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"Kids, listen." Stan said. "This town is crazy. So you need to be careful. I don't know what I'd do with myself if you got hurt on my watch. I'll let you hold on to that spooky journal, as long as you promise me you'll only use it for self-defense, and not go looking for trouble."
"Okay, as long as you promise me that you don't have any other bombshell secrets about this town." Dipper replied.
"Promise."
"Promise."
'Yeah,' thought Stan. 'no more bombshell secrets. Except that I'm not Stanford Pines. I'm Stanley, the dead one. Hell, they may not even KNOW about me! Shermie was what, eleven, twelve, when I "died". Why tell 'em about the no-good, useless black sheep of the family, the one that ruins everything he touches? Oh, and Stanford Pines is lost, pushed through a dimensional portal by ME, the screw-up. And Grunkle Stan was married once, for six whole hours, to a gold-digging bitch who only wanted to steal my car. Or that I've done time in three countries. Or that I used to rob banks and count cards with a dimension hopping, alcoholic lunatic. Damn it, I'm so CLOSE! I almost have Stanford back! I can't let these kids get in the way! To be fair, none of these are bombshell secrets about the TOWN. Wow, Stan. You're good at rationalizing. Yes, I am.'
"Man, we have got a lot of zombie damage to clean up. Where's my handyman anyway?" Stan muttered.