A/N: New Psych fic, fun. I've been working on this for awhile with my beta, so I hope you enjoy. Remember to review, dears.
Disclaimer: I do not own Psych, slurpees, or even chocolate. Yes, I know, I'm sad too.
Warning: Strong violence in upcoming chapters, rating might go up.
Season: A little while after Shawn Takes a Shot in the Dark, his arm is healed.
Spoilers: Some for Shawn Takes a Shot in the Dark
Pairings: None as of yet, might change in future chapters.
Beta: Meatball42, AKA Jillybean
Rating: T
Chapter Title: The Media Stole My Brain, Shawn!

"Death. It's something I've gotten used to, something I see everyday."

"Something you do every day, you mean." Growled Carlton Lassiter, glancing away from the eyes that so casually flitted about the room. The voice that spoke moments before was nonchalant, uncaring, bored even. A low chuckle filled the air.

"It didn't start that way, detective. You should know."

Carlton winced, glancing up at the ceiling as if asking for help from a being on high. He straightened his back, forcing his eyes to return to the person before him. This was easy compared to the past few days, all he had to do was get the statement and send this person—no, this killer. Because he couldn't dare to think of this psychotic thing as human—off to jail. "Just tell me the story from the beginning."

"All right, detective. But, just so you know, I'm very particular over the details." A malicious grin spread, and Carlton couldn't hold back a shudder at the thought of what was to come. "Hmm, where to start? Oh, I know."

The cut was perfect; blood ran down in a little red river of sin. This was good, right, justice. It was what was deserved, and I held no remorse. But the blood, the cut, it was oh-so fascinating. It was clean and perfect, A+ material, and it didn't deserve to be on such foul skin. But, still, it was justice. And justice must be served at all costs.

Even if it's too perfect.

"If there is a point to this, I'd rather you get to it quickly." Carlton snarled, shifting in the cold metal of his seat.

Another low chuckle.

"Patience, detective, patience." The voice was almost playful before turning dead serious, "If we're gonna do this the least you can do is do it my way."

Carlton nodded, whether he was agreeing or just using the motion to relieve the tension in his neck he didn't know.

"Good."

At the moment I was in joy, ecstasy. I believed none could stop me. And, for awhile, