I don't think Stanford Pines dies from a heart attack at the age of 92 like Bill said he would.
I think he dies at the age of 94, sitting side by side with his brother on the old worn down couch on the front porch nobody got around to replacing.
Stanley has been dead for fifteen minutes. At this point they're both so old that all Ford can feel about that is exasperated fondness, because he knows he's going too and it's just like Stan to get one last leg up. Ford was born first, so Stan has to die first, naturally. They were sitting together, chatting and laughing and dozing off, until Stan leaned over and put his head on Ford's shoulder and started snoring. He was there one minute and gone the next, nothing much to it.
Ford scribbles in one last note on his journal-happens to be the last page, funny how things work out like that-and for Stan's sake, documents the fact that his brother did, in fact, die in his sleep with a beer in hand and the keys to the El Diablo in his pocket, just like he'd said he'd always wanted. Ford doesn't document the fact that Stan also said they should both go side by side, but everyone already knows that.
Ford stretches his wrists out one last time, pops all twelve knuckles and closes his journal. He sets it on the table next to the couch, places the pen on top of that, and pats it gently. He removes the glasses off Stan's face, cleans them, and folds them closed, and removes his own. He puts those down together, side by side and then yawns one more time.
He's been tired for a long, long time. It'll be nice to finally nap.
The birds are chirping in the late afternoon, and for a moment Ford's mind drifts back to that snide little comment he'd heard, ages, technically a lifetime ago.
Stanford smiles. He thinks Suck It Bill. As hard as he can.
Then he tips his head so it's resting on Stan's, interlocks their fingers, and dies, all within the span of one last breath.
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