This story is not meant to be racially degrading in any way. Nor is it intended to scare anyone about events that occur in Mexico. I have been to Mexico many times and I still love to go. Please just see this for the work of fiction it is and don't read anything political into it that isn't there.

I don't own Psych.

Thanks to Isis-sg1 for this brilliant idea, Sas420 for checking over the Spanish, Luna and Wiccat for medical assistance, Luna and Jenn for pushing me to finish and Jenn for making it look pretty grammatically. Basically everyone at Psychfic is to blame...thank for this story.

This story is part 3 of The Chronicles of Shawn Spencer, and picks up exactly where "Out on the Sea" ended. It most likely wont make a lot of sense unless you've read that one before.

And yes, this does talk about one of his jobs...albeit a brief mention.

--

(bad Spanish)

"It's like Beautiful girls...drinking beer…on the beach…with homicide…"

"High school Spanish comes back to haunt him."

"Aieee! I can't do this…you make a translation for me?"

-Lights, Camera, Homicidio

--

Part 1

Ensenada

September 14th 1995

"Five dolla! Five Dolla!"

"Two dolla? Two Dolla?"

"No, I need blue. Tha blue one!"

"You have a longer one? No, Loooonger!"

The street corners of Ensenda were filled with broken English and haphazard Spanish as Americans and Mexicans attempted to barter for the sale of cheap goods. Several Mexican children ran through the streets attempting to sell chiclets to the passing tourist as the ever changing dance of haggling raged around him.

He was lucky that places were cruise ships made port were so American friendly. Even if the friendship was only directed towards the naïve tourist and his or her pocketbook.

Seeing he had been kicked off the ship with nothing but quite literally the clothes on his back, he decided to purchase a bag and a few necessities. Street vendors were always easier to haggle with than the shops.

Finding a vendor who wasn't selling jewelry or sunglasses was the hard part, but finally he came across a vendor with a wide selection of purses and a few bags.

The minute he touched one the vendor was on him.

"You like? Twenty dolla, special price for you."

And thus the tango began.

He immediately put the bag down.

"No, too much."

"Fifteen, today only."

He stopped, scratching his chin in "consideration"

"How bout three?"

The man feigned an expression of injury. "I have to make a living friend. You give me ten?"

"Hmm…five?" he picked the bag up again, turning it over in his hand.

"Friend, think of my children!"

The man hadn't any children, that much Shawn could tell without even a second glance. He may have a girlfriend or two, but there wasn't a chance this man was supporting any children he had sired.

"Seven, but that's all I have."

"Tha's all?"

He shrugged, putting the bag down and turning to go.

"Sorry, that's all I have with me." He only took three steps away before the man called out after him.

"Okay, Okay, Seven! You cause me go broke!"

Yeah yeah, he'd heard it all before. Quickly he paid the man and collecting his new bag before making his way to the next vendor, time to find some clothes.

By the time he had finished gathering all his supplies he was down to twenty seven dollars.

If he had had means of transportation it still would have taken him upwards of two and half hours just to reach the border. On foot, battling the thousands of other hopeful immigrants it would take even far, far longer.

He was going to need a job.

The Spanish he had picked up in high school was not adequate to negotiate the contracts of a job. Fortunately the shop he had stopped at was pretty close to the tourist area and his new "boss" spoke relatively decent English.

Together they had been able to butcher both the English and the Spanish language before coming to an agreement.

"You take rag. You wash floor."

"Yeah, okay."

"¡Yo no creo este!"

He took the soiled rag and dropped to his knees. Moving the rag methodically in circles; essentially spreading the dirt around.

Scooping up his bag from behind the counter he checked the contents, everything was miraculously still there. He stepped out of the front door of the taco shop and made his way across the street. Finding a place to sleep was going to be a problem. There wasn't much in the way of spare hotel rooms for him to rent.

He was on the way to the nearest junkyard; hopefully he would be able to find a spare car to spend the night in the skies looked like they were planning on raining tonight.

A small group of men came across the street and encircled him, jeering, a few of them smacking their fists into their hands.

"What's this?" The one he assumed was the ring leader goaded "White guy come down take our job? No man, we treat American like he treat Mexican. Como mierda."

One man on each side of him lurched forward and grabbed hold of his arms, forcing him off the street and into an alley.