From atop the makeshift mountain of rifraff and rubble, Max belowed, "Let the wild rompus begin!"
The wild rompus began.
Office desks were toppled and chairs practically thrown as walls were banged on and ceilings whacked in the haste to find the contortionist culprit. From atop Officer Buzz McNabb's desk, Shawn Spencer eyed the destruction with satisfaction. He lowered his arms, grinning broadly.
His partner, Gus, stood beside the desk, glaring at him as he dismounted.
"First of all," said Gus, "That has got to be the worst "Max" impression I've ever seen."
"Oh, really? I'd like to see you do a better one," Shawn answered. "Come on; let's help with the wild rompus."
"Rompus isn't a word."
"It is now."
Shawn walked through the panic, still smiling. He'd pulled it off again—solved a case that even the high-and-mighty head detective couldn't get right. Their man, a contortionist named Lewie McPhereson, had been a difficult man to catch. Shawn mentally patted himself on the back. He would have asked Gus to do it for him—but the pharmaceutical salesman didn't seem to be in a very accommodating mood. Still, Shawn was on top—nothing could topple him now. Unless it was…
"Spencer!" Head Detective Carlton Lassiter snarled, marching towards the psychic team.
"Lassie!" Shawn said, holding his hand up for a high five. The Officer continued glaring.
"Where is he?" Lassiter asked.
"Who?"
"McPhereson, our culprit." The detective put on what he considered a longsuffering expression. The results were horrendous. Gus actually flinched.
"Dude, did you not hear my big reveal? It was great, I pulled a Where the Wild Things Are and everything. McPhereson is still in the buildings. He'll be hiding inbetween the walls or in the ceiling or something."
"You mean you haven't apprehended him?" Lassiter asked, angrily.
"Well not since you let him go, no," Shawn answered. The contortionist had managed to break out of his holding cell right here, in SBPD. The head detective reddened angrily, and walked towards the mayhem of searching.
"Hey, I did my bit—I figured it out! You can go get him," Shawn called. He turned to his partner and shrugged. "People."
"Shawn, that was really stupid. You've just made an idiot out of yourself twice in the last five minutes."
The two started walking down the hall.
"Nah, he's still in the building," Shawn said, stopping to whack the wall next to him.
"They'll get him," whack, "Especially," whack, "now that Lassie is mad and motivated," whack.
Two hours, six-and-a-half pots of coffee, four broken chairs, and a lot of noise later, the wiry little Lewie McPhereson was handcuffed and being marched to a police car, next stop, prison.
This time, Shawn bypassed his irritable competitor and walked over to the blonde, junior detective, O'Hara, who was opening the car door for the contortionist criminal.
"Jules!" he said, grinning.
She glanced in his direction.
"Admit it. You're kind of turned on by my literary references."
She stared at him a minute, then slammed the door behind their criminal.
"Keep dreaming."
