses, was that one of our security cameras, damaged initially in the blast, recorded some of the suicide attack. It happened exactly as the Iraqis had described it. It took exactly six seconds from when the truck entered the alley until it detonated.

You can watch the last six seconds of their young lives. Putting myself in their heads I supposed it took about a second for the two Marines to separately come to the same conclusion about what was going on once the truck came into their view at the far end of the alley. Exactly no time to talk it over, or call the sergeant to ask what they should do. Only enough time to take half an instant and think about what the sergeant told them to do only a few minutes before: “let no unauthorized personnel or vehicles pass.” The two Marines had about five seconds left to live. *** [T]he recording shows a number of Iraqi police, some of whom had fired their AKs, now scattering like the normal and rational men they were—some running right past the Marines. They had three seconds left to live. *** For about two seconds more, the recording shows the Marines’ weapons firing nonstop, the truck’s windshield exploding into shards of glass as their rounds take it apart and tore in to the body of the son-of-a-bitch who is trying to get past them to kill their brothers—American and Iraqi—bedded down in the barracks totally unaware of the fact that their lives at that moment depended entirely on two Marines standing their ground. *** The truck explodes. The camera goes blank. Two young men go to their God. Six seconds. Not enough time to think about their families, their country, their flag, or about their lives or their deaths, but more than enough time for two very brave young men to do their duty—into eternity. That is the kind of people who are on watch all over the world tonight—for you.

As it happens, these four posts offer a pretty good cross-section of what we do here at Power Line–and have done, every day, since May 2002. It may not be amiss to mention that our traffic hit an all-time high in 2017, with more visits and page views than at any time in the past. That is a sign, of course, of the level of interest in the Trump administration and events of the day among our readers.

So: Happy New Year, and may 2018 be even bigger.

   Papadopoulos or the dossier?

Posted: 30 Dec 2017 05:09 PM PST

(Paul Mirengoff)The New York Times reports that the impetus for the FBI’s investigation of suspected collusion between the Trump campaign and Russia was not the anti-Trump dossier, but rather statements made by George Papadopoulos. He was the young Trump campaign staffer who later pleaded guilty to lying to the FBI.

According to the Times, after a heavy night of drinking, Papadopoulos told Australia’s top diplomat in Britain that Russia had political dirt on Hillary Clinton. Two months later, when leaked Democratic emails began appearing online (none of which, by the way, rose to the level of “dirt” on Hillary), Australian officials passed the information about Papadopoulos to their American officials. This information supposedly led the FBI to open an investigation in July 2016 into Russia’s attempts to disrupt the election and whether any of President Trump’s associates conspired.

I assume the Times’ report was fed to it by current and/or former FBI officials and/or others in the Obama administration with an interest in dismissing the role of the dossier. This doesn’t mean the story is false. It may well be true.

However, Byron York raises some important questions:

(1) If Papadopoulos actions drove FBI probe, why wait til nearly Feb 2017 to interview him? If done to keep probe quiet before election, why wait more than two months after vote?

(2) When did officials brief Congress about Papadopoulos? They briefed Congress about Carter Page in late summer 2016.

(3) Did officials seek a surveillance warrant on Papadopoulos? They reportedly got one on Carter Page in summer 2016. Did they try to get one on Papadopoulos? If not, why not?

Byron adds that he’s not saying Papadopoulos played no role in the FBI’s decision to investigate. However, he questions whether the aide’s role was as central in starting FBI probe in July 2016 as the Times and its sources want us to believe.

It’s also important to remember that the question of whether the dossier prompted, or helped lead to, the FBI investigation is separate from the question of what role the dossier played when the Justice Department obtained a warrant from the FISA court to engage in electronic surveillance of members of Trump’s team.

   PowerLine -> From the Carlos Danger files + Power Line’s Top Posts of 2017 PowerLine -> From the Carlos Danger files + Power Line’s Top Posts of 2017 Daily Digest…

[braindamageforbeginners]

Cycle 5, Day 1

A friend recently asked me why I wasn’t writing a novel based on my experiences, and I could only say I didn’t really know how it would end. She pointed out that I was a reasonably imaginative person; but the reason why I’m writing this is because so much of what happens is beyond comprehension, let alone imagination, that just trying to imagine it would be disingenuous and/or a disservice to anyone else trying to figure out how to do it (in this case, it’s a couple of comments that I never would have expected myself to make; albeit in a “Good God, I never realized I was that witty” way). We’ll get there shortly. AUTHOR’S NOTE: I am presenting this particular reminiscence in the logical order, not the actual temporal order in which they occurred, because the way it actually happened is almost too chaotic for me to keep track of, let alone make fun (basically, I spent a lot of the day retracing steps because there was a hold-up getting lab results, and the chemo nurses and pharmacy don’t do anything without those labs).

