"The last few days have been pretty stressful. I think it's time we took a day off, eh?" Stanford grinned lopsidedly at his assistant, showing him a small ad in the newspaper he'd been skimming through.

"A carnival?" Fiddleford asked, squinting at the paper. "That sounds fun. You know I love those!" He smiled back at Stanford, who nodded.

"Yes, I do. Remember all the times you tried to convince me to go with you to them when we were in college?"

"Of course." Fiddleford's smile turned to a sheepish one at the memory. Then he raised an eyebrow. "You hate them, though. Why would you want to go to one, especially on a day off?" Stanford shrugged.

"As much as I despise all the fake attractions that only serve to bring in cash for those money-grabbing carnies, there are occasionally some real anomalies scattered few and far between. I'll bring my journal along, and then I can, hopefully, find some more information." He paused then, looking thoughtful. "And who knows, one of those creatures may be the breakthrough I need. Maybe today's the day I finally figure out the connection between all the bits of weirdness here in Gravity Falls."

Stanford and Fiddleford split up almost immediately after arriving at the carnival. Fiddleford took off towards the pig races to place bets. Upon seeing the animals, Fiddleford began to think about the probability of each pig being the first across the finish line. Two of the seven had uneven legs lengths, it surely would not be them. Others had obvious deformities that would affect their ability to run quickly, such as five legs or a too-large head. It didn't take long to figure out who would be the winner, and not five minutes later, Fiddleford was walking away with a sizeable wad of cash in his pocket. For an hour or two, he walked around without seeing Stanford anywhere, but he was okay with that. It was quite relaxing to be able to go where he pleased, to not be tied down by anything, just for a day. Once or twice he played a game, but he didn't end up with any prizes. He did, however, see an interesting looking carny fiddling with some parts of a Ferris wheel. He had tattoos all over his head, and his small amount of long hair was pulled into a ponytail at the back of his head. Intrigued, Fiddleford walked over.

Meanwhile, Stanford was wandering rather aimlessly between the tents, concessions, and merchant stands, not having half as much fun as his colleague. His hopes of discovering that there were in fact, legitimate oddities at this fair, were shattered instantly upon his arrival. Every last attraction was fake, with most of them being quite obviously so. And yet, the townsfolk seemed smitten and intrigued by them. It seemed to Stanford that everything here had been designed specifically to tick off or annoy him.

Geez, talk about false advertising, eh, Stanford? Everything here is a joke. A familiar voice sounded in his head, and Stanford couldn't help but smile. He was being visited by that wise being from another plane of existence, a god of sorts that resided in the Mindscape. The Muse had told him when they met that Stanford was different; he was special. Every century, the triangular being chose one astonishingly brilliant mind to inspire, and amazingly, the Muse had chosen him. Often he felt like his Muse was the only one who could truly understand him as intimately as he did himself. At least his Muse could appreciate what he was going through at this stupid carnival.

"I've noticed, trust me." Stanford thought, directing the words towards the Muse, and his partner's laughter echoed through his head for a moment, warm and benevolent.

This is why I like you. Few humans are as intuitive as you, Stanford. The man beamed with pride at his Muse's words. Then he saw something that made him pause.

"A palm reader?" He asked aloud, reading from a sign. "Ha. Right."

Don't bother. She's just a homeless old witch trying to make some cash. Again, the Muse was projecting his own thoughts into Stanford's mind.

"I know." Stanford thought for a moment. "Wouldn't it be something if I could expose her as a fraud..?" He wondered.

I'm telling you, Stanford, don't do this. It's a waste of time! She only wants your money.

But Stanford had already walked into the tent, pulling a five dollar bill from his wallet. As soon as he did so, the voice of the Muse quieted.

"Welcome..." a scratchy voice reverberated around the tent, which smelled strongly of incense. Stanford looked around and saw a small table to his right which held a crystal ball. An old and gnarled woman sat there grinning, and in her hands were several decks of tarot cards. "What took you so long, Sixer?" She asked with a small cackle building in her throat. Hearing the name sent a chill down Stanford's spine as he reluctantly sat across from her. Before he could ask how she knew that nickname, she emptied one of the deck of tarot cards onto the table, separating four from the group. As she flipped each one over, her expression changed. But upon seeing the last card, she screamed.

"Someone very close to you is deceiving you. You have chosen the wrong allies. You will lead two lives and both of them too short.. unless you change now." Her tone was one of fear and sympathy, but Stanford was in no way convinced that this was reliable information. 

"What? No, that's not-" He started, but then the old woman took a ring off of a shelf behind her and handed it to him. The ring was silver, with a huge blue stone embedded in it.

"When this is blue, you may pull through. When this is black, you can't turn back." She intoned cryptically.

"Can we skip the rhymes, please?" Stanford snapped. He was really starting to hate it in that tent.

"Fine, fine." The witch seemed a little upset at being cut off, but gestured for him to hold out his hand. Almost immediately her frown returned. "You often suffer from short relationships, I think. Just remember that nobody wants to hold a rose with too many thorns. Oh.. and here is something else you need to watch for. This line running across your hand horizontally? That indicates you may be too smart for your own good." The witch cautioned him.

