Disclaimer:
Cuddly Carrots=XX
Steve Franks=XY
f`(cuddly carrots)=2X
f`(steve franks)=X(dy/dx)+Y
X=2(f`(cuddly carrots))
…you guys will just have to believe me when I say I'm not Steve Franks…
HIHIHIHIHIHIHIHIHIHIH
The Night Of The Day After
HIHIHIHIHIHIHIHIHIHIH
When Shawn Spencer opened his eyes, his first thought was to scream at someone to either take the fire poker off of his forehead, or to wipe the acid off of his brow. His second thought was to wonder if being probed felt like a colonoscopy. He then wondered if when the mother ship returned him to Earth he would get an awesome nickname like 'Crazy Joe,' albeit, 'Crazy Joe' really wouldn't make too much sense because his first name was Shawn, his last name Spencer, and middle name was Taylor—although one time he did dream that he was James Roday, and boy was that one weird dream!
Maybe his name would be 'Spacey Spencer,' or 'Crazy Dude,' or 'Shawn of the Dawn' (well, that last one was more of an idea for a comic book he had, but it was still pretty catchy, right?). First though, he had to decide if he had actually been kidnapped by aliens, or if he was just being a paranoid lame-o pants.
Shawn finally actually looked around and saw that he was in a hospital room, to his dismay, hooked up to a heart monitor instead of strapped down to a sterilized table awaiting the probatory phase. Although, even if it wasn't as cool as being abducted by aliens and getting a really awesome derogatory nickname, it was still kinda cool, in that 'I've always secretly wanted to be dying like the people on those stupid Soap Operas his father secretly watches' kind of way, he supposed.
He thought about how he got there—he still wasn't ready to rule out the aliens yet, but didn't someone say that the most obvious answer usually was the best answer? Maybe he got in an accident going home from the Casino. He didn't think so, because he couldn't even remember leaving the casino, much less getting on his motorcycle, but still.
Crap! His motorcycle was still at the casino! Those dirty Indians better not have taken it!
But no…this didn't feel like Vegas—and not just because he was still pulling for the alien abduction theory, but because he wasn't even sure if this was Nevada anymore. No, definitely not Nevada…but he'd been here before…he just couldn't remember when—which was odd, considering the whole 'eidetic memory being honed by his cop propaganda brainwashing father as a child' thing.
He thought back to when the last time he was conscious was. It wasn't at the casino…no…it was more recent.
Something dark and kind of dirty…Dumpsters…smelled of dead cats and garbage…no advertisements….alleyway?
Santa Barbara!
Somehow, he ended up in Santa Barbara. It could have been a dream, of course, but normally his dreams were filled with dancing monkeys, Gus starring in a cheesy sitcom, or saving the world from demented Lego Jedi radical groups bent on world domination.
Hey! It could happen…
He was 80% sure that it couldn't have been a dream, because he suddenly knew where he recognized the room from—or the style, at least. It was definitely a Santa Barbara hospital room—why? Well, number one, there weren't any Gambling Help Hotline numbers. Number two; well, the Santa Barbara area code was printed on his bracelet. Three, well, there hadn't really been a three, and number two could safely take away any probable cause for the most paranoid of Doubting Thomasses…Thomases…Thomasi? No, definitely Thomasses.
"Mr. Spencer? Good, you're awake." Shawn looked over towards the voice that came out of nowhere and tried not to drop his jaw too much.
She was about 37-23-36, blond, and close enough to his age to not worry about being cougar prey or accused of pedophilia.
Score!
Shawn did a mental fist pump because he'd rather not pull his IV drip. He shuddered. Pointy objects had always given him the creeps.
Now, how to start conversation…He could just wait for her to talk first, but then that would ruin any need for small talk. She was probably busy and would need to leave as soon as possible…but what to say? Would an Animaniacs reference be considered offensive? He didn't think so—most of those that he had tried it on had thought it was cute. Couldn't hurt to try.
"Hellooo, Nurse!"
She rolled her eyes. Drat. Apparently Animaniacs did not amuse her. "Not quite, it's Dr. actually. Dr. Buckpitt. I'm the doctor you've been assigned." Shawn blinked. Did he hear her right?