The first day of every cycle is, scheduling and logistics-wise, a bit difficult (I’m refraining from using a certain synonym for “disaster” that involves four-letter words out of respect for some of my religious friends who may be reading), since everyone wants a piece of you, almost literally. I get blood-draws, a consult with one of the Warlocks (or their legal representative, as it were), and an infusion (which takes two hours in and of itself). Today was made a little harder because Senior Warlock is usually the one who oversees me, but he was out for the day, and he is old-school in a lot of ways (there was a line in the immortal neurosurgery memoir, “When the Air Hits Your Brain” that “the most incompetent bedside disaster [on behalf of a physician] is better-received than the most expert-managed care by phone”); definitely in that he wants to lay hands on me directly before clearing me for another round of chemo. Although I’d say that Junior Warlock is probably equal in terms of competence, he actually tends to read what various nurses, tests, PAS, etc. tell him before actually coming in the room. Which means there’s a lot of people who I see before Junior Warlock is ever on-scene, and there’s not a whole lot left for him to do/test by the time he arrives (unless something’s wrong), apart from a quick once-over. Don’t get me wrong, if there’s a problem or question or complaint, he’ll move on it, but if I’m just showing up to get medical clearance and everything’s going well, I only see him for ten minutes. Which is fine, but it’s kind of a let-down after 40-some minutes of assorted technical staff and assistants filter through to get a quick once-over for medical clearance.

At the joint blood-draw/IV installation, the nurse found my radial vein (that’s twice in a six-month period; that’s pretty good) on the first try. Which is great news for me; the farther from my shoulder and neck they go, the better time I seem to have the next day, side-effects-wise. I guess there’s a reason nurses don’t go for it more often, though: NURSE: I think I can get that vein, but are you sure? We’re going to rip out a lot of [arm] hair when we take the tape off, SELF (unexpected line #1): Given what I’m paying for this, I’d say that you guys can throw in a free Brazilian wax. I realize that cancer wards aren’t exactly comedy clubs, but I almost feel bad for making that poor woman laugh that much over a vaguely-dirty joke. Come on, cancer patients, I can not be the only one in there trying to use humor as a defense/coping mechanism. Then I got handed off to another nurse: OTHER NURSE: Is there anything I can get you? SELF: I always ask you guys for a steak and a carton of cigarettes, I’m already paying the price for that lifestyle, I might as well enjoy it. OTHER NURSE: I think we have juice and some crackers around here. I suppose that’s sort of like steak. SELF (unexpected line #2): Yeah, if you have never seen or heard of steak. Apart from that, the perfusion was unremarkable.

What is worth note is that, due to an odd schedule glitch, I didn’t have to be in the hospital until 12 pm, which enabled me to get a good nights’ sleep. Or it would’ve, if not for the nasty tendency of the sun in SoCal to come up at 4 am and start burning a hole through my eye sockets. I’m exaggerating that, but it’s kind of what it feels like, especially since I have have a weird, glitchy diurnal pattern thanks to the chemo. Also, getting injection that late means I might sleep through the worstest/weirdest side-effects, although I’ll be waking up tomorrow with Temodar in my veins (for those of you wondering, standard chemo for brain cancer comes in massive horse pills that you choke down ten minutes before bed, so you wake up all lemony-fresh and not severely-possibly-fatally hungover at all)(this effect gets worse as the week wears on, because you take Temodar for the first five nights of each treatment cycle).

