Six hours and five more useless interrogations later had Carlton Lassiter returning to his desk. He placed the legal pad containing all of his notes on his desk-and that's when he saw it. It was just a plain, yellow, number two pencil sitting on the edge of his desk. But he knew better than that.

It was obviously the doing of one Shawn Spencer, and he knew he shouldn't have left his desk unguarded. Of course, O'Hara had been with him, but for all Calton knew, she was in on the prank.

He eyed the pencil suspiciously, wondering if he should even try touching it. Spencer was uncanny, and he suspected the worst. Like, if he attempted to pick up the pencil, it was somehow rigged to a trapdoor in the ceiling that would drop a bucket full of peanuts on him, and then an elephant would come stampeding into the department after him. This caused him to look up at the ceiling, but nothing appeared out of place.

No. That was just crazy. Whatever secrets the pencil held were far worse than that. He finally decided to avoid the pencil, picking up his notes slowly, as if trying to avoid triggering a bomb, and walked away.

o—o o—o o—o o—o o—o o—o o—o o—o o—o o—o

The day (or rather night) wasn't going any better for one Burton Guster. He had checked his voice mail once he was finally released from his pharmaceutical prison (an expression which he now realized sounded too much like something Shawn would say) and realized he had zero calls-or texts-from Shawn. He had turned his phone off after their twelfth conversation, which had not lasted longer than twenty seconds, and was now becoming worried. Surely he would have called by now.

And now Gus checked his watch, 10:30, he noted. It had been six hours since their last conversation, which had ended in Shawn saying he was on his way to check out a lead. Exactly where or what that lead was, Shawn had not said, instead replying:

"Sorry, Gus, but you had to go and be a fuzzy navel. And NOT the fruity alcoholic beverage." He added quickly, and continued, "That is member-only information. You know, it's not too late for you to join-" and Gus had promptly hung up on him. He was starting to wish he hadn't, and was now staring eagerly at his phone's face, willing it to vibrate and show "1 Message: Shawn".

The message didn't come and (Gus had to admit to himself, he had only waited five minutes after checking the first time) decided to try calling Shawn, instead. It went straight to voice mail, and he felt his heart sink. He called the Psych office, had no luck, and ran to his car in a panic.

o—o o—o o—o o—o o—o o—o o—o o—o o—o o—o

The house was quiet and, for the first time in a long time, Henry wished it wasn't. He had had an argument with Shawn and, while that in itself was no oddity, he wished he would at least call or something. He was feeling uneasy for some reason, and just felt like he needed to hear from his son.

The phone, as if on cue, startled him out of his thoughts, and Henry glanced at his watch. He could only think of one person who would be calling him at 10:56. He picked up the phone, and felt his heart sink when the person on the other line began speaking.

"Gus." He said. His voice was low, and his disappointment was evident.

"Mr. Spencer," Gus began. "Were you expecting someone else?"

"No, no." He said, quickly recovering. "What was it you needed?"

"I was wondering," Gus went on, "If you had heard anything from Shawn." Henry's breath caught for a minute, but Gus seemed to not have heard and continued, "I thought maybe you had scheduled some last-minute dinner tonight, or something?" His voice was hopeful, and the dread in Henry's stomach swelled. "Mr. Spencer?"

He realized he hadn't said anything and spoke quickly, "No, I haven't. We had another fight a few days ago, and..." He didn't have to finish, Gus knew exactly how Shawn's relationship with his dad was.

"Right." Gus said, sounding uncomfortable.

"Is he in any kind of trouble?" Henry was afraid to ask, but he had to.

"I'm not sure," Gus said. "He said he was following a lead on a case-that was over six hours ago-and I haven't heard from him since. He wouldn't tell me what or where the 'lead' was." There was an awkward silence between them, and Gus finally said, "Should I call Lassiter or Juliet? Maybe he went back to the station?"

Henry took a moment to respond. "Yeah, you do that." He said, and hung up. He grabbed his keys and headed for his truck.

o—o o—o o—o o—o o—o o—o o—o o—o o—o o—o

What was the one thing Shawn wanted most in the entire world? An Aspirin. Or the very bad, out-of-tune middle school marching band that had manifested itself in his head in the course of hours (Days? He wasn't sure.) to please quit playing 'The Little Drummer Boy' very horribly in his mind. Oh! And that swimming pool full of noodles, he still wanted that. Oh, wait, that was three things. Could he cheat?

His eyes were opening before he wanted them to, and his head, he realized, wasn't doing the constant pounding behind his eyes sockets any good in the position it was in: lolled all the way back, with his mouth wide open. That wasn't good; anything could just fall in there.

As Shawn brought his head forward, his neck flared in pain. And as he tried to sit up so he could get to better know his surroundings, a volcano of pain erupted in his shoulder. He bit back a scream, jerking in the small chair he was bound to, despite the more agony it brought him. He forced himself to stop and, breathing deep and slowly, took the time to look around.

First, at himself. He was sitting in a short, uncomfortable chair. There were at least six strips of duct tape across his chest, holding him in place. There was tape holding his hands at his sides and his feet to the chair legs, as well, but he didn't dwell on that for long. Instead, what caught his eye was the rag that was folded and-God forbid-duct-taped to his wound. It was very badly done, the rag was almost completely soaked, and the tape was becoming unsticky and starting to fall off. Now, wasn't duct tape supposed to be, like, superglue? He thought back to the pencil on Lassiter's desk and just had to laugh. And then he wondered what the detective was doing right now... While he was being held here?

