Stan Pan Stan

In many ways, Michael Afton was a simple man with simple tastes. He had a local sports team he pulled for during big events, he truly appreciated the zen of mowing his lawn, and if you asked him nothing beat a quiet night in with his favorite soap opera and a tub of popcorn.

Therefore, it should come as no surprise that his simple tastes defined his management of Freddy Fazbear’s revival. Simple games, classics that everyone could enjoy, dotted the floor. Paper plates and cups on tables, nothing too colorful or fancy. A very basic stage setup without any bells or whistles. The only thing left to do before opening day was decide on an animatronic.

Then Michael saw Trash and the Gang.

They were perfect. Simple performers, no need for anything complex like movement or singing. Entertainers who were good enough, to a one, to satisfy anyone who enjoyed the simpler things in life such as himself. It helped, of course, that they were just so charming. Mr Hugs and his open, inviting arms. Bucket Bob and Mr. Can-Do with their warm smiles, Pan Stan’s handsome visage, even No. 1 Crate’s delightful googly-eyes.

Truly there was no better option, no need in the slightest to even consider another catalogue. The only choice to make was which one would be the first representative, the new face of family fun, and after extensive deliberation Michael finally chose Mr. Can-Do. After all, he would need such a go-getting attitude to succeed with his business.  It was with great pride that Michael opened, and while the first day’s crowd was meager it was surely a sign of things to come.

“Mister, where are the robots?”

Michael looked down at the child tugging on his pants leg and smiled. His gruesome, stapled-together face warped into a toothless grin, purpled skin stretching across his skull tightly. “Why, he’s right there on the stage!” he said jovially, sweeping an arm to gesture towards his perfect performer. One of Mr. Can-Do’s wooden arms fell over with a clatter.

The child wasn’t impressed. “That’s just a bunch of junk.”

“Ah ah ah,” Michael tutted, wagging one finger. “He’s not junk, he’s Trash.”

The kid picked his nose. “This place sucks.”

Closing on the first day left Michael a bit unsatisfied. The child was one thing, most little tykes his age had no sense of taste. Not even the adults seemed all that interested, though. Couldn’t they see the simple, refined charm that his performer had?

Evidently not, because the next day had less patrons than the first, and the following day even less than that. What was once a meager amount of business soon turned into a trickle, and Michael knew something had to change. So, it was with great trepidation that he opened the catalogue up once more.

Mr. Can-Do’s attitude was great, but his popularity with the crowds was leaving something to be desired. One could only go off of positivity for so long. Michael needed a fresh face. Someone who could wow the visitors, someone who could charm anyone who looked at him. Michael needed Bucket Bob.

Michael skulked around the neighborhood later that night, casting furtive glances over his shoulders as he put up flyers. Real estate on telephone poles and brick walls was expensive, after all, so coming out at night was his only choice. Printing a hundred of these things had been bad enough – they almost cost as much as his performers! – and he needed to save up.

The last flyer was taped up, and Michael stepped back to look proudly upon his creation. Simple design, Comic Sans text left-aligned on a blank page promising a new animatronic performer at Freddy Fazbear’s. No need for anything elaborate like actually saying who the new performer was or any pictures. No, this was good enough.

Michael walked the twenty feet back to his restaurant, having put up all one hundred flyers on the same city block, confident that it would get the word out. He was right. The next day had nearly as many people as the first. Curious onlookers meandered in as soon as Michael dramatically opened up, to be greeted by Bucket Bob.

Almost everyone in the audience left soon after.

Michael cursed to himself. What could be going wrong? Was he simply out of touch? No, it had to be the customers. They just didn’t get it. So, it was back to the drawing board.

New promises of a new performer; Michael just reused the old flyers. The unveiling of No. 1 Crate. A slightly smaller crowd this time, although Michael took more people staying behind as a good sign.

Mr. Hugs’ debut. Almost nobody showed up, and fewer stayed. An abject failure, it seemed the novelty of his new performers had worn off.

Once more, Michael cursed to himself. If this kept up, he’d never properly revive Freddy Fazbear’s. What could he possibly do? What was the answer?

It was while pondering these, and other not-so-simple questions, that Michael wandered to the alley out behind his building for a quick breather. The cool night air felt nice to his cool dead skin, and as he leaned against the dumpster and took in a few deep breaths, the fresh air helped clear his mind. Yet, his clear mind was still troubled. He was left pondering, mulling over the matters at hand.

That’s when Michael heard a clank next to him.

The decaying man spun around, only to freeze at the sight before him. Some kind of strange, tattered animatronic with an oddly massive forehead was crumpled against the wall in between two trash cans, a spot where Michael was certain there hadn’t been anything a few moments ago.

