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Strictly Business	By : Nastyzak Category: +G through L > Gravity Falls Views: 4073 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: Fandom is Gravity Falls. I don't own it or the characters and don't get any money for my writing.

Chapter List
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1
When Stanford Pines had retired, he gave his great-nephew Dipper all of his old equipment. Now down in the basement of the Mystery Shack—no longer used as an active laboratory—Dipper had paranormal-activity meters, magnet guns, a few containment units, and even a very powerful quantum destabilizer. He also had the pieces of the dismantled Portal. He did not intend to reassemble it. However, he did own everything a go-getting young ghost-hunter could dream of.
Unfortunately, he didn’t have much opportunity to use any of it. It was late September now, and since the previous January, he had taken on exactly six different jobs. Two turned out not to be proper ghosts at all, but one gnome infestation, one zombie that had somehow gotten itself trapped in an attic, and one more-or-less ghost that turned out to be nothing more than a very minor, mindless poltergeist that manifested only as the sound of someone running up and down the stairs in an old inn that overlooked the Columbia River. Exorcising it took five minutes, leading the inn manager to gripe that Dipper hadn’t really earned his fee, though he did pay up.
Dipper had dealt with all three of those at the bargain rate of two hundred dollars a throw, but three hundred for the zombie since he had to hire a bass and a tenor to help him destroy it.
The other three cases involved ghosts, one in a Portland hotel, one in a Gravity Falls house, and one that haunted a historic covered bridge over the Willamette River. These exorcisms earned him more. The most lucrative one was the bridge ghost, which he’d banished after a five-hour struggle. Since the government was paying for the job, he got two and a half thousand that one time. The other two were a thousand each.
In other words, his gross for seven and a half months came to $5,200.00. After deducting expenses and tax, his net was only $3903.08.
“Not gonna get rich at this,” he muttered as he closed his ledger. He still supplemented his income by working for Soos during tourist season, and that helped, but—how to make his chosen profession lucrative enough to sustain him?
His great-uncles had different advice. Stanley said, “Hoax a bunch of rubes into thinking they got a dangerous evil ghost and then soak ‘em!” Stanford said, “I’ll offer you consulting at no cost, but remember, I’ve always looked at tracking down the paranormal as a goal in itself, not as a means of earning an income.”
Starting at one that afternoon, as on most days, Dipper scanned the Web, looking for reports of hauntings within driving distance of Gravity Falls. That meant about a three-hundred-mile radius, since his third-hand hybrid car wasn’t very reliable and desperately needed new tires.
Frustratingly, as on most days, he found zilch. Oh, he discovered lots of lore about haunted ghost towns, of which Oregon had more than the average state, but ghost towns by definition had no populations and so no money to get rid of ghosts.
Dipper gave up and started to go downstairs to see if Soos needed help.
As he walked out onto the landing at seventeen minutes before three p.m., his phone rang. He had a dual-SIM phone with two different numbers—one private, for calling Mabel, his uncles, and his parents and a hypothetical girlfriend if one ever showed up, and the other his business number—and the business ring tone went off. Returning to his room, Dipper cleared his throat and tried to speak in a deeper, more mature baritone: “Pines Paranormal Services, how may I assist you?”
A man’s voice said, “I understand you can detect and exorcise ghosts. Is that true?”
Dipper sat, reaching for a pen and pulling a pad toward him on the rickety table he still used as a desk. “That’s one of our services, yes.”
“My client has a haunting that must be ended. Tell me exactly what you do.”
Get rid of ghosts, he almost said. But he caught himself. “I use state-of-the art paranormality meters to make sure there is a ghost, to begin with. If it isn’t, and if it isn’t paranormal, I charge a flat two-hundred-dollar fee for the consultation and for giving my advice on how to deal with the problem. For example, if what a family thinks is a ghost is actually a colony of squirrels in the attic, I recommend a good exterminator or wildlife re-locator—”
“My client is certain that this is a ghost,” the voice said. “My client has had experiences with at least one ghost before.”
Yeah, right. Dipper had run into people who insisted they had a ghost loose in their house when they only had a screw loose in their head. But he said, “Well, we have to be certain which type of paranormal manifestation we’re dealing with, so once I confirm it is a ghost, I then determine its category. There are ten—”
“And no matter the category, you will remove any of them, is that right?”