"I'll take that as a compliment." He muttered under his breath. Stanford was sort of shocked that the extra finger hadn't caught her off guard, but he had to admit, these predictions were accurate enough to be slightly unnerving. "Hmm... You've got a trigger finger." The witch continued. "And this line here is split, which indicates a crossroads." The witch looked up from Stanford's hand. "You ought to think before you shoot, Stanford. It seems that something is going to occur soon, something that will be force you to make a decision that will be extremely critical." Stanford stayed silent, unable to formulate a response.

"Your extra finger does make you special, though." The old lady smiled rather creepily, perhaps trying to be charming. "If you aren't doing anything later, maybe we could get some drinks or something?"

"What?!" Stanford stood up quickly and backed away, tripping on his chair. "No. This.. this palm reading thing is a joke, and you're a fraud. I'm leaving!" He yelled, fuming, and bolted out of the tent. The old lady yelled something about deceit, but he didn't want to hear it.

Once outside the tent, he shrugged his shoulders several times, trying to shake the odd feeling he was experiencing, sort of like somehow, maybe the witch's words had more than a hint of truth.

"I swear I'm never coming to one of these things again." He told himself, shoving his hands in his pockets. Feeling a small, hard object, he pulled out the blue ring. Stanford wanted to throw it out right then, but something stopped him.

When this is blue, you may pull through. When this is black, you can't turn back.

With a sigh, he pocketed the ring again and walked off to find Fiddleford. All those predictions were fake. Palm reading, tarot cards, mood rings, none of those things had any base in science. They couldn't be real.

"Gah, stupid gearbox." The tattoo-headed man muttered under his breath as he tinkered with the insides of the Ferris wheel's control panel.

"Hey there." Fiddleford greeted him with a smile. Surprised, the man jumped back, dropping his wrench.

"Oh. Hello." He replied shyly, staring at the ground.

"Pardon me, but I'm pretty good with mechanics. What's the trouble?" Fidd asked, gesturing with his chin to the open panel door.

"Uh.. well, I'm not quite sure, to be honest..." The young man gripped one of his wrists nervously.

"Mind if I take a look?"

"No, please do." The carny, whose name tag read Ivan, stepped aside for Fiddleford, handing him the wrench he'd dropped earlier. Eagerly Fiddleford took it and got to work. The main problems were the gears. They'd been worn down and had no grooves to hold on to anything.

Ivan didn't talk much. Once or twice he sighed, quietly and sullenly. When a group of off-duty carnies walked by, his already skittish demeanour became outright anxious. Several snickers came from their direction. Minutes later, Fiddleford straightened up, beaming.

"Well, the Ferris wheel should run smoothly now." He assured Ivan.

"Thank you so much." Ivan said softly, still watching the group of carnies that were now enjoying some snow cones from the concession stand.

"It wasn't a problem." Fiddleford finally noticed the young man's strange behaviour. "Listen, I know it's not my place, but ..are you alright?" He asked.

"Yeah, more or less." Ivan sighed again, turning his full attention on Fiddleford. "I just have had some bad experiences lately."

"Really? I believe I can help you with that." Fiddleford smiled slightly. Now confused, Ivan frowned.

"Are you a therapist or something?"

"Oh, no." Fiddleford laughed. "But I am a scientist, and I've recently invented something that can erase certain memories." Ivan's eyes widened.

"Really? A memory eraser?! That's incredible! I could definitely use that!" Happy to see that someone understood his good intentions, Fiddleford smiled.

"I'd be more than happy to help ya. Recently, I've been developing an idea that I think you may be interested in. You want to tell me what's been going on?"

"Well," Ivan began with yet another sigh. For a while, he talked, and Fiddleford just listened. The other carnival workers had been making fun of his head tattoos, and when Ivan finally asked them to stop, they locked him in a haunted house overnight. For several weeks, he hadn't been sleeping well, between knowing he would just be abused the next day and the trauma that the night alone in a haunted house had caused him. Towards the end of the story, Stanford found them talking and stood quietly next to Fiddleford as Ivan finished his story.

"I understand how that feels, trust me." Fiddleford assured Ivan, and then handed him a slip of paper. "I can help you. Meet me tomorrow at nine p.m. in Greasy's Diner." He whispered into the other man's ear, and Ivan nodded gratefully.

"Thank you, Fiddleford."

"Anytime, friend." Fiddleford said goodbye, and then walked away beside Stanford. "I had a good time. Thanks for the day off, Ford. I think we both needed it." Fiddleford smiled, and nudged his friend with an elbow before noticing that Stanford seemed quite miffed. "Hey, you alright?"

"Yeah. I'm just annoyed, I guess." Stanford glared at the air ahead of them as they left the lot that the carnival was being hosted at. "I have a newfound, but strong dislike for palm reading." He took a deep breath. "And cougars."

"Oh." Fiddleford replied, a look of slight shock and disturbance coming onto his face. "Wow."

