Stan looked around the shopping center for his next victim target customer. There, that older guy over there with the nerdiest long black coat Stan had ever seen. Or wait, maybe it was actually an awesome coat, and it was just the guy making it look nerdy. He definitely could make something look nerdy, sitting by himself out in front of a burger joint with a textbook and some kind of notepad he was scribbling on. Guys who went out to eat alone and read like that were always either desperate for company or desperate to be left alone. In the first case, Stan could pretty much always sweet talk them into buying something, a lot of somethings, not because they wanted it or needed it but because they were grateful that someone was actually talking to them. In the second case, they were always quick and very direct with their no, so at least Stan didn't waste a bunch of time on someone who was never going to buy anything anyway. Either way it was a win for Stan.

"Hey there buddy, my name's Stan, and I've got exactly what you need." Stan used to lead into that pitch by "accidentally" spilling something so he could demonstrate the shammy's cleaning power, but it turned out there was a reason he'd got that dye so cheap, and blue hands didn't really sell buyers on the merchandise.

The guy looked up at Stan for a second, then went back to his book. "I don't need anything, thanks." So Stan was guessing lonely, but maybe a little shy and a little wary of some stranger that had just plopped down at his table unannounced. Sensible of him, probably. Stan could work with that.

"I know what you're thinking: who the heck is this guy? I'm the founder and CEO of Stan Co. Enterprises. My card," Stan said, holding up a business card. People loved business cards. It didn't matter that Stan Co. Enterprises was something Stan had made up about a month ago, you flash a business card and all the sudden you were legitimate. Plus when he showed someone a business card up front, they were less likely to ask for one to take later, which meant one less business card Stan had to print up.

Then there were guys like this guy, that when Stan just showed them his card, they took it anyway, out of habit or something. When that happened Stan had to remind himself not to tighten his grip on the card. Yeah, he didn't have the money to waste, but a business card you wouldn't let people take was even more suspicious than not having a business card at all. The guy glanced at the card, then did a double-take. An actual double-take which Stan hadn't even realized was a thing people really did outside of cartoons. Then he looked up at Stan very, very closely.

Shit, did this guy know Stan? There was something kind of familiar about him now that Stan was looking closer. He wasn't someone Stan knew personally he was sure, but he could be one of Pa's business associates or maybe married to one of Ma's friends from synagogue. Stan had thought being an hour away from Glass Shard Beach would be far enough, but now with this guy looking at him, he was a lot less sure about that. Just as Stan was about to deny knowing anyone named Flibrick or Caryn Pines and actually he didn't have any family, thanks for asking, the guy said, "Aren't you a little young to be doing this? Shouldn't you be in school right now?"

Stan laughed, loud and obnoxious. "School? Buddy, I'm twenty-five." The guy wasn't buying it. Stan knew he didn't look twenty-five, but he'd been hoping for one of those "it's such an obvious lie, it has to be true" kind of deals.

Other hand, what did it matter anyway if this guy figured out how old Stan really was? What was he going to do about it, call Stan's parents? Even if he did know who they were, and Stan was starting to think he didn't, all that would happen is Pa would laugh in this guy's face for thinking he gave a rat's ass about Stan. And school, who needed school? Big stupid nerds who cared more about some dumb college than achieving their lifelong dream, that's who. Not Stan. Stan had personality.

The guy stared at Stan, and Stan stared back. The guy broke first. "What is it you're selling?"

"The Sham Total," Stan said, whipping one out of his bag. "It's made from-"

"How much are they?"

"One for a dollar or three for five dollars."

"That math doesn't… okay, I'll take three," the guy said.

Maybe the guy really did want to be left alone, and he figured this was the fastest way to get rid of Stan, but Stan thought he was probably buying them because he felt bad for him. There was a part of Stan that was too proud to take that kind of pity, but that part of him had frozen to death back when he'd had to weather the first snowstorm of the year inside his car. "Sold!" Stan said. He gave the guy three shammies, took his five dollar bill, and then got the hell out of there before the guy changed his mind.

Stan counted his meager collection of bills, then counted them again. Hell, why not count them a third time; it's not like it took very long to do. Rent for his motel room was due first thing tomorrow morning if he wanted to stay another week, and he was finally starting to run low on pitchforks, so he needed to set some money aside to buy new merchandise to replace them. Probably not pitchforks again, those hadn't been his best idea. Once he set aside the money he needed for those two things that left him enough for dinner tonight or breakfast in the morning, but not both. He could take the money he was supposed to be using for new merchandise and use that for food instead, but he'd already done that the past two nights. He kept doing it and eventually he'd run out of merchandise, and he'd have no money left to buy new merchandise with. So, breakfast or dinner? Breakfast or dinner?

There was a knock on the door. That couldn't be a good thing. Praying the landlord had just decided to stop by and collect a little early, Stan looked out the peephole. He recognized the awesome but nerdy coat first, then the guy. He was the one who had bought those three shammies yesterday because he'd felt bad for Stan. Somehow Stan didn't think he felt sorry for him anymore, and why had Stan ever thought putting the address to his motel room on his business cards was a good idea? Yeah, the card looked weird without an address, but he should have left it off anyway. Next time. This time, maybe if Stan stayed real quiet the guy would think he wasn't here, then decide whatever he was upset about wasn't worth it, and leave and not come back.