“Yes,” Dipper said. “Actually, there are more than ten, because each category has up to a dozen sub-categories. But for Categories 1 through 5, my fee is a flat one thousand dollars per day. It’s never taken me longer than that to exorcise any of those. For the higher categories, 6 through 10, it’s one thousand per day plus expenses—hotel room, a per diem for meals, transportation, any materials I may have to buy, and incidentals. I’ll keep an expense log and turn it in for reimbursement when the case gets resolved. Category Tens and their subtypes are dangerous to deal with and hardest to banish. One of them may take a week or more to fully exorcise. I also have special group rates for multiple ghosts.”
The voice paused for a moment, maybe speaking to someone with the phone muted, and then said, “Your terms are acceptable. Get a pen. I’ll give you the address.”
Dipper clicked his pen and poised it over the pad. “Shoot.”
“It’s 661 Lumber Ridge Road.”
“In Gravity Falls?” Dipper asked, surprised.
“Yes. Once you cross the Owashu Creek Bridge, look for an automatic gate on your right. It will be open. Follow the driveway to the house. How soon can you get to this?”
“Uh—now. Right away,” Dipper said. “I need to clear up a few things in the office, and I can be there in . . . less than an hour.
“This case may be complex. My client directs you to pack a bag for at least a three-day stay. You will be expected at four o’clock sharp. Please fax a copy of your standard contract to me, and I will examine it and send it to the owner.” The caller gave him the name of a legal firm—Litta, Gates, and Lyres—and their phone and fax numbers.
“I’ll fax it a few minutes,” Dipper said.
First, he had to print a copy of his standard contract—he did have one, which essentially said he would seek, identify, and exorcise any paranormal threat, or if it was too powerful, he would recommend further action, and it specified what he would do and gave his guarantee that he would cause no excessive physical damage to property. A list of his standard fees was appended.
Then Dipper went downstairs and asked, “Hey, Soos, is it okay if I use the fax machine?”
“Oh, sure, Dipper,” the big guy said. “Remember to punch nine first!”
After sending the fax, he took a quick shower and shaved, then changed into business clothes—a tan jumpsuit, one of three he owned, because that’s what TV viewers always expected—and prayed that his ten-year-old Preetus would start.
It did, and Dipper hauled out for Lumber Ridge Road with his ghost-busting equipment and overnight bag in the rear cargo space.
Should be an easy job, maybe even a quick thousand.
He hoped.

2
Poets tell us that nothing is sweeter than Young Love. However, on a hot July day with the sun blazing down, there are few things sweatier, either.
When Lina and Eddie had their second rendezvous, he impressed her.
For one thing he had cleaned up. “I took-took uh buh buh,” he began. He drew a deep breath, frowned his stuttering down, and started again, speaking slowly: “I took a bath in the lake. Head to toe. And I washed and ironed these overhauls and this here shirt. Because I want to be-be clean for-for you. Lina.”
Lina didn’t correct his pronunciation of “overalls.” He’d gone to all that trouble, doing what her grandfather would sneer at as woman’s work, laundry and ironing and all.
Clumsy though he might be, Eddie concentrated on anything worth doing. In the saloon, he never spilled a drop while carrying beer to the tables, unless somebody stuck out a foot and tripped him, which did happen every so often. He always picked himself up, apologized for being clumsy, and fetched more mugs to the table before picking up broken glass and swabbing the beer. It never occurred to him to get mad, and the drinkers caught on, so it happened once or twice a week.
And sometimes after a big fight, he might have to sand down the saloon floor, or even take a plane to it, to remove the bloodstains. He did this work patiently and well, though his father would curse at him and tell him any other idiot could clean up in half the time.
And he had ironed his clothes so the pleats showed sharp as a knife edge. He had even found some socks, just gray linsey-woolsey, darned so many times they might as well have been damned. But he had scrubbed them with a washboard and, though they were baggy, they made his dad’s old castoff shoes fit better.
He had even found an old celluloid collar and had donned it—though it was two shades whiter than his shirt—and had tied a black ribbon as best he could in a sloppy knot.
Smiling, Lina re-tied it into a bow. “Now you look like a real gentleman,” she said.
Shyly, breaking again into his stutter, he produced something small wrapped in white paper and told her that th-this wa-was fo-for her.
She unwrapped it. It was a paper tube of Reed’s Butterscotch Candy. “This is so sweet of you,” she said. She didn’t add that this and the flowers were the first gifts she had ever received from a boy.
