A/N: This is a requested story by fanfiction user Barbacar, and it was honestly really fun to write. Please check out their work!

Gravity Falls and its characters were created by Alex Hirsch and owned by Disney.

It started with a single stick of dynamite.

And it wasn't even supposed to be that. All Wendy Corduroy wanted was a larger axe to cut down the dying tree near her family's home. The Mystery Shack always had interesting things lying around, useful junk or otherwise; she was sure there was something there she could use. Besides, Soos said she could take anything she found that could help.

And the stick of red explosive just seemingly called out to her.

It was just lying there, out in the open, on a table deep in the hidden bunker the new store owner refused to bolt up. Wendy stepped slowly toward it, staring at the dangerous tool with a bit of apprehension and excitement. Dynamite was not something her family handled often. Scratch that: her father expressively forbade it anywhere near the house. He wouldn't allow any of his children to get hurt by it like their…mother…had…

She was so young, Wendy could recall. So beautiful. So strong. With a flaming smile and a lit cigarette dangling from her lips, she'd light one of these suckers up with it and knock a building down in seconds flat. Such a sight, such noise! It'd been years, though, since Wendy last saw a true demolition expert at work.

The spark doesn't stay lit forever. Sometimes accidents happen.

But most times accidents could be avoided. Her mother had always been careful. Wendy could, too. And the family really needed the tree gone before a strong wind knocked it over and it crushed them. The hesitancy was brief, but Wendy grabbed the dynamite, a tingling sensation numbing her fingers, and she hurried out of the bunker.

Dynamite was effective. Dynamite was quick. Her dad wouldn't be upset with only one.

She kept telling herself that last one as she planted the stick against the tree's base. Oh well, even if he would be, good thing he was in town all afternoon. She stared at the thin wick, a bit wistful she didn't have a cigarette to light it. The match would have to do. Catching the flame to the string, she lit the dynamite and ran far from the tree until it was safe to turn and watch, covering her ears.

The little fire inched closer and closer to the explosive until—

CRA-BOOM!

The orange flame engulfed the tree for only a second. Smoke consumed the air and momentarily blocked all sight of the dead plant. Wendy's ears rang with both the echoing boom and rushing blood. Her heart was pounding!

That was amazing! That was so loud, outrageous, terrifying, exhilarating!

Powerful!

To try and control all that pent-up ferocity, as if to tame a man-eating lion? No wonder her mom found so much excitement in her job. To think such an unassuming object could contain such a destructive force within. Her mother had been every bit the fiery red-head like her tools of preference.

Heh, fiery red-head. Wendy could seriously get used to that.

So it started with one job. Just a simple job of clearing some debris from a minor rockslide on the edge of town. Legally speaking, she shouldn't have been able to volunteer and buy her own dynamite to bring to the site to blow up the rocks. But also legally speaking, the contractor should have had a license for using TNT in the first place, so blind eyes were turned and questions never asked. Which was all for the best because word quickly spread of the young woman with the explosive touch.

In only a few short years Wendy had gained the reputation and business as the best demolitionist in the state. She was so skillful with her work it was almost like watching an elegant performer. No, she was the ringmaster: her outfit nothing more than a soot-covered T-shirt and shorts with sticks of dynamite hanging loosely around her belt. Her top hat was of the hard, plastic variety– a white-and-blue sturdy protector that let only her long red hair pour out to reach her waist. And always she was seen with her trademark cigar. The tremendously fat, purple roll rested lollingly between her lips as she stepped into the "demolition zone".

On cue two of her employees pushed a gigantic cannon forward. Several others finished placing her own custom-made dynamite sticks on and around the enormous hunk of marble in the center of the site. This particular town wanted a statue honoring a local hero, and who was she to disappoint? In less than a week of planning she had everything set up and ready to go.

"Alright guys, I think it's time we finally get her done," Wendy shouted, mostly ignoring the massive cheer roaring behind her. Her workers hastily retreated, and the cannon operators both flashed thumbs up. One of them also handed her the long cord of fuse as she climbed into the cannon, lighting it in one fluid motion with her cigar. She got a final look as the other operator rushed to light the fuses by the marble.

The darkness held her, but she wasn't nervous. She was energized. Any second she'd be launched out the cannon, flying through the air like a cannonball, thrust by the barely controllable force of the blast. The only warning she got over the shouts of the crowd were the muffled booms of the other explosions before her cannon hurled her into the sky. The gathered people gasped as the exploding dynamite tore into the marble, shielding the statue with smoke and fire, and Wendy was flung straight into it all. Everything went quiet until the smoke slowly began to lift.

And there was demolitionist Wendy, sitting atop the statue's freshly carved shoulder like it was no big deal, waving to the people below. The crowd couldn't have cheered louder as Wendy climbed down and inspected the fruition of her work. Not too bad– the statue quite strongly resembled the hero it was modeled after. Not even magic could have made it look this good looking. Well…the nose was a bit too big, she conceded, but that could easily be fixed when the chiselers came to smoothen out the rugged edges later tonight. Satisfied, she made for her temporary office, and the crowd soon after dispersed.