Buckpitt? No. Never mind. Even he had standards. Besides, she was married, judging by the rock on her left middle finger…
Wait! She was married, and she took on a name like Buckpitt? She must really love the guy.
Or he was filthy rich.
Or she was crazy.
"Okay…" Shawn said awkwardly, cursing himself. He was normally much more suave and witty, but his head burned, and she wasn't worthy of his banter anyways.
"Now, you have some…visitors…in the waiting room causing a ruckus. Normally, we wouldn't allow visitors at this time of night, but since you're awake now and they…refuse…to leave, the hospital decided to make an exception in your case." Dr. Buckpitt looked as though she thought having insistent visitors was the worst sin in the world—even though everyone knows that nothing could ever be worse than throwing away perfectly good pineapples or beheading puppies with pizza cutters after lining them up in a row (traumatic nightmare—Shawn didn't really care to explain).
"I'll be back later to ask some questions." Dr. Buckpitt's nose scrunched up, as if asking questions smelled as bad as her last name, a name that was a ireal/i sin in and of itself. How did the quote go? A rose by any other name than Buckpitt would smell just as sweet?
"Alrighty, Dr. Buttpick, I mean Pickbutt, I mean—" Dr. Buckpitt glared at him, but finally left the door as two oddly familiar strangers barged in, trampling her in the process. Shawn nearly laughed at the Wicked Witch of the West's misfortune.
"Shawn!" The two yelled at the same time, both sounding oddly familiar…
HIHIHIHIHIH
"Shawn!" Gus and Mr. Spencer yelled at the exact same time, jostling each other as they made it past that evil doctor with that horrible last name. It was something like Buttstick, or Stuckbutt, or something—though it fit her facial expressions. Like she had a 'Stick' up her 'Butt!' Get it? Stick up her butt? Gus really cracked himself up sometimes. And people called Shawn the funny one? Puh-lease. Oh, speaking of Shawn…
"Dude! Don't ever scare us like that again! What the heck happened to you?" Gus yelled, fidgeting around, resisting the urge to do something embarrassing that Shawn would haunt him with for the rest of his life.
Shawn opened his mouth, looking confused, as if about to ask a question, but Mr. Spencer interrupted him.
"Shawn! What the heck is wrong with you? What happened to your head? Where were you? Well don't just sit there looking like an idiot, you have some explaining to do!" Mr. Spencer looked stern, but Gus could see the genuine concern beneath the harsh words—it was a concern that, for some reason, Shawn never saw. So much for being observant and having an eidetic memory…
"Dad?" Shawn still looked confused. Gus's relief, anger, and smugness began to turn into worry again.
"Don't tell me you're drunk!" Mr. Spencer yelled, but it wasn't in anger. The man had more issues with expressing emotions than well, than Shawn himself! Now Gus could see where Shawn got it from, the only difference between the two was that Shawn hid behind jokes, and Mr. Spencer hid behind stern anger.
"Why are you so old? And who are you?" Shawn looked over at Gus. Gus thought for a second that perhaps this would be one of Shawn's pranks, but when he looked into Shawn's eyes, he didn't see the glint of mischief he was sure he'd see. He saw only confusion, but what really concerned him was the recognition he did not see.
"Shawn? Don't you know me?" Gus asked, his voice dripping with disbelief and not the least bit of horror.
"If I did, I wouldn't have asked! Duh! Although, something about you seems…familiar…" Shawn trailed off, wincing in pain as he made that stupid face of his when he was trying to remember obscure details.
Something was definitely wrong.
"Shawn, are you okay?" Mr. Spencer asked, breaking his usual harshness. Something was very wrong.
"No, not really. The whole forehead feeling like a bunch of fire ants are having a conga party picnic on it a bit of a damper on my mood, if you know what I mean. But a better question, Dad, is are you okay? You've sure let yourself go. But anyways, there's something I need to ask of you, and you."
Shawn looked over at Gus. "So, Dad," Shawn nodded towards his father.