The guy knocked again. "I know you're in there; I can hear you."

Geez, this guy must have freaking bat-like hearing. "No refunds!" Stan yelled through the door.

"I'm not here for a refund. I was wondering if you dyed the shammies yourself? The chemical additive I created to help the dye adhere to the cloth better isn't working as well as I hoped, but I thought maybe if you added it into the dye directly it could work."

Stan made sure the chain lock on the door was latched – he could never decide if it was a good thing his door had a chain lock or if it was a sign of what a shitty neighborhood this was – and opened the door. "Why did you make a chemical to fix the dye on my shammies?" he asked, giving the guy a suspicious look through the crack in the door.

"Because they stained my hands and bathroom counters blue," the guy said, holding his hands up so Stan could see the blue tint to them.

"Yeah I got that, but why are you coming to me with this stuff? Did you want to buy a new set made with the new dye?" If that was the case, and if this guy was willing to give Stan this chemical stuff for free, then maybe Stan wouldn't have to choose between breakfast and dinner.

"No, I'm good for shammies. I just thought you would want it, assuming I can make it work."

"I bought cheap dye for a reason," Stan told him.

"Why? I can't possibly be the first one to have complained about this; you automatically assumed I was here for a refund. Wouldn't it be better if people were coming to see you because they liked the product so much they wanted to buy more?"

Yeah, that'd be great. You know what else would be great? If a million dollars suddenly fell out of the sky, and Stan could buy his way back home again, but that wasn't going to happen either. "Look buddy, I ain't buying your chemical whatever."

"I wasn't trying to sell it; I was just going to give it to you," the guy said.

"Sure you were," Stan said flatly. "Pull the other one, it's got bells on."

"I was. I just want to help." the guy insisted.

"I ain't stupid. Nobody does something for nothing, so what are you getting out of helping me?"

"Nothing. I…" The guy tensed for a second, then shook it out. "Ten percent of the gross profit on the sales of the shammies."

"Gross profits? Is that some kind of crack?" Stan asked.

"No. The gross profit, as opposed to the net profit."

"I don't sell nets," Stan told him. Although, those might make a good replacement for the pitchforks.

"No, not nets. I'm talking about gross profits and net profits," the guy said. Stan stared at him blankly. The guy sighed. "Okay, so you're selling the shammies for a dollar a piece. If you sold ten of them, then you've made ten dollars, right? That's what's called the gross profit. But you didn't get those shammies for free. How much does it cost you per shammy?"

Stan scratched his head. "I don't know." He knew how much a crate of shammies cost him and he knew how much a bottle of the dye cost him, and he'd been thinking about trying to save up to do a commercial and he knew how much that would cost him, but he hadn't figured out what that added up to per shammy.

"We'll just say it's fifty cents. That means ten shammies cost you five dollars. That's your expenses. Now if you take the gross profit of ten dollars and subtract the expenses of five dollars then you get your net profit of five dollars. That means you have five more dollars at the end than you had when you started," the guy explained.

Stan thought about that for a minute, then nodded. It made sense. And, you know, maybe the guy had a point that Stan should know all those numbers. "So what you're saying is you'll give me this chemical to make the shammies better for free up front, and in return I give you ten percent of the gross profits for selling them?"

"Exactly," the guy said.

"I'll give you five percent of the net," Stan countered.

"Deal," the guy said way too quickly. Stan gave him another suspicious look.

"Why exactly do you want to make a deal with me anyway?" he asked.

The guy had to think that over for a few minutes. Not a great sign. "Well, I'm a scientist. Presently I'm working on a project of upmost importance, but one that's not exactly lucrative. If I could get a passive source of income, then I could spend less time worrying about money, and more time working on completing my project."

"So you want to be the nerdy scientist who makes discoveries and invents stuff and for me to be the salesman with lots of personality that makes the money to support us?" Stan asked.

"More or less," the guy agreed.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Stan definitely should not take this deal. He didn't know this guy from Adam and he'd been acting pretty suspicious this whole time. He might be an axe murder. But how the fuck was Stan supposed to say no to that? He closed the door, unlatched the chain, and then opened it again, all the way this time. "You got a deal," Stan said, and they shook on it. He led the guy inside his motel room. "C'mon, the dye is in the bathroom."

The guy walked in, then paused as he looked around at all the Stan Co. merchandise. "Is this all cheaply-made junk?" he asked.

"Hey, it's not junk," Stan protested. The guy held his blue hands up again. "Yeah, okay, it's a bunch of crap."

"I'll see what I can do about the rest of this stuff too." He touched on of the pitchforks and the head fell off. He sighed. "This might take a while. Here, why don't you order us a pizza? You can get whatever you want on it; I'm not picky." The guy pulled his wallet out and handed Stan a ten dollar bill.

Stan stared down at the money. So. Breakfast and dinner. Breakfast and dinner and a new partner. Maybe this one would work out better than the last one. Probably not. On the other hand, it could hardly end worse.

"Hey buddy, I never caught your name," Stan said.

"Hmm?" the guy said, already deep into nerdy concentration. "Oh, it's Dipper. Nice to meet you."