Anyway, since I’m staying up a few extra hours tonight, let’s celebrate my almost-functioning brain by doing some math. Depending on whose data you use, brain tumors/cancer have an occurrence rate of 1-5 per one hundred thousand patients. We’ll use the upper-end of that (which, I think, is the CDC’s 2014 data), which, as a decimal, is 0.00005. Now, in the last few weeks, I’ve been contacted by a few folks with parents getting brain tumors/cancer (they weren’t always specific), and I know of at least another friend with a brain cancer-plagued mother. Including me, that’s four people I know of or have heard of. with brain cancer. I realize we’re jumping way over Dunbar’s number (the hypothetical upper limit of “maintainable relationships” - or, in practice, “people you know”), but rounding my social media friends up to 500 (the folks in question contacted me that way, but I have personally met all of them, so I figure the math might sort of even out) and assuming everyone has two parents gives me a rate of 4/1500, or, a brain cancer rate of 0.00267 in my immediate sphere of influence (I like to call it the Splash Zone, but that’s just me). That’s over 50 times the upper CDC estimates. Admittedly, this is all self-selecting, and I’m a statistical outlier already, but it does make me suspect that we’ve either been dramatically low-balling prior estimates of brain cancer, or there’s something new in the water (lead, if you live in Michigan). Or, as I suggested, the Baby Boomers are just getting into their carcinogenic prime; but it does offer a glimmer of hope (in a weird, almost-parasitic way, I’ll admit) that there’s going to be a massive influx of GBM patients. Which is good for current brain cancer patients (sort of), because it might mean more political and economic incentive to do something about this accursed disease. Certainly there’ll be enough patients to provide better statistical data than we’re seeing. Of course, that could just be the experimental chemo finally catching up to me.

[braindamageforbeginners]

Week 4, day 30, radiation dose 20

I am now two-thirds of the way through the initial treatment, without any severely debilitating symptoms (knock on wood). I still feel like some poor creature that was killed and then reanimated by black magic, but if feeling like a 900-year-old man is the worst of it, I’ll take it, for now. Ideally, of course, I’d be a multibillionaire with telekinesis, or even, y’know, just healthy, but you have to pace yourself, and, compared to the truly awful possibilities out there, sometimes you just have to celebrate that they haven’t come to pass. I’m still losing my hair, though, so there’s definitely a lot of room for improvement. And I’m still tired. And successfully navigating the medical industrial complex is still pretty much a full-time job - make note of that one, future cancer patients, you’re going to want some sort of administrative assistant or the ability to devote all your time and energy to staying healthy, or there’s a good chance you won’t make it. However, in the case of today, all major bureaucratic problems until Tuesday-ish have been solved, which freed up some time to work on... other bureaucratic medical problems. Namely, scheduling appointments, consultations, etc. over the next couple of months. BUT, everyone was quite agreeable, no decisions were set in stone, and, as everyone pointed out, I had time to change my mind and/or rearrange things, should it come to that (it also helped that I spent all my time talking to humans, and not billing personnel). The Italian journalist Beppe Severgnini once wrote that the favorite past-time of Italians living in America was dealing with American bureaucracy - he compare it to turning a matador loose on a milk cow, and, after months of double-crossing, gnashing of teeth, and instant-death decisions, I understand the appeal (for the Italians) for dealing with calm, reasonable people toward a mutually-shared goal without any ulterior (read: profit) motives. It was unbelievably boring.

Reader, you can not even begin to imagine how much I miss feeling bored. My life has been a non-stop hellscape of decisions, crises, interruptions, negotiations, etc. for the last three months. I’ve been pretty good about being able to find time to get to the gym and shower and attend to the basic matters of life, but that was always just a brief break in the festivities. Now, I’m under no illusions - I’m well aware that the train will get moving again all too soon, and my continued existence will once again depend on my ability to get forms filled out in a timely manner.and/or lie to billing agents. Which sucks, but, for a few hours today, I didn’t have to worry at all about it. It was amazing. Make no mistake, I still have greater ambitions (or did, anyway) than merely feeling like death isn’t imminent, but I’ll take that sensation, for now (of course, writing that gives me the rather distinct sensation that there’s a meteor about to strike me, but one day at a time).

A large part of that has to do with the fact that, for the moment, I am completely locked-in and unable to make any real course adjustments one way or another, for next couple of weeks (again, knock on wood). And that kind of sucks, but it did make me realize why we’re such unrepentant jerks all the time (people, I mean). It feels so much better to do stuff than think. I realize that’s hardly an original thought, but most people don’t have the weird perspective of going from Hamlet to Macbeth in the space of a month (those were the two characters one of my English teachers used to describe the extremes at Shakespeare’s continuum between thinking and acting). It’s definitely easier and less straining on the little gray cells to do things mindlessly. You will definitely have a happier life if that’s your primary response to challenges (to act without forethought). Now, whether you live a longer life with that sort of response, well; I don’t have any particular insight into that, yet. But, rest assured, folks, when  I figure that out, I’ll let you know, too. Still, it felt good to just sit for an hour or two this afternoon.