"Mr. Tall, Dark and Oddly Familiar," Shawn nodded over at Gus. "Do either of you know why the heck I'm in Santa Barbara? I was at a casino, working, but somehow I woke up here—well, not here here, but an alleyway in Santa Barbara here here. Though I did wake up here just a few minutes ago, so technically—" Mr. Spencer cut Shawn off from his rambling. Gus smiled, knowing how much it bothered his friend to be cut off.
"Shawn, what year is it?" Mr. Spencer asked. Gus wondered why he'd ask that. Talk about non sequiturs…
"And now, dad, it looks like you have early-onset Alzheimer's! Why is it that I'm in the hospital, with everyone acting as if I'm on my deathbed, when you're clearly the one who is dying?"
"Shawn, just answer the question!" Mr. Spencer looked frustrated—this time, there really wasn't anything hidden behind it. Shawn really could do a number on a person's blood pressure sometimes, even after being traumatized to the point of amnesia, he's just saying.
"Duh! It's 1996! Everyone knows that! Gonna ask me how many hats next time?" Gus's jaw dropped. He looked over at Mr. Spencer and saw that even though the man wasn't as surprised as Gus thought he'd be, he was shaking his head in resignation.
Something was beyond wrong with his friend.
"Shawn!" Henry bellowed at the same time as that wimpy Gus kid his son was friends with, running over that Dr. B***hpick, or whatever her name was, in the process of storming into his son's room.
He heard Gus yelling something at his son, but he tuned it out. He had never been more relieved in his entire life—don't get me wrong, he was still concerned over his son's welfare, but he was just happy that he had the chance to even see his son again.
"Shawn! What the heck is wrong with you! What happened to your head! Where were you! Don't just sit there looking like an idiot! You have some explaining to do!" He managed not to wince at his voice. He meant to sound concerned, but all he could manage was angry. What had his wife called it? Emotional constipation? No wonder he practically had to bribe Shawn or threaten the boy to get him to come over and visit him.
"Dad?" Henry noticed that his son looked confused. Something wasn't right about this. His son was rarely confused—he may act like the world's biggest moron sometimes, but rarely was he ever actually confused to the point of letting it show. Why would he be confused? Why did he question Henry as if he wasn't sure? Why didn't he greet Gus before greeting him.
Most importantly: where was the smart ass remark he had been expecting?
"Don't tell me you're drunk!" Henry shouted, even though he had meant to ask what all Shawn remembered.
"Why are you so old? Who are you?" Shawn asked. Something was very wrong here. He knew Shawn wasn't faking it—he could always tell. Something was very wrong with his son. It sounded like amnesia, hopefully it would just be temporary.
"Shawn? Don't you know me?" Gus asked.
"If I did, I wouldn't have asked! Duh!" At least the kid still had his sense of humor and bad timing. "Although, something about you seems…familiar…" Shawn trailed off and tried to scrunch up his face, but his wound obviously still hurt, judging the pained wince he made.
"Shawn? Are you alright?" Henry asked, not liking the situation one bit. He needed to know what all Shawn remembered, but he had a sinking suspicion that he knew exactly what all Shawn remembered, and that he wasn't going to be very happy about it.
"No—" Shawn chattered on again, talking about whatever came into that bizarre brain of his. Henry let it go on for a bit, enjoying the sounds of his son sounding like, well, his son, but interrupted it before it got too out of hand. As nice as it sounded, it still wasn't quite right. It seemed…immature—well, immature for Shawn, that is. He needed to just suck it up and ask the question he was pretty sure would clear everything up, for better or worse.
"Shawn, what year is it?"
Shawn, of course, began to ramble on again, rather than answering his question. Some things never change.
"Shawn! Just answer the question!"
"Fine! It's 1996! Everyone knows that!" Henry was horrified, despite the fact that he had already known the answer.
You don't have to be psychic to predict bad news, sometimes.
HIHIHIHIHIHIHIHIH
Morning Post Day After
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Carlton walked into his office with his coffee—three parts cream and four parts sugar, of course—and sat down at his desk, still going over Spencer's file.
Spencer's file.