With the summer sun glaring down, Eddie moved the blanket into the shade of a crabapple tree close to the pond. They sat there, Lina unwrapped the little amber discs of candy, and they sucked on them. Eddie closed his eyes and shivered.
“What’s wrong, Eddie dear?” she asked, touching his arm.
“I, I, I nuh-nuh,” he said.
Eventually she figured it out. He had never tasted candy before. He and his dad lived mostly on beans, rice, and bread. The sweetness had bowled him over.
They experimented. She held a piece of butterscotch in her mouth, and he leaned in to kiss her and share the taste. He was getting better and better at kissing.
After a little time, she reached to undo his overalls straps. He let her take off his ridiculous ribbon bowtie, detachable collar, and his shirt. He lay back as she nuzzled his chest, well-muscled, tanned, and starting to sprout a patch of hair in the center. “You smell so nice,” she whispered.
“I borried Muh Muu Mizz Suh Smith’s luh luh lavender—” he swallowed hard—“soap.”
“I love this scent. I could eat you up.” Lina began to suck at and lick his nipples. To his surprise, Eddie found that very exciting. Up until then he’d considered nipples on men to be just decoration, like a rhinestone stud in a saloon gambler’s cravat.
After a struggle that turned his face red, Eddie told her that what she was doing sure fuh-felt guh-good.
“Does it?” she asked, sounding surprised. She promptly shed all of her clothing from neck to waist. “Will you show me how good it feels?”
He kissed her pretty nipples, licked them, took them into his mouth and suckled them. She caressed him, running her fingers through his hair, cuddling his head against her breasts. He could hear the excited racing of her heart, thumping away. His own was beating hard, too, pumping blood to where it was most needed.
The July day became more and more sultry. Her flesh exuded a sheen of perspiration, making her breasts begin to gleam, making them even more attractive to him. And he was sweating, too.
“Let’s take a dip in the lake,” she whispered in his ear.
They stripped and waded in. The mountain stream was cold, even in July, and so was the swimming hole. “Oh, my poor breasts,” mourned Lina. “Just look at them. All goose-flesh!”
Look at them? He couldn’t tear his eyes from them, now prickling with what he thought of as a thousand tinier nipples. The two lovers hugged each other and they toughed it out, wading until they were in up to their necks, and then they pressed together and kissed and kissed. Under the water, Eddie felt Lina cup his penis and balls. “Oh,” she said, “what have I done?”
They returned to shore. She knelt on the blanket and Eddie stood in front of her, while she gently touched his member, no longer rampant. In fact it was barely couchant, shriveled with the cold and curled atop his sac. “It’s all shrunken!” Lina said.
“The co-co-cold,” he explained.
“Poor Eddie.” She put both hands around his shaft. “I’m afraid my hands are cold, too! Wait, I know how to warm you up.”
She put her hands on his haunches and pulled him close. Then she opened her mouth and took in his whole length—admittedly no more than three inches at the moment.
“Huuohh,” he said.
Her tongue was so hot on his chilled, shrunken cock. He felt it throb as life and blood began to surge.
Soon she was sucking, bobbing her head, thrashing her tongue. He pulled back. “I, I, I, muh-might—”
“Might spurt?” she asked. She cradled his now-stiffened manhood against her soft cheek. “I want to taste your seed. I think I will like it. Let me go on, please.”
He nodded, and, looking up at him adoringly, she began to suck again, while at the same time stroking his shaft, her fingers following her lips from balls to crown and then back again, faster and faster. His stomach muscles tensed. He gasped and felt the rush of release.
As he spurted, Lina eagerly swallowed, though his explosion was so copious that it dripped from the sides of her mouth and down onto her breasts.
He had to sit. His legs would not support him.
She reclined next to him. “I like the way you taste,” she whispered. “Look. I won’t waste a drop.”
Splashes and beads of his cum decorated her breasts and dripped from one of her nipples. She carefully scooped it up with a forefinger and then lasciviously sucked it off. “Mm-mm. You are so kind to me, Eddie, to give me such a treat. When you feel strong again, I want—”
From far off, a man’s voice yelled, “Lina! Where the devil are you, girl? Lina!”