Oh, yeah, other good news; Research Coordinator told me that he (or his lackeys) can get started on the paperwork to reinstate my license in a week or so, which is the fist step to becoming a real boy. AND, he implied that I might be responsible for the warning on the drug “may cause muscle pain and soreness near injection site.” So, I will have some sort of lasting legacy.

Anyway... WEIGHT: 100 kilos CONCENTRATION: Pretty good. I navigated today’s challenges without any major set-backs, but, I’ll be the first to admit, today wasn’t terribly challenging. MEMORY: Pretty good, but, again, there wasn’t any good way to assess that. APPETITE: Good. I’m not eating as much as I did yesterday, but I’m hardly wasting away. ACTIVITY LEVEL: Lousy. I spent most of today sitting. I probably could’ve gotten to the gym, but I had another nasty chemo hang-over that made me think twice (and I’ve gone every other day this week). And I’m still moving like a tortoise in a snow-storm (I mean, I probably could move faster, but it’s not like you get points for speed at this point in my life). Still, all the nurses and techs at the radiation center (where I go for treatment on a daily basis) know me as “that gym guy,” so I guess I’m doing alright overall. “The gym guy” beats the hell out of “the guy with the freaky mange haircut” as far as reps go. SLEEP QUALITY: Weird. I got to bed at 11 last night, slept for a few hours, then got up to use the bathroom and get some water (again, constant hydration is crucial to keeping the worstest side effects of temodar at bay), except I didn’t get back to sleep until 5 am. Then I slept until 9. I got a full-night’s sleep, but in a very disjointed, inefficient fashion. Still, it beats flat-out insomnia. COORDINATION/DEXTERITY: Very good, but I didn’t even have to deal with anything more taxing than shoelaces PHYSICAL: I still have nasty hangover symptoms and fatigue, and my right arm feels nasty. And the right side of my scalp feels nuclear-y and itchy; BUT, the radiation staff sent me home with some Aquaphor samples (there’s a 92-page instruction manual that they send you home with on day 1 of radiation - I am not making this up, and I’m only slightly exaggerating its length or uselessness - that has a very, very long list of things you can and can not put on your head; I just figured it would be easier, faster, and healthier for all parties to simply ask the radiation techs for advice). So, I’ll let everyone know if that works SIDE EFFECTS: I’m still losing hair. And I still feel lousy. And my right arm feels like it got caught in a car door recently. But apart from all that, I’m more or less my usual self. 

[braindamageforbeginners]

Hangover Cures

Week 2, Day 11

In a conversation with a friend last night, I discovered that I might come off as somewhat negative (or, excessively negative, to be more precise). Also, in her defense, this wasn’t anything she accused me of, it was just something that struck me after the conversation. Anyway, even though I’ve been somewhat gloomy as of late, and even though no one would ever accuse me of being a cheerful, happy individual - at any point in my life - I’m not wallowing in self-pity to the extent that these little records might indicate. I’m not happy or well-adjusted, but I’m not walking around spreading gloom. It’s possible I’ve unintentionally endorsed that idea by focusing on what I’ve lost, or what’s on the way out the door, rather than what I’ve gained.

First of all, this whole Morrie Shwartz, “I lost a normal, independent existence, but I gained friendship” BS isn’t really me, and, in cancer, you don’t want to gain stuff - that’s the entire point of cutting, burning, and poisoning yourself (or bits of yourself). BUT - and, future generations hoping to triumph over brain diseases, this bit’s absolutely critical - brain damage (and its effects) is usually way too subtle for someone to notice on their own. I’ve done this two times before; I will absolutely stand by this. The first time I got neurosurgery, it took me almost ten years just to figure out what was missing from me, cognitively speaking. The second time, it took less than a month, because I went in before the surgery for a complete series of various tests and scans to record a base-line. This time, because the disease has moved far faster than I can, I didn’t have that luxury, but, because the worstest damage is predicted to occur slowly over weeks and months, I have to be hyper-vigilant, and get some documentation on each deficit as it occurs, while it’s occurring. Think of it like tax returns, or any other legal document (which is also important in dealing with insurance companies) - you want to be able to tell your doctor exactly what you’re having trouble with, how frequently, and with as much detail as you can. That’s important for any medical ailment - if you go in and complain that your leg hurts, they can’t really do much until they get more details. Same goes with brain damage - the better, and more-accurate documentation you have of various problems, the better the chance you have of making it back from the edge. Like I wrote previously, this is just as much a tool to help me save myself as it is a reference for everyone else in a similar situation. Who’s the pessimist now?