The next night at eight thirty, Fiddleford snuck out. It was rare that Stanford slept for more than three hours a night, he always had so much to do, but he seemed to be very busy tonight especially. His absence would very likely go unnoticed, but if it didn't, Fiddleford planned on saying he'd run to the grocery store or something. He hurried out to his truck, starting it up and driving into town.

Ivan was already at the diner waiting for him.

"You're here early." Fiddleford greeted him.

"So are you." Ivan replied.

"Touché." Fiddleford admitted. Then he sat down across from Ivan and pulled something out of his jacket.

"Is that it?" Ivan stared at the memory erasing gun, spellbound.

"This is it." Fiddleford confirmed, handing it to Ivan for him to examine it. After a moment, Ivan handed it back.

"Here's how it works." Fiddleford tilted the gun so that Ivan could easily view the keypad. "This is the specifier. You type in the memory you want to delete, and then-" Hearing footsteps behind him, Fiddleford cut himself off and hurriedly hid the contraption inside his jacket again.

"Hi there. Is there anything I can get for you guys tonight?" A young waiter asked them in a friendly manner.

"No, not yet." Ivan said, pretending to look over the menu on the table. "Thank you though."

"Alright." The waiter nodded and began to walk away. "I'll come back in a few minutes." Once he was out of earshot, Fiddleford pulled the memory eraser out again.

"Thanks for the cover." He smiled before continuing his explanation. "As I was saying, you type in what you want to forget, aim at your head, and then pull the trigger. Pretty simple, right?" Ivan nodded. "But make sure you don't ever point it at anything but your head." Fiddleford cautioned. "I'm not sure what effect it would have on any other body parts. It might destroy a cluster of cells, leaving a hole in you, or it might do something far worse. I just don't know."

"Got it."

"Ok." Fiddleford stood up. "Come on." He led the way out of the diner towards his vehicle. "You might feel a little dazed after this, but it's worth it." He assured Ivan, taking out the gun. "Here. Type in whatever you want to forget, point it, and then pull the trigger." Ivan took the gun in his hands and hit keys on the specifier to type in the words. Then he stared at it for a long time.

"Will I forget anything other than what they did to me?" He asked softly, nervously.

"No. I'm sure of it. I've used the gun on myself before, to forget... Something. Obviously the gun did its job, because I can't remember what it was I forgot." Fiddleford laughed at the irony of the sentence. "Other than that, I can recall everything. My family, my friends, my childhood, et cetera."

"I don't want to forget... I just want to be able to sleep at night." Ivan shut his eyes tight and pulled the trigger. As Fiddleford expected, he dropped the gun and took a few steps back ward to steady himself. Fiddleford picked up the device from the ground before turning back towards the new amnesiac.

"What's your name?" He asked, holding his breath.

"Ivan Wexler." The man answered, blinking slowly. Letting out a sigh of relief, Fiddleford asked him a few more basic questions, which Ivan was easily able to recall the answers to, including the fact that he'd shot himself with the memory gun of his own volition. Then came the moment of truth.

"Have you been bullied at all in recent weeks?"

".. I- no." Ivan stammered. "I mean.. I can't remember." Fiddleford shouted happily.

"Yes! It works!" He took a look at his creation with new eyes. Now he knew- the device's initial success hadn't been a fluke, it was real. "Those bullies were exactly what you were trying to forget when you erased your memories!" Fiddleford reminded Ivan, who grinned like the Cheshire Cat.

"Really?"

"Yes!" Fiddleford was quiet for a moment, letting it sink in. Finally, he spoke again. He'd helped Ivan, and there was mutual trust between the two men. It was time to disclose his plans for a better, safer, town, and maybe someday, world. "Ivan, I've got an idea. Both of us have used this gun on ourselves now, we know it works and that it is a safe practice. Maybe you've noticed that Gravity Falls is a strange town?"

"That it is, Fiddleford." Ivan nodded. "This place gives me the creeps."

"Exactly. It gives everyone the creeps. People see things that they can't unsee." Fiddleford tilted his head and lifted the memory eraser up. "Until now." Ivan's eyes widened slightly. "Just hear me out. The people of this town have been plagued for ages with visions of strange, horrific things. We could help them by erasing their bad memories. Are you interested in helping me with this?" Ivan looked at the ground for a long time, staying silent. Finally he looked up again.

"You're right, Fiddleford." He paused and held out his hand. "I'm in."

"Great!" Ecstatic, Fiddleford took his hand and they shook on it. "Bad memories are now a thing of the past, my friend."

Heyo! Sorry this wasn't updated Friday, I ended up going out unexpectedly. But it's here now. As suggested by stainedintrovert, I tried to add in some parts of the story from Ford's perspective. That was a great suggestion, thank you for that. I know there wasn't a lot of that in this chapter, but there should be in the next one. It's just because of the plot of this chapter that Ford didn't really get a lot of story to himself. Next chapter, expect some moments with Ford being exceptionally stupid despite his extraordinarily high IQ. 😉 Hopefully you guys enjoyed this chapter. (There might be two chapters next week. I have an extra long weekend coming up, in which I will likely be bored.)

I'll see you guys sometime next weekend!

~Grey