Shawn looked at his surroundings, this time. He was in a garage, the one behind Rhoda's, he assumed. There were cars parked in a long row on his left, all in different stages of being dismantled. The one closest to him, he noticed, was the cursed yellow one, the trunk still open. He glared at it, as if it could be intimidated.

To his right was a long wooden table, covered in various auto parts and tools scattered in no particular order. And, he saw, at least five rolls of duct tape.

The door in front of Shawn opened, and he instinctively pushed against the chair as a man-an older man, with curly grey hair and glasses-stalked up to him, the younger man close behind, still holding the gun. "I didn't know what to do with him," The younger spoke up as they both stopped in front of Shawn. "He just kind of... Found the store."

The older had crossed his arms and was now staring right at Shawn, his blue eyes nearly piercing through him. "Did he see anything?" He asked.

"I'm not sure," The younger replied. "He was just sort of looking around, and then went to leave when he saw me."

"Dude, you weren't exactly doing a great job hiding from me. Were you the one they always found first when you played hide-and-seek?" They were both glaring at him now, and the younger jumped forward, brandishing his gun threateningly while he spat out some nonsense like 'Shut your mouth or I'll fuck you up real good!' before the older reached out his hand to stop him.

"Shawn Spencer," The older said, holding up what Shawn realized was his wallet. "Psychic Detective? Really?" Shawn only glared at him, and he continued, throwing the wallet on the nearby table and leaning closer to Shawn's face. "Tell me what you were doing snooping around my store."

"It honestly was an accident." Shawn said, a small chuckle escaping his throat. When the two only stared at him, he continued. "Really, I was investigating this case I had about an ice cream truck-"

"He tried to tell me the exact same pack of likes, Eric!" The younger shouted, pointing at Shawn with the gun. The man seemed to not notice, but Shawn still leaned back a bit. The older, Eric, looked annoyed and turned to address the younger.

"Donnie," he said, getting close to the other man. "Don't interrupt the man when he's talking. And for God's sake, stop slinging that gun around before someone gets hurt." Donnie looked genuinely sorry and backed away, his head bowed in defeat.

"Now," Eric turned back to Shawn, who was pretty creeped out (more so than before) by now. "Please, continue your story."

"Um... Investigating a case about an ice cream truck," Shawn said, glancing nervously at Donnie as he spoke. "It was stolen, and carried off in a truck with this store's logo on it. So I came here, hoping to find out what happened, and why the truck was stolen."

Eric watched him carefully. "Well, isn't your luck just incredible. We haven't stolen any ice cream trucks, nor do we have any need for them." He said, glancing back at Donnie. "Too bad we have no use for you, though. Shame. You're going to be quite a mess to clean up."

"Exactly!" Shawn cut in, he heart racing frantically as he tried to think of something to say. "It will be hard to get rid of me. I mean, being a police employee and all. and I'm a psychic! I could tell you what the police are planning to do next-I could help you avoid them!" He was pleading now, seeing Donnie raising the gun and aiming it at his head. Shawn looked to the side, squeezing his eyes shut, and Donnie kept his aim steady, waiting for Eric's word.

"No," said Eric. "I really don't think you'd be that helpful." Shawn opened his eyes to look at him once more, and he leaned in and whispered, as if what he was speaking was some huge secret. "Besides, you talk too much."

Shawn whispered back, "And your brother is a retard." Eric leaned back, fury clear on his face. Donnie glanced at him, and moved closer to Shawn, the gun in his hand shaking threateningly as he squeezed it tighter.

"What'd he say, Eric?" Donnie said. He looked uncertain of what he should do, and he turned his attention back to Shawn, now pressing the gun under his jaw and into his neck. "What did you say to him?" Donnie screamed, pushing the gun harder.

Shawn was pushing himself away from the madman, and just managed a reply, "I told him you were a retard." he nearly spat, and Donnie exploded in fury. He pulled the gun back and slammed it against the side of Shawn's face. Hard. Eric came to his rescue, hooking his arms under Donnie's and pulling him back gently.

"I'm gonna fucking kill him!" he was shouting. The entire left side of Shawn's face was on fire, and he kept his eyes closed as he sucked in breath through his teeth, trying to surpass the agony. Donnie was dragged out of the room, kicking, spitting, and screaming other obscenities. A minute later, Eric returned, alone.

"That wasn't a smart move, Psychic." he said, and Shawn noticed the gun was now in his hand. "I've decided it might be good to keep you around, at least, for now. But if you ever say anything about my brother again, or try to do anything-"

"Yeah," Shawn cut in. "I'm totally gonna Hulk out and rip myself free of these six layers of tape." Eric didn't respond, just waved the gun in front of Shawn's face, and turned around to walk off.

"And don't think I didn't catch you eying that family picture on the wall over there, Psychic" Was all Eric said, waving his hand towards the framed picture of the brothers at a younger age, but definitely still the same people, along with a man and a woman on the wall to his right.

"Damn." Shawn said, as the door was closed behind Eric.