Speaking of providing guidance to future generations, I will be exploring various hangover cures at various points in these dispatches, since I’m waking with a four-star hangover pretty much every day, as you would expect when a body is exposed to dangerous amounts of radiation and toxins on a regular basis. A brief word; although I am open to most suggestions in this area, I will absolutely not be trying the “Hair of the Dog” cure; I’m already at full-capacity with regard to my toxin/radiation intake, and I’m absolutely not going to increase that unless my life depends on it (even then, there’s a solid chance I’d refuse and just die instead of reenact Benjamin Button). The good news is, with a significant amount of water and coffee (more water than coffee, but I’m not going to judge anyone’s preferences), I can (you, too, probably) live a somewhat-normal existence.

This morning, however, I woke up and immediately regretted it. I’m pretty sure that’s the experimental chemo drug I’m taking; it makes life extra-unpleasant for two or three days after each dose. However, I do know that, sometimes, it takes a little extra something to go from whimpering in a supine position to upright and functioning. Fortunately, lots of zofran and Tylenol do wonders, especially with some grease and protein. Just as fortunately, my younger brother was only too happy to indulge this request, and took me to a local, German-owned (and German-themed) butcher’s shop/restaurant. A brief aside; this development may come as a bit of a surprise to anyone who knows me personally, as I’ve been a vegetarian for the last eleven years. I, uh, “converted” back in 2006 after deciding that heart disease was no way to die; I fell off the wagon shortly after surgery #3, after realizing that diet doesn’t do anything, you don’t get any bonus points for maintaining a healthy diet if you die of cancer before forty, and, perhaps most importantly, if I’m going to meet the reaper, I want to do it with a Porterhouse in one hand an a beer in the other (since that realization, I’ve been trying to atone for eleven misspent years), and a trip to a European butcher’s shop seemed like both a good place for breakfast, and a way to make a solid dent in that pile of bacon I was owed for good behavior. You might want to know the difference between a “European-style” butcher’s, and... well, we don’t have much in the way of specialty stores in today’s box-store-obsessed world, but you can find Norman Rockwell paintings of what American butchers’ stores were like (there was also a lot of sexism, racism, classism, and xenophobia that’s not accurately portrayed in those paintings, but, thankfully, those are no longer issues we have to deal with). Folks, I want you to imagine a place where every imaginable cut of meat - and several unimaginable ones - is on display, alongside Swiss chocolate, and British beer. It was like that scene in Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory, where Gene Wilder lets everyone into that room where everything is made of sugar; I was frolicking. Until my brother pointed out that the other customers were going to have us arrested for inappropriate behavior, so we made our way to the restaurant section. I do not know how I reached 33 years without any solid memories of eating steak and eggs for breakfast, but I would heartily recommend it for any and all occasions (especially if you’ve recently crunched the numbers and realized you’re going to have to fit 30-40 years’ of vices into a 10-year life-expectancy), but it does do wonders for a chemo hangover. Unfortunately, the coffee was not up to my high standards, and that’s an important aspect in one’s quality of life. Fortunately, I’m in a large metropolis, and finding good coffee is but the work of a Google search on the smart phone, so I was more or less my usual misanthropic-but-witty self in short order. By that point, I had to return home to lie on a hot rock and digest for a few hours (also, my father and step-mother ditched us and went to the gym without giving anyone time to grab their gym shorts and shoes, which, now that I think on it, is a brilliant way to get some time away from your spawn). Fortunately, they threw a few steaks into my pit for dinner, so all is well. And, thanks to the new year’s holidays, I don’t have any more treatments until Wednesday (I got the radioactive spa treatment today, however).

