Stanley Pines had a secret.

Well, he had lots of secrets, truth be told.

Not that he was in the habit of telling the truth. A man with many secrets doesn't often get the chance to tell the truth. And even if someone like Stanley had the option, would they want to? Secrets are hard things. A big enough secret could devour a man's soul. Eat a women's heart right out of her chest. If it was big enough, it could even bring down nations.

So the questions we must pose are, how big is Stanley Pines' secret? How do you measure the effects of something like secrets? One secret that killed a family could save another. The variables are almost endless.

Fortunately for me, I already know the secret that haunts his every moment. Unfortunately for me, It's now my job to tell you what that secret is.

Are you paying attention? I'm at the helm and were about to steer into dangerous territory.

Because this is The Story of Stanley Pines.

Better in than out

Stanley was young once, as I hope you've realized. People tend to forget that even the wise and elderly were once as stupid and reckless as we are. I myself am not very old. But secrets age you, weighing down your bones.

So when people look at Stanley Pines, they forget he wasn't just born an old man. He had a childhood, his reckless years, his idiotic twenties and a sober thirties. In his forties, nobody could tell how old he was. They didn't know his favorite songs, or how he liked his toast. He was Mister Mystery, a small town landmark on the face of a world that didn't care.

He had faded into the background- not as a person. Stanley Pines wasn't a person. He was a story. Something to laugh at, scorn or ignore. Like the actor who couldn't seem to find the exit off stage. Just a character in a long, tiresome game.

Stanley had realized his fate early in life. He knew he would just have to accept being the NPC in everyone else's game. The blemish in a strange book.

Sometimes it was lonely, watching his life fly past him in a tornado of lies. He would look at what he'd become and contemplate.

Then he would remember. The secrets. The pain. The dangers he was drowning in. And he would smile. Because this was the best life he could've hoped for. Because Stanley Pines was lucky.

No one knew who he was, and that was for the best. For everyone.

- Oh? You don't think so? He could've told someone, just one person? He could've had a friend? Heh, of course, but you don't quite understand yet. Allow me to explain! Don't be so impatient yah little tyke, I'm exhausted.

I suppose we should start from the beginning... you already know the beginning? Ha! Don't make me laugh, you know nothing.

Stanely Pines was born on July 15th, 1948.

It was a beautiful summer day. Sounds normal, right? Well listen to this:

Stanley Pines died July 15th, 1948.

Confused? Good. Stay that way until I come back.

You'll get the rest of your story in time.