“Oh, my God, that’s my grandfather!” Lina said, her face turning even paler than usual. She scrambled up, hastily donning her skirt and blouse. She had not bothered with a corset that day, and she left her underthings on the blanket. “I have to go!” she told Eddie. “Help me tie my bodice laces. Thank you, dear. Quickly, dress yourself and hurry back to town. Wait—I’ll roll up my stockings and other things in the blanket. Take it with you and hide it somewhere. Next Saturday, my darling?”
He nodded, wanting to tell her how much he loved her, what she meant to him—
“Go, quickly,” she said, kissing him. “Wade the creek and go along the farther shore. I’ll circle back and answer Grandfather as if I’d gone to look for blackberries. Bring my blanket and things next Saturday. Go, dearest!”
Eddie did as he was told. Despite his upbringing, he was beginning to wonder: What would it be like to marry Lina?
Following the creek as the banks rose on either side as they neared the railway embankment, he slogged through marshy places until they became a quagmire. Then he finally climbed the steep walls of what had become a gorge—harder on this side of the stream—until he came out on the tracks. He had made a bag of the blanket and carried Lina’s things—her underthings!—over his shoulder. The sound of a locomotive coming from behind him—which meant it must be coming from the Findlestone house, for the rails ended there—surprised him.
He scrambled back down the grade and tried to put some foliage between himself and the train.
Through the leaves he caught the flash of the locomotive, a gleaming black with a funnel-shaped smokestack, decorated in emerald green and gold, and then the coal tender with the letters FO&NW scribed in gold leaf on the side. He could not read or even name the letters, but he knew the design and had heard people in town call that kind of train a Findlestone Oregon and Northwestern engine. Smoke billowed from the locomotive and he smelled the charred-coal stench of it. A man and woman seemed the sole passengers. From a window in the parlor car, they glazed out at the scenery, and hastily Eddie ducked.
A minute later, the train was out of sight.
Relieved, Eddie climbed back to the track and set off to follow it into Gravity Falls.

3
Inside the train, Mrs. Louisa Findlestone—Lina’s mother—asked her husband Abner, “Did you see that horrid man?”
“What man, my dear?” asked Abner.
“A scarecrow with a pack on his back,” she said. “Raggedy, I think. One of those awful hoboes!”
He allowed himself an indulgent smile. “My treasure, no hobo in his right mind would stow away on this train. It runs only seven miles as a rule! The vagabonds of the rails wish to travel for miles, yes, thousands of miles, not a mere stroll.”
“Well, I don’t wish to have anyone like that so near the house.”
“We’ve come at least two miles,” he reassured her. “But I’ll speak to Father about it. He may let the hounds roam free for a few days. They’ll soon discourage any strangers.”
“Thank you,” Louisa said. “I’ll be glad when we get to town for our . . . shopping.”
“Yes,” he said. “I love . . . shopping . . . with you.”
To tell the truth, they kept a room reserved in the one hotel in town and spent an hour every other week there. Shopping. As they would say.
At about the time the train pulled in at the Gravity Falls Station—it stood where later Circle Park and the water tower would be—Lina emerged from the woods, twigs in her hair (she had purposely put them there) and a small pail in her hand (she had stashed it in the hollow of an old tree in case she ever needed some excuse). “I’m here, Grandfather!” she called. “Are you looking for me?”
Jeremiah Findlestone always looked like an avenging angel dressed up in a dark suit. From where he stood at the back of the yard, he glared at her. “And where have you been, Miss?” he growled.
She held up the pail. “I was looking for blackberries, Grandfather. I thought perhaps Cook might make us a pie, only—” she looked sad.
“Yes?”
“Well, I heard you call, and I hurried so that I tripped and rolled down the hillside, and all the berries spilled out.” She dropped her chin. “I’m a frightful mess.”
“Yes, you are.”
“I will go and bathe and change my clothing,” she said. “I’m sorry I upset you, Grandfather.”
“Who was with you?”
She blinked at him. “Why, who would go black-berrying with me here, so far away from other houses?” she asked.
The old man grunted. “Your parents have gone into town to buy some things. Your brother thought the two of you might play a game of checkers. I asked the servants, and none knew where you were. You must not run off like this, Lina!”
“I didn’t run off,” she murmured. “I just went to pick berries. I’ve often done that—”
“You will do it no more,” he said. “Come! Go and bathe and dress properly.” He raised his hand. “No, no words from you! You live under my roof, and by God, I’ll make you live under my rule.”
She walked before him. He came behind, grim as a summer thunderstorm, and as gray and foreboding.
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