Anyway... WEIGHT: No idea; I haven’t been weighed in a few days. However, based on today’s shenanigans, I’ve probably gained five or six pounds (about two or three kilos). CONCENTRATION: Pretty good.. MEMORY: Not bad, although I have misplaced a few items in the past 24 hours, which I tend to do a fair amount of the time. APPETITE: Excellent. Although I might be eating to shift my focus away from other discomforts. But I think that just makes me American. ACTIVITY LEVEL: Not great, but not bad. I mean, I did spend a fair chunk of the day racing around and eating stuff, which puts me on the same level as the Tasmanian Devil. SLEEP QUALITY: Extremely poor. The experimental serum tends to amplify the side-effects of all my other treatments, and, in the case of temodar, that means I spent an hour last night holding my sides and feeling like John Hurt’s character in the noted rom-com, Alien. I didn’t puke though, so, go zofran. COORDINATION/DEXTERITY: Pretty good, but my left hand has definitely been underperforming all day. PHYSICAL: Nothing’s falling off, but I am now very photophobic, and I have a nasty splitting headache along the suture lines of surgery #3 - it’s almost as bad as immediately after the surgery. Fortunately, double-doses of Tylenol makes it bearable, but I am acutely aware the minute that wears off. SIDE EFFECTS: Apart from the hangover-symptoms, insomnia, headache, general mental sluggishness (which might be due to insomnia and hangovers), and the growing body of seemingly-innocent mental errors and incidents that are insidiously growing, I’m in top form.

Also, on a personal note, best of luck to my brother, who came down from the Pacific Northwest to hold my hand for a week. And thanks to a friend from my undergrad days who made a donation in my name to a cancer center. Thank you, ma’am.

[braindamageforbeginners]

One Week Down

Sort of. Kind of. I started treatment on Tuesday, but that’s going to be hard to keep track of, especially since most of the side-effects, hazards, and treatment timelines are, shall we say, rather vague. The worstest side effects are predicted to show up between weeks two and three (huh?), and the predicted side effects range from “stubbed toe” to “struck dead by lightning” (you only think I’m joking; if you actually read the waivers you sign before you’re admitted to a clinical trial, they’re unnerving, to say the least). And there’s the greater issue of the whole year of intermittent chemo before I get any solid results. Which marks the start of a five-year period before I can be considered “cured,” so, y’know, anywhere between, oh, 1-317 weeks (that calculation includes the nasty possibility that my parole doesn’t start until the initial six week period is finished). Children can go from conception to literacy in less time. But, one day at a time and all that.

Speaking of which, the first week went fairly well. Apart from being lethargic and hung over all the time, I mean (which really irritates me; if I have a hang-over, I at least want to feel like I’ve earned it)(with the way I feel when I wake up, I’d have to dip into heroin before I felt like this in civilian life). It also occurred to me that a fair amount of the side-effects of brain cancer treatment might just be racked up to the patient suffering the symptoms of influenza for several months. Yeah, we usually have neurological/psychological symptoms like personality changes and problems with memory and focus, but wouldn’t anyone, after six weeks of poor sleep and suffering flu-like symptoms constantly? Now, to be fair, my doctors have been consistent in asking me how I’m feeling, but they only saw me on Tuesday, and I’m not scheduled to see them until after Christmas, and they’ve made their after-hours numbers and staff available to me, but I’m not the sort of person who’d call for a general, low-grade crappy-feeling (an additional benefit of my proposed “You have cancer, help yourself to a vicodin prescription” is that it would stop these minor-but-still-unpleasant symptoms before they occurred). Another bonus of being in clinical trials is that the doctors and/or the pharmaceutical companies have an incentive to monitor you much more carefully than the average steak slab; I was actually interrogating Cute Radiation Tech (again, I’m going to preserve everyone’s anonymity as long as I can) about the radiation/cancer treatment overlap (”headache and nausea” are symptoms both of brain cancer growing, and aggressive radiation treatment)(try not to think about that particular zen koan too long or your nose will bleed). She told me not to worry too much about it, as physicians pay very close attention to clinical trial patients. Good news; I’ve figured out how to curtail the worst hang-over symptoms. Bad news is, it involves drinking so much water that you’ll go to the bathroom 10 times in the middle of the night. Good news is, that means less time for nightmares, which have been frequent and intense (I know that’s shocking). Anyway, if things go as well as they did this week, I’d say I can do it; the caveat is, there was a noticeable decline in my well-being as the week progressed, and that’s likely to increase (or decrease, I’m not sure which is grammatically appropriate) until I hit Week 6. Thanks to the holidays, I have four days off before the next radiation series starts (I didn’t factor that into my calculations), so I may or may not update this blog on those days. We’ll see.

Anyway...