She entered the tiny trailer room to find her contractor, the mayor, already inside. "Thank you again for all your services!" he said, hand held out. She shook it, smiling.

"Hey, no big deal. Just doing my job." She removed the last of her cigar from her mouth, tossing it into the ashtray.

"Ah, yes. Your payment." The mayor placed a suitcase onto her desk and opened it. Inside was the expected payment in cash, but also squeezed next to it in the corner was as a brand new box of her favorite cigars. "As promised, ma'am." The smile was wide and bright and happy on her face, and Wendy hastened to open the sealed box and procure a fresh, straight-from-the-factory cigar. "Again, thank you for everything. The town has been wanting that statue for years now."

"Nah, man, the pleasure is all mine. And don't worry– the donations you all made are definitely going to be put to good use." The mayor smiled, giving a brief nod of the head, before stepping out of her office. Wendy slipped into her chair and leaned back, already striking a match to light her roll.

There was a knock at the door.

For the longest of milliseconds, Wendy debated even answering the door until after taking at least one puff, but a second knock spurred her onto her feet. With a scowl she put out the match with a flick of her wrist and headed for the door. She opened it to find an unfamiliar man standing outside.

"Let me see your license," were his immediate words. He even made to push inside, but Wendy didn't budge, instead leaning firmly against the doorframe.

"Whoa, hey! Chill dude. Who are you, some kind of sheriff?" Well, now that she looked, he was wearing the appropriate uniform, badge and all.

"Yes," was his curt reply, "Sheriff Gray, and I'm going to need you to show me some sort of license to be here. Not having one is illegal, you know."

Wendy brusquely stepped back, letting him enter. "Like I'm unaware," she answered, walking back toward her table. She'd heard complaints from her employees about a sheriff who'd been harassing them throughout the week; this was likely the guy. The creep just wanted to ruin things and abuse his authority. Ah, there they were– after rummaging through her papers, she found the two she was looking for. "There. My license as a demolition contractor and my contract from the mayor himself. Happy?"

Sheriff Gray looked between the two papers. "Not yet, little lady. Where's your license for public entertainment?"

"My what for what?"

"Your license for public entertainment," he repeated, enunciating slowly like she couldn't understand him. "A license to perform. You're breaking the law for performing those spectacles in front of a paying audience."

Wendy crossed her arms. "I'm not performing any spectacles for anybody, and I'm not making anyone pay. I'm just very extravagant in what I do. I can't help it if other people just happen to stop by and watch."

The sheriff scowled. "Don't try to act smart with me! What you're doing is clearly illegal!"

"Who's breaking the law here? My demolition zone is clearly marked out. You couldn't have missed it: bright yellow tape with big, bold text saying 'Destruction in Progress – Do Not Enter'? And trust me, my guys are making sure no one crosses those barriers."

"And yet you provide for these supposed non-audience members with ear plugs and safety goggles?"

"Not really. My employees just really want to make sure there's available protective gear for their fellow workers. They're very important in our line of work, so they like to leave them out in the open for anyone to find."

"So you're saying the townspeople are stealing from you?"

"Actually, you're the only one saying that. All I'm saying is that maybe the gear keeps getting misplaced, and the people just happen to find them and put them on. We're not obligated to make them leave if they're not in the way."

Wendy nearly laughed at how red in the face Gray was getting.

"I–you–this-this needs to stop! You're receiving money, and you have no authorization to do so! I'm going to have to confiscate it." He was hoping to see Wendy get upset, get mad, lose her cool over the prospect of forfeiting her profits. But she only shrugged and unfolded her arms before stepping forward.

"Sheriff Gray? Can I tell you something?" She motioned for the door, and together they stepped out. Wendy then proceeded to show him around the work area, lighting her purple cigar as she spoke. "You see all this? You know how much of this I bought using the money people give us?" She looked him straight in the eyes. "None, dude. Everything was paid for through the money earned from contracts. That or was handmade by yours truly. We don't spend a cent on those monetary donations. We give it all to charity because, hey, we already have everything we need."

"Only the monetary donations?"

"Can't exactly turn away needed supplies, but I personally inspect all such items." They neared the cannon, a few helmets, tools, and dynamite sticks littered around it. "See this beaut? She was given to us by a former ringmaster from another town. Same for the gear." She bent down and picked up one of the helmets. "I couldn't have been more excited when I got her. I had to try her out immediately. You see, cannons are nothing like dynamite, and I love dynamite. Got it from my mother. But you know what's similar about the two?"

Wendy slammed the helmet down on a startled Sheriff Gray's head. With a single push she knocked him into the cannon's barrel, and with an added shove lifted it upward. Outside, she could hear the man struggling to reorient himself. In one fluid motion she swiped the cigar from her lips and lit the cannon's fuse close to its blasting cap.

"Hey! What are—!"

BA-BOOM!

Sheriff Gray was sent flying high. Wendy grinned, cigar back in its place, as she watched the black speck go higher and higher into the air. "Both are great at blasting away things you really don't want around." Not that the sheriff could even hear her. At least she gave him a helmet for the landing.

Wendy turned on her heel, heading back to her office.

Honestly, when was it ever a good idea to mess with a fiery red-head?