For a moment, Michael considered it. He weighed his options. The people wanted an actual animatronic? Well, here was one right in front of him, with moving parts and everything. This could be the solution to his woes, the thing to finally kickstart his business.

A feeling of doubt crept up on the man, however. The more he looked at this mysterious animatronic that showed up out of nowhere at was not only left outside of the only animatronic-operating business in town – by name, at least – but also put right next to him, the owner, the more suspicious he felt.

This wasn’t right. This was a trap. A temptation. A siren song to lure him away from the simple splendor of Trash and the Gang.

Michael set his shoulder, his resolve firm. He spun on his heel and walked back inside, leaving the animatronic where it lay. As soon as he reached his office he checked the catalog and placed one last order. It was time for Pan Stan’s debut.

The next day a crowd had formed, slightly larger than the business’s opening day. Thanks to a perfect storm of literally having nothing better to do and Michael going all out on new flyers – these ones with crude drawings of Pan Stan on them, no expenses spared – Freddy Fazbear’s was about to have a record-high number of customers. Michael opened the door and welcomed every in, pleased. Surely everyone would be drawn in by Pan Stan. There was no way everyone would leave.

He was half right. Almost nobody was actually drawn in by the animatronics, but they nearly all stayed anyways. Groups of children and parents loitered around, playing games and eating pizza. The performers were mostly ignored, although a few people gathered around the stage to watch them. A nearby oscillating fan occasionally blew around Mr. Can-Do’s head.

The next day offered no new performers, and as a result almost nobody showed up. Michael felt like pulling his hair out. Only a small handful bothered to visit. The next day was the same, as was the next. In fact, the rest of the week and the next had a small but steady number of visitors. Michael was at his wits’ end. At this rate he was barely making ends meet. Even one less customer per day and he’d be in the black. He needed to do something.

Another animatronic showed up in the alleyway out back. This one looked like a mess of wires with a bear head on top. This one, too, was completely ignored.

Over the next few days, though, Michael began to notice something strange. He hadn’t been paying attention to who was showing up, just how many. When he finally did decide to keep track of the customers, he came to a realization. It was mostly the same people showing up every day. The same people, in fact, who had gathered around the stage during Pan Stan’s debut.

It was almost enough to make Michael cry. Such loyalty, such wonderful taste. At last, his kin had arrived.

There was more good news after that, as well. These hardcore fans had friends. Well, most of them did. At least one. And these friends had friends, who had friends, and all of them liked Trash and the Gang.

Before Michael realized it, business at the restaurant was booming. There were so many people, more than ever before, visiting at least once a week. The steady business was doing wonders for the restaurant’s financials, and Michael couldn’t be happier.

As a show of appreciation, Michael went out onto the floor and joined his patrons, eager to give them thanks. As he got closer to one table full of teens, he was able to hear what they were talking about, and he paused to listen in.

“Pan Stan’s sooo cute, right?”

“I dunno, I like Mr. Can-Do better. Pan Stan’s nice, but something about that balloon is just great.”

“God, I wish Mr. Hugs would wrap me up in his arms.”

Michael’s heart soared. At last, people who got it. Without even thinking about it, he joined in on the conversation, and he was welcomed without a second thought. None of them cared he was a shambling pile of flesh; people rarely did, as a matter of fact, but it was still nice to be accepted. They cared more about Trash and the Gang, and it was wonderful. One of them even showed Michael some art they had drawn of Bucket Bob, and it reminded Michael so much of the old crayon drawings Freddy Fazbear used to put up that he promised to hang it on the wall for patrons to see right away.

Time passed, and with it came more people. The restaurant was steadily gaining popularity. More people were drawing the characters, which meant more art on the wall. So much so, in fact, that he was having to regularly rotate old art out. New, passionate fans showed up all the time, eager to see for themselves the Trash.

One of the new visitors called herself Trash, saying it was the new term for fans of Trash and the Gang. It was quickly adopted by all the others. The business continued to grow.

Another animatronic got dumped in the alleyway, this one a black bear. Michael didn’t even spare it a glance. He was Trash now.

Unfortunately, like all good things it couldn’t last. The first sign of trouble came at the largest gathering of fans yet. People were more passionate than ever, and that meant their disagreements were as well.

“How can you like Pan Stan? He’s, like, literally a Bucket Bob rip-off!”

“Excuse you? Bucket Bob totally puts the trash in Trash, Pan Stan is a king!”

Michael jogged over, attracted by the shouting. “Ladies please, what’s the problem here? We’re all Trash, right? Don’t argue, this isn’t us.”