WEIGHT: No clue; I didn’t have a chance to weigh myself. CONCENTRATION: Meh. I completed writing this, but other tasks are much harder. MEMORY: Not too bad. I remembered Cute Radiation Tech’s name, so, it comes and goes (I am very aware that the description of “it comes and goes” describes the mental abilities of patients with dementia). APPETITE: Good. ACTIVITY LEVEL: Not bad; I went on some brief walks. I could’ve gone to the gym, but it was too inconvenient (family members are visiting for the holidays). SLEEP QUALITY: Apart from the nightmares and constant trips to the bathroom, not bad at all. COORDINATION/DEXTERITY: I’ve noticed some difficulty with tasks requiring fine motor coordination, and I’ve slipped once or twice. PHYSICAL: I feel like I have a hang-over and the flu, so I’m somewhat diminished in this regard. SIDE EFFECTS: The zofran and constant hydration took care of the worstest chemo side effects. I got that nasty, muscle-cramp sensation in my shoulders this afternoon, and it’s subsided to a very minor ache-y sensation, but it’s easily ignored.  

[braindamageforbeginners]

Week 1, Day 1, Treatment 1

I’m back home, after a day at the hospital. If things continue at the current rate, well, I’ll probably be dead in the near-future (median life-expectancy of GBM patients is 14 months), but at least I’ll make a dent in the reading list.

I began my day with a potentially dangerous, experimental drug. I’m going to focus on the positive and think that this is a step closer to being Hunter S. Thompson, and try to forget the fact that the nurse had to put on protective laboratory gear before handling something that she then injected into my veins. Also, because I’d been warned about keeping super-hydrated throughout this process (and because I have hard-to-find veins), I’d been chugging Gatorade since I rolled out of bed, so hooking me up to an IV  to hydrate me was just gilding the lily. Or over-filling the water balloon, to be more accurate. Anyway, apart from spending a disturbing amount of time, uh, let’s say, “discarding” all that excess fluid, there aren’t too many side-effects worth reporting (we’ll get to that shortly). Admittedly, spending about ten minutes peeing after 18 hours being pumped full of an unknown substance is disturbing, but if that’s the worst I suffer today, I’ll count it as a victory. However, the day is not over, and I have not taken my bed-time chemo drugs, and, as Herodotus wrote, “Judge no man fortunate until he is dead.”

However, as far as side-effects, I’m not too worried about vomiting any more. The nameless anti-nausea drug is amazingly effective; like, I could easily see myself becoming addicted to this stuff. Not because there’s any sort of fun, psychedelic effect, but because I hate puking, and this medication is so effective that I think I could wolf down a rotting raccoon carcass without any side effects (other than contracting rabies, I mean). Obviously, I’ll be putting that to the test over the coming weeks, but life would seem to have improved significantly in that regard (and, I’ve been told the chemo side-effects should be further lessened if I continue my extreme hydration-regimen).

I am, however, experiencing some side-effects; I feel bad, but not horrible. Specifically, my muscles feel sore and cramp-y, which, while unpleasant, isn’t the worst I was fearing. And, according my mad scientist oncologist (specifically, my Southern California Mad Scientist Oncologist), side-effects are indicative that the miracle drug is working well. And, based on how my muscles feel, it’s working. The major complaint, apart from lethargy, is, I shit you not, hallucinations. So, I plan to spend tomorrow lying on the couch, being tormented by my subconscious. This is different from normal because now there will be a visual component, and I’ll have a note from my doctor (also, I’ll eventually have to pry myself off the couch and get irradiated). Also, the worstest side-effects aren’t predicted to show up until week 2 or week 3; bad news is, they don’t think I’ll start recovering until week 10. Worse news - much, much worse news - is, after the six-ish weeks of radiation (for those of you keeping count, I have 30 radiation appointments, but since they don’t work on weekends, that works out to six weeks; and chemo every single day throughout), assuming that’s successful, I’ll get on a chemotherapy rotation, which means I’ll get three weeks off, and one week of chemo, for a whole year. FOR. ONE. WHOLE. YEAR. Which means, at my current life expectancy, I’ll be on some sort of unpleasant drugs for the rest of my life. Still, as I’m very aware, the phrase, “we’re extending treatment” is vastly preferable to the phrase, “we’re stopping treatment because it’s not working.” Also, if I do lose any hair, the clinicians think it’ll be in a very small, specific spot. Still, adding even another unpleasant side-effect seems excessively cruel.

And, I got some very reassuring signs today regarding my physicians. I never had any reason to doubt their competence, but, I have survived three tumors (so far) for fifteen years (the breakdown is; I got tumor #1 removed fifteen years ago, since then, I’ve had two more tumors), but it’s always good to have that confidence affirmed. Before I get there, a brief restatement to all future cancer patients (and humans in general); I’ve said it before, the crucial difference between a fatal disease and a dangerous disease is your medical team. Do not screw around with this, your life will depend upon it; do some research (Yelp does not count), and go straight to the best (the actual best, not the “Trump Steak” best). We now continue with the anecdote currently in progress.