It was too quiet without the twerp flying about and getting into everyone's way—particularly his. Sure, Carlton didn't miss Spencer by any stretch of the imagination, heck, he even felt almost relieved at the absence of the nuisance, but it was just too quiet. He needed background noise to be able to concentrate, and now that the shadow that never shut up was gone, everyone—except Carlton, of course—was quiet and worrying about Spencer. Everyone seemed to be more reserved, less friendly—even that officer who almost sued O'Hara seemed down, of course, that could just be the way she looked, but the facts remained. Everybody missed Shawn Spencer, Psych Psychic Detective Who Beat Carlton Every Time. Everybody.
Except for Carlton, of course.
Carlton looked at the crime scene photos again and winced, not out of concern—of course—but at the mess. Definitely at the mess.
He looked over at the pictures of the cane and winced again—still not because he was worried, but in sympathy, like whenever a guy sees another guy get hit in the balls; it's an involuntary reaction, no matter who it is.
Sympathy pain, not concern. He didn't even need to justify it.
Not that he needed to justify anything! Carlton Lassiter was not concerned over Spencer's safety!
He wasn't!
He looked at the inscription on the cane again, the harsh OBEY glaring at him, mocking him.
"Screw it." Carlton cursed, slamming his fists on the desk.
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Karen had just arrived in her office, sat down in her chair, and sighed. Much as she hated to admit it, Shawn Spencer sure could find a way to not only get under your skin, but stuck in your mind.
She was worried, very worried in fact, and she was willing to admit it. Sometimes she wondered if perhaps the kid was more trouble than he was worth, until she remembered the time he got every officer in the building to make it seem as if Detective Lassiter had solved a case, just to help him 'recover' from a set back. And then, she'd remember the time Spencer uncovered that babysitting scam, saving her neighbors from theft and also saving her child from being raised by those rotten scoundrels—granted, he hadn't really done what she asked, but still, he prevented her from a gargantuan mistake that could possibly have ruined her career. Then she remembered how Detective Lassiter had finally seemed to begin to relax—not to mention show concern for another human being, if his sulking and fickle temper as of now were anything to go by. And then, she remembered how he helped make Detective O'Hara feel welcome, despite the generally cold reception she had received, no thanks to Karen.
And then she remembered that the first week she began hiring Spencer as a consultant, their overall success rate as far as solving crimes soared. Shawn Spencer was probably the reason she became chief, as scary as that sounded.
She had to face it, as many problems and headaches as Shawn Spencer brought, not only did he make up for it tenfold in nearly everything he did, but when he left, he took everything back, twenty-fold.
The punk was trouble, but boy was he worth it.
Karen jumped as she heard her phone ring. She sighed, calmed herself and answered it.
"Santa Barbara Police Department, this is Chief Karen Vick speaking, and it had better be important!" Her jaw dropped and she listened for a few minutes before speaking.
"You've found him!" Karen nearly smiled.
Nearly.
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"Carlton!" Karen entered his office, a serious look on her face—a serious look Carlton didn't see until lifting his head from his arms and looking at her, a red spot on his forehead from where he had banged his head repeatedly against his desk a few minutes prior to her entrance.
"What is it?" Carlton asked, his eyebrows coming together as he noted the severe air to her.
"He's been found." She said simply.
"Who? How?" Carlton asked, bewildered.
"Guster. He just saw him while driving to work yesterday morning."
"Where?" Carlton instantly sat up straighter, dreading her next words, because whatever they were, they couldn't be good, considering the look on her face. "He's not…he isn't…the kid better not be dead!" Carlton finally said.
"He's alive, but we have bigger worries than that. He was in an alleyway, when he walked out towards the street and collapsed on the sidewalk. Guster said that he found him with his forehead wrapped in gauze, blood seeping through. He's at a hospital now, so as soon as possible, I'll need you and O'Hara to go there and see if you can find anything out, but there's something I have to warn you about first."
Carlton stared in shock, but quickly shook his head and nodded, knowing that this would be the part he wouldn't like.
HIHIHIHIHIH
Juliet sat quietly in Lassiter's Crown Victoria, for once not trying to get him to talk or make any kind of social niceties, or even nod. Nothing.
She was in shock.
Shawn didn't remember anything, if what Chief Vick said was true, which unless this was some sort of horrid nightmare where everyone was out to get her, then it had to be true.
Shawn Spencer, her boyfriend, thought he was in the year 1996.
