Lost Boys

Making up is hard to do

Stanford Pines, formerly known as Stanford the First, bearer of the Crown of Phalanges, sovereign king of the Finger Dimension (working his way towards becoming Prime Minister Pines), was not having a good day.

And not just because he was sitting in a cold, damp dungeon, in chains, waiting to be executed.

Okay, mostly because he was sitting in a cold, damp dungeon, in chains, waiting to be executed. Something like that tends to make any other problems you might be having at the time be dwarfed by comparison, unless your luck is particularly bad.

Ford had been there for a little over three weeks. He had no idea where the supplies he'd brought to this dimension were, or the quantum destabilizer he'd been working on in his spare time.

He had been using a paperclip to pick the lock on one of his chains, but it had been discovered and confiscated by the jailer. And unless he came up with another escape plan quickly, Ronald (aka Ronald the First, bearer of the Crown of Phalanges, new sovereign king of the Finger Dimension) was going to have him brutally sliced to death.

With a growl of sheer frustration, Ford stood up and paced back and forth, as best he could in his shackled ankles.

As if he weren't humiliated enough just by being in this dungeon, they kept his wrists and ankles chained at all times. They hadn't even followed his laws about humane treatment of prisoners.

Ungrateful, weak-willed peasants! I never should have accepted that stupid crown; I should have focused on getting more information about Bill, and just left! After everything I've done for them, they just threw me aside the moment something better came along-who does that?!

Had he been left to his own devices a little longer, perhaps he would have noted the dramatic irony his thoughts were becoming filled with. Or perhaps not, since the whole point of dramatic irony is that the audience is supposed to be the only one who notices it.

Either way, his brooding was rudely interrupted by the sound of the lock on his door being fiddled with.

********

It didn't sound like his normal jailer, who did tend to fumble a little on account of his fingers being on the short and stubby side (hence why he had such a lowly position in their society) but never took this long. Besides, the rattling noises had a different tone than the keys did. What on earth-?

Seconds later, a distantly familiar, gruff voice muttered, "Screw it," and there was a soft zap as the lock was shot right off.

Ford could only stand transfixed as his cell opened, and a figure slipped inside, actually being ridiculous enough to close the door behind him, as if anyone who walked by wouldn't notice the still-sizzling, gaping hole where the keyhole used to be.

This is impossible. I'm having a very vivid dream, probably brought on by breathing in the mold growing on the walls in here.

This can't be real.

It can't be.

The figure lowered the hood on his distinctly shabby red fleece-lined jacket, looking around with interest.

"Nice place you got here."

Try as he might to deny it to himself, there was one person he knew who would say that, and who would look so much like him.

"Stanley?!"

********

His twin looked only marginally better than he had the last time he'd seen him. The only things that could be arguably described as an improvement were the removal of the mullet (though his current haircut still left much to be desired), and the visible lessening of his gut. Surprisingly, his clothes weren't anywhere near as filthy as Ford would have expected from his travels, and he also appeared to be toting a number of guns and a shoulder belt with what looked like a set of smoke bombs attached to it.