Thirty years is a long time for old arguments to fester and grow bitter, and thirty years is a long time for old ghosts to haunt your sleep. Stan and Ford are living the dream on their boat, seeking adventure on the high seas. Living the dream, yes; but dreams don’t come without nightmares.
The Stan O’ War rises, then falls again in a slow rhythm,
like your breath when you sleep, steady and predictable.
Stanley leans against the railing, inhaling the salt air.
The sun is warming even the deep creases around his eyes, and he’s several
degrees tanner than he was six weeks ago. Turns out you can even tan in the
Arctic Circle, if you’re committed. And don’t mind the freezing cold.
Stan is liking the Bahamas a lot more than Greenland.
They’re en route to the Bermuda Triangle, which despite
Stan’s off-color jokes is not
connected with Bill Cipher in any way, according to Ford. Who, speak of the
devil, is currently sketching something in his already beat-up new journal. It
has a drawing of himself and Stan pasted to the cover, hand-drawn by Mabel and liberally
treated with glitter.