Chapter Text
"Stan wrong song..." said embodiment of gruff smoke and mirrors concealing a heart of-- not gold, but some kind of bronze alloy, grumbled under his breath, in a vain attempt to drain the dregs of country music stubbornly sitting in his ears. Those dumb vanilla banjo riffs rang in your head for days. On the bright side, they had yet to cause him to wrap the car around a tree. As a matter of fact, he was absolutely certain he had no clue where they were going. Mabel's directions consisted of 'never eat soggy waffles so yeah, waffles.' He hoped that she meant west, but maybe she was speaking in limericks. Pre-teen girl limericks.
Maybe Waffles was some kind of skeevy stalker from the Internet who'd convinced sweet darling Mabel that he was a Backstroke Boy or something. Good thing Stan had his brass knuckles in one of the compartments in his fez, as usual. Dipper certainly didn't inherit his need to be prepared to the hilt from his quasi-ditzy dad. Not to rip on Jeremiah, who was also astronomically considerate and brilliant in a scholarly way. Sometimes, he simply forgot key components of his day. Like car keys. Or shoes. The survival that comes with not drinking Mabel Juice.
"Are we there yet?" Juice Queen herself inquired in that desperate, stretched out yowl that only children and young animals can achieve. "I have no idea. If you wanted 100 percent unrealistic GPS clarity, you should've drove." "YUS!" Mabel lunged for the wheel. "NO!" Stan screamed along with Dipper (whose knuckles were bone white around his large book) as he steered with one hand and batted away Mabel's grabby ones with the other. "You owe me thirty dollars in gas money as it is. And fifty for the almost heart attack."
She was pouting; he could feel it despite the dissonance with her cheerful sweater (yellow, with music notes). "It was your idea," she protested weakly.
"Overall, this episode was YOUR idea," Dipper commented, putting a huge dent in the premise of her argument with his sledgehammer of reasoning. "Maybe you should tell Stan where we're going. Correction: are."
Stan grimaced as the Northwest Mansion unfurled into view. Of course; it was the only thing west of Gravity Falls short of the Pacific Ocean. That name again. Why the devil would anyone name their kid after their back-porch property? Did they just not care? Stan himself might be somewhat conniving, but at least he didn't call the kids "Woodpile" and "Gompers". "You kids have some 'splainin' to do," he uttered darkly.