Stan's eyes widen, his mouth opens a little- Then he stops, paints a look of suspicion over his face, like maybe he's having doubts. His eyes move from Ford to the other one and he steps closer slowly, closer, head tilted, trying to look at both of 'em the same, because he's got to be careful here. He's got to be really careful, and he bets the only thing makin' it so that clone-thing lets him put his hands in his pockets is the fact that the gun's way over there behind him, further with every careful little step. He don't mind guns, ain't one of those guys who thinks he's makin' some stupid statement by avoiding them, but sometimes they're more trouble than they're worth. Like now.

Because now, you see, now one hand's got a palmfull of splinters and shards of glass both great and small, and his fingers curl around it and this is the moment, this here-

He throws all of it directly at the Ford-thing's eyes and grabs at the hand Ford held up and pulls, makes to run them both over toward where that gun slid away to because you know how sometimes guns are more trouble than they're worth? Yeah. Now's the time they ain't. If Stan bought them enough time with that little stunt, if they can just get to it, if he can even aim the thing - because Stan knows how far off a shot can go, they make it look real easy in the movies but he's never met a bullet that wants to go where he tries to put it - If, if, if. That's okay. Him and if are buddies. He's okay with if.