She couldn't believe it! She couldn't even comprehend it! It was just so…so…bizarre!
And now, she was thinking in exclamation points—a fact that really wasn't the most pressing matter, but still!
Juliet shook her head and looked out the window when she felt the car make a left turn. They were there. The parking lot of the hospital where her boyfriend couldn't even remember the kiss they shared three days ago. She wasn't going to cry…she wasn't going to cry…she refused to cry! She was strong. Juliet was a big girl. She could handle this professionally, she could!
And then afterwords she'd go home, put on her heather grey Eyore hoodie and matching sweatpants—the ones with the hole in the middle of her crack, but still held sentimental value so that she couldn't ever get rid of them—get out the chocolate ice cream with hunks of slimy fudge that somehow managed to taste delicious despite their unsavory texture—and not any of that Healthy Choice crap, no, she'd get the good stuff—dump chocolate sauce all over her overflowing bowl, sprinkles, Oreo crumbs, and then, she's eat about three spoonfuls of it and realize that it was beyond way too much, eat it anyways, puke, and cry herself to sleep. She smirked to herself and made a mental note to grab her ice cream on the way home after work.
She deserved it.
She also made a mental note to renew her gym membership.
"O'Hara!" Lassiter shouted at her, breaking her from her reverie.
"Huh?" Juliet answered intelligently.
"O'Hara! I said we're here!" Lassiter looked frustrated. How long had she been mulling over her after work plans? Oops.
"Yeah, of course. Let's go already!" Juliet said, unbuckling herself, going back into 'gung-ho Juliet' mode.
"Whatever." Lassiter muttered. She could hear the roll of his eyes.
HIHIHIH
Shawn Spencer looked into the hand mirror and couldn't believe his eyes.
He was iold/i! He wasn't supposed to get old! Old was for people like his dad, or his mom, or even evil librarians who yell at you to shut up, despite the fact that they too are breaking the silence in a much less amusing manner than calling Gus a lame-o!
Fruity as it was for a 30 something year old fart to mention Peter Pan, he was supposed to be just like him and fly off to Neverland! Now, he works at a casino one second, the next he wakes up with a—slightly, he wasn't quite at the decrepit stage of aging—receding hair line, a somewhat stable job, a relationship with his father, and a girlfriend he hadn't even slept with yet! Man, old people never have any fun—though the fake psychic part did give him a bit of a kick. Even if he had kept it up for a few years, at least his one steady job was a bit of an almost scam. He wasn't a total penny loafer wearing station wagon owner with a toupee. Yet. There was still hope.
Maybe it was his midlife crisis? Oh no! That was even worse! That meant his life was halfway over!
Crap! His life was halfway over! This sucked purple people eater applesauce cakes!
"Dude! Gus! Why did you let me get old?" Shawn asked aloud, never taking his eyes off of his reflection for fear he'd miss his hair graying and falling out to make room for his liver spots.
"Shawn! I'm just as old as you are!" Gus sounded offended.
"Yeah, but you've always been a funsucker, I'm supposed to be wild and unbound to anything! A drifter, a vagrant! A gypsy, tramp, and thief!"
"You still are. You sleep in most days, you live next to a laundrymat because it's within walking distance of a Jamba Juice. You pretend to be psychic and speak with the dead. The tramp part, well, I guess you have settled down a bit, but Juliet is pretty, and she was a challenge. As for the thief part, you always steal Lassiter's pens."
"And your maple syrup, but I think I used it up last week."
"You what? Shawn, that was Aunt Jemima's! You know I love Aunt Jemima's—wait a second, that went missing last week, and if you only remember being at the casino…Shawn, do you remember anything else?" Gus looked eager, forgetting about the maple syrup.
Shawn thought about it for a minute. "No, I can't remember anything else. It just sort of popped out of my mouth." Shawn answered. Gus sighed and slumped.
"That doesn't mean you're going to get away with stealing my maple syrup Shawn. I'm just saying."
"You still say that stupid "I'm just saying," crap? Gus, I've already told you, it doesn't make you sound even close to Will Smith, I'm just saying."
"No! That's my catch phrase, and it's eons better than "I've heard it both ways." Your catch phrase just makes you look stupid!"
