Shawn, rarely, was one to grant his Dad any compliments. Henry Spencer did have a few redeeming qualities, however. First of all, if you could win the man's loyalty – you had it for life. If anyone needed evidence, Shawn would simply state 'plaid'. Plaid had become Henry's friend years ago and the man staunchly defended its use. Secondly, his Dad didn't believe in letting people go hungry. He wasn't the type to make everyone salivate longingly in front of a table spread with food, just because one dish didn't have the decency to be done. If the chicken couldn't keep up with the rest of the dinner, then the chicken (like every other loser who fell behind) deserved to be left for last.

So here they all sat, sans the main course that refused to barbecue any faster, fully prepared to partake of the side dishes.

"Thank you Henry for allowing us to take part in this…unusual…meal." Mrs. Guster, her ever gracious self, elegantly bowed her head. Henry, not one to bow down before any backhanded compliment simply returned the favor – and the narrowed gaze.

"Well, thank you Winnie. If you remember, I did promise dinner at 4 o'clock sharp. I believe it's rude to keep guests waiting."

"Oh but of course, you're right." With many years of mediating parental squabbles, Shawn felt the need to commence eating with all due speed. Polite company guaranteed that one should not trade barbs with one's mouth full. It was most definitely time to encourage all parties to start shoveling their faces.

"Hey Gus, pass the ketchup woul…wh…what?" His friend's eyebrows had taken on life of their own as they raised and waggled independently. His slightly confused amusement faded as Gus' head began to mimic his eyebrows.

"Are you having a seizure…?" His lips pursed slightly as he looked all around him to find a cause for Gus' weirdness.

Winnie again spoke with the same leveled tone. "I'm so sorry my casserole doesn't meet your standards, Shawn." His head slowly turned to meet the cold and legendary Winifred Guster Glare of Death. "But please…do feel free to smother three hours of handcrafted preparation in sauce. I would hate for you to feel pressured to taste it first."

Shawn felt vaguely like Bambi, sucked into the tractor beam of on oncoming semi.

Unable to move…

Unable to blink…

Unable to think…

Unable to do anything - except stare down his eighteen-wheeled fate, wide-eyed and dumbstruck.

"Umm…" Nervously licking his lips, he looked around for a distraction to grasp with white knuckled fingers of desperation. The rest of the world blurred out of focus except for his amigo, his brother-in-arms. Gus rolled his eyes into his previously seizing eyebrows and threw his head back as he began his Lamaze exercises.

"Go on, Shawn – here's your ketchup."

Oh God – it's a trap! I can't take the ketchup without insulting her, but if I take it I'll just make her mad.

"I don't want it."

I'm gonna die.

"No?" Mrs. Guster leveled her eyes at him again, staring into his retinas. He swore she was doing something otherworldly because he could feel his eyeballs burning.

"No, I'm fine," he insisted.

"Boy - now that's some fiiine casserole. You don't want to mess it up." Mr. Guster was a traditional sort. You don't refuse your elders in a request, even if the misguided request was a trap. Shawn felt another twist of his gut as Mr. Guster's head cocked to the left as he placed his elbows on the table and clasped his really, really big hands. Hands so big they could wrap completely around his…

"Mmmm…" Self preservation was now his master as he proceeded to pile his plate full of Mrs. G's special, artisanal casserole.

"Yummy!" He managed to choke around the dryness. His cheeks were stuffed with undetermined ingredients. Bread crumbs clung to his lips and flaked onto his shirt, down into his neckline. Swallowing, or rather attempting to swallow required all of his attention. Barely gulping down a tasteless lump in his throat, he pasted a big smile on his face and stuck another heaping forkful into his mouth.

Out of the corner of his misery, he spied his father's open amusement at his predicament. His dad could pull off an entire conversation simply by tilting back in his chair and crossing his arms. This look was one of sadistic curiosity.

Five bites were the magic number to turn off the Winifred Guster Glare of Death. When she finally released him from her eye hold, he allowed himself to release the stored tension in his lungs. The last mouthful was more stubborn than the first four. His throat tightened uncomfortably as its moisture supply had dried up in the effort to move the last vestiges of portland cement from his system.

"Hey Dad, can you pass me a beer?" His voice came across a bit raspy from the abuse it had suffered.

Gus' eyebrows again began dancing as Shawn opened his mouth in confusion.

"I'm so sorry that my casserole is too dry for your exacting tastes, Shawn."