During one of my many, many administrative/clerical intake interviews/vital signs monitoring sessions, an aide asked who my oncologists were, and I said, “Drs. X and Y,” and she, “Oh, they’re the best.” Now, it’s always possible - especially since we have a commander-in-chief who is hell-bent on destroying superlatives - that she was exaggerating, or just saying it because they bought her coffee or something, but, I know from fifteen years on the receiving end of modern medicine, that the nurses and administrative staff are usually where the buck stops, and they know a lot more than they let on, so their endorsements are usually reliable. Also, immediately prior to my serum injection, I was visited by Research Coordinator (and, to preserve everyone’s anonymity, I’m going to be extremely vague), who assured me that they only test drugs that are extremely promising. Which seemed like a regurgitation of Bioethics 101, until he also admitted that my oncology team will occasionally accept money to test drugs they know won’t work, then weasel out of that commitment through various medicolegal means and just keep the money. That might be some sort of standard, cancer research hack, but it’s still brilliant. And, even if they weren’t acting within the bounds of the law, there’s not a jury that would ever convict them.

As far as the radiation treatment, it went mostly-fine. To dwell on the negative (or to forewarn all future brain cancer patients), the weird plastic-mask thing is the most disturbingly claustrophobic thing I’ve ever encountered. I thought it was freaked out about it when they were fitting me for it, and it felt like some sort of weird fetish. Now, it feels like being smothered. The good news is, if you can resist the impulse to panic, and just remember to breathe, it’s not too bad after the initial shock (hopefully, that’s applicable to all my experiences over the next year). So, if you have claustrophobia or a fear of being smothered (a greater-than-average fear of being smothered, let us say), I’d definitely recommend asking about sedation beforehand. Hell, I’d ask about sedation the minute you get a cancer diagnosis, but especially look into it if you have claustrophobia and you’re getting radiation treatment and/or MRIs.

Anyway...

WEIGHT: about 210 lb (95-ish kilos). There were some fluctuations throughout the day (I got weighed several times throughout the day) between 209 lb to 217 lb, but that’s explained by both the incredible amount of fluids I’ve consumed throughout the day and whether I remembered to remove my shoes. CONCENTRATION: Pretty good; I made some decent headway in the Wodehouse novel I’m reading, even while being pumped full of saline and super-soldier serum (which is really saying something, because I really needed to use the restroom during that whole process). MEMORY: Not bad. I’m still missing or forgetting occasional stuff, which is a little upsetting, but I can still quote pertinent studies I read a few years ago. APPETITE: Decreased, but I’m still eating. I’ve also been drinking way too much water and/or Gatorade, and I started the day with a large, bacon-egg sandwich (heart disease be damned), and all that would chip away at the appetite even before factoring stress and experimental drugs in. ACTIVITY LEVEL: Normal. Normal-ish. I’m feeling sluggish now, at 9 pm, after a long day spent in waiting rooms, so it’s not like I turned down the opportunity to go jogging because I was feeling poorly (spoilers: I only ever run when being chased, or when I’m late for a plane). SLEEP QUALITY: Pretty good, for me. I got eight-ish hours of sleep last night, which is great for someone about to start cancer treatments, but I still have a big sleep debt. COORDINATION/DEXTERITY: Not bad, but I’m very slightly wobbly when finishing tasks/movements that require coordination. Starting them and the middle, I’m fine with, for some reason. PHYSICAL: Very much the same as yesterday, which is good. No new headaches or body-based symptoms, and the eternal suture-headache is quite tolerable. SIDE EFFECTS: The muscles in my upper body hurt. A lot. But it’s no worse than if I’d gone to the gym with someone named “Biff,” so I suppose I shouldn’t gripe too much, but it still hurts. And I can’t take aspirin, because I’m already at risk for bleeding thanks to the damned chemo drugs (I guess that’s my pain level - “Needs aspirin and will complain bitterly if deprived, but will survive without”). I’m peeing a lot - an awful lot - but I’m also keeping extremely hydrated, so I’m not sure that’s a side-effect. I feel oddly alert - like I’ve had half an espresso - but my body isn’t moving fast enough to keep up with my mind. It might seem excessively negative to keep track like this, but I actually intend to take careful notes in this area and send them all to my researchers at the end of all this.