"And yours doesn't? I'm just saying."
"I've heard it both ways!"
"I'm just saying!"
"I've heard it both ways!"
"I'm just saying!"
"I've heard it both ways!"
"I've heard it both ways!"
"Shawn! Just because that worked on Daffy Duck and Elmer Fudd, doesn't mean it'll work on me, I'm just saying!"
"Ha ha! You lost!" Shawn said gleefully. Gus thought back to what he just said and groaned.
"Shawn! You cheated!"
"Did not!"
"Did too!"
"Did not!"
"Did—"
"Will you two shut up?" A voice came from the door that had opened while they had their little battle—a fight that Shawn totally won. He's just saying.
"Lassie!" Shawn shouted, a wide grin lighting up his face for a split second before his face went blank and his eyes glazed over.
Carlton had just approached the room that was supposedly Spencer's when he heard voices shouting. He was instantly on his guard until he realized it was just Spencer and that stupid side kick of his, Guster. It sounded like something stupid, and considering the two's history, it was bound to be stupid, but he had a job to do. Maybe when he opened the door, they would stop. Of course, then Spencer would say something to piss him off…of course, Spencer thought he was in the days when iPods were science fiction and the unspeakable things of CIA, so perhaps it wouldn't be so bad.
He opened the door and rolled his eyes.
"Did not!"
"Did too!"
"Did not!"
"Did—"
"Will you two shut up?" Carlton yelled, a head ache forming behind his right eye, which had begun to twitch.
"Lassie!" Spencer shouted to his surprise. Wasn't the kid stuck in 1996? Perhaps he had gotten his memory back in the time it took Carlton and O'Hara to drive here?
But no. Something was wrong. Spencer's eyes were glazed over and his face went blank—no, it went white. Something was very wrong.
"Shawn? Shawn! Are you okay? Shawn!" Gus went over towards Spencer whose mouth opened and closed, forming words with no sounds, horror reaching his eyes and draining the lighthearted joy—lighthearted joy? was Carlton becoming a Hallmark greeting card, or what?—that had once been there.
"Spencer! Snap out of it!" Carlton yelled, though not out of concern. He was not concerned about Spencer. Not. At. All.
"No! Stop—no!" Spencer started screaming and trembling, fear rolling off of him in waves that would have made the Sri Lankans thankful for the mere ripple that destroyed them.
"Spencer, nothing's happening to you—" Spencer cut him off.
"You're hurting her! Stop! No—Stop! Stop! Stop!" Spencer begged and fell off the bed. Where were the hospital staff when you needed them?
"Please stop! Please stop! Please—"
Juliet was slightly ashamed. Instead of going into the room, she hung back at the door, afraid of what—or who—she'd find there. The sounds of Sh—the victim and Gus arguing had brought a smile to her face, but it wasn't enough to get her into the room.
When did she become such a coward?
Her musing was broken by the sound of Gus's freaking out. What was that about? She peeked into the room and saw Sh—the vic's face was white as snow, eyes glazing over as if stuck in some sort of demented day dream.
And then the screaming began. Terrible, horrible, blood curdling screaming—and not that stupid scream Sh—oh forget professionalism—Shawn made whenever he was slightly scared and still able to be a moron. No. This was a real scream full of real terror.
Juliet was torn between grabbing a doctor, running the heck out of there, and rushing in to comfort—or try to, anyways—the one who had been there for her so many times before.
She ran.
HIHIHIHIHIH
So there ya go. The next update may come at anytime-whether that means tomorrow (doubtful, but I'm cruel enough to get people's hopes up, assuming of course, that people like this) or sometime next week. We shall see. Anyways, towards the end and in certain parts I was too tired to proofread. I don't think I like this chapter, but oh well. Who gives a rip what I think. Toodles.
PS: Oh and if you see this weird think with lowercase i's it'll look like ithis/i, tell me where it is so I can italicize it. Okay. Now good bye for real.
PPS: Okay, I lied. I might end up going through this chapter and messing around with it some more, so yeah...I'm not sure why exactly that's pertinent, but I'm tired to the point of deliriousness. So yeah. That's it. For reals. Go away.
PPPS: Review, gosh darn it!