Both women continued glaring at each other for a moment longer before their tempers fled. Their shoulders slumped, and under Michael’s watchful eye they offered each other sincere apologies. Michael hoped this was just a small bump in the road and not the sign of something larger.

He was wrong.

That argument had not been the first, but it had certainly been the most heated. Most disagreements before then had been between equals, people who understood that the other loved Trash and the Gang just as much as them. That one was the start of something new, though. Arguments between people who only liked some of the Gang.

New factions formed. Gangsters like Michael, who liked everyone equally, and Trash Purists who liked one more than all the others.

Arguments became more common. Discussions grew more heated. Pointed words flew every which way, and as the owner of Trash and the Gang Michael was at the end of his rope trying to moderate. Apologies became insincere, grudges were held, people were smeared. It was chaos.

It was around this time that Michael noticed another problem. The art wall, something he had looked upon with such pride, was causing problems as well. What had once been a celebration of the community had become a competition. Some spots on the wall were more desirable than others, and getting on it was seen as a sign of prestige. It went totally against the spirit of things.

People started drawing explicit art of Trash and the Gang and hanging it on the wall without Michael’s permission. Arguments broke out over it, not because it was seen as strange but because the explicit art was depicting them “properly”.

“Mr. Can-Do would never bottom for No 1 Crate, he’s a total top!”

“BucketStan is the best pairing, I don’t see how you guys are having trouble understanding it.”

“God, I wish Mr. Hugs would wrap me up in his arms.”

It was chaos, pure and simple. Everything had quickly gotten out of control. A spiral was forming, dragging everything and everyone deeper and deeper. Less passionate fans of Trash and the Gang began bowing out. Gangsters like Michael stopped showing up. Normal patrons who had nothing to do with any of it would turn around at the door.

In the end, Michael was forced to make a tough decision. He pulled the plug on the whole thing.

One day, the building was still closed even far past opening hours. The crowd of fans outside were angry, but even they couldn’t hang around forever, and by midday they had all left. The afternoon continued with no changes, and night soon fell. It was only then that Michael stepped out, once more relying on his old crutch to calm himself.

The alleyway was quiet. It was pleasant, a nice safe space for Michael to retreat to. A place for him to go if he ever needed to think, and he definitely needed to do some thinking now. Everything had been so great, a dream come true, and yet now it all lay in ashes around him. He may as well have burned the building down with all the vitriol that he’d let grow amongst his fellow Trash fans.

Trash and the Gang might need to be retired.

The thought was painful, for more reasons than one. They had been there with him from the beginning. They were his favorites, the ones he believed in all this time. Michael didn’t want to see them go, and yet he might have no choice. Even if he got rid of them, though, what would he do next? How could he get people to come back to the business without the star attractions?

A clank next to Michael broke the alley’s silence. He looked over. There was an animatronic there, one with pigtails and a claw that seemed strangely familiar.

Michael shrugged his shoulders. Good enough for him.

This new animatronic was summarily dragged inside and dropped next to the stage. Michael retreated to his office. He’d get around to fixing them up later, he had some other duties to attend to. Orders to fill, maintenance to do.

The management office was cramped and hot, like always. The air conditioning was loud and ineffective, the computer slow and unintuitive. Michael ignored all of this with ease, having grown used to it over time. It was simple. Meditative. Another way for Michael to simply shut his brain off and mentally recover from the recent stress.

Something beeped on his monitor. Michael switched over to his motion detectors. Something was moving in his restaurant.

Panic gripped Michael. Had a burglar broken in somehow? This was just what he needed, more bad news after everything else. He watched the detectors with intensity, tracking the movement as whoever was in his building moved closer to the office. Why? Why were they moving closer? Michael felt like slapping himself. The noise, that must be it.

The air conditioning was turned off. An audio lure was played. Michael watched the detectors with baited breath. For a moment there was no movement whatsoever. Then, whatever was in the restaurant moved towards the lure.

Michael released a breath, or rather he mimed releasing one since he no longer had lungs. That had been a close one. Hopefully that had bought him enough time to phone the police.

The motion detectors lit up once more, as whatever was in the restaurant made an even faster beeline for his office.

Michael scrambled to find something to do. Audio lures were played and ignored. Soon, the air ducts attached to Michael’s office began to shake and rattle, and Michael hurried to check them, hoping beyond hope to see nothing there.

The left vent was clear. Michael breathed a sigh of relief. Then he turned to shine a light down the right and came face to face with Pan Stan.

The pan looked back at Michael with his mismatched eyes. All was quiet for a moment, the silence stretching on awkwardly long as Michael began to wonder if he had been pranked.

Pan Stan leapt from the vent. Michael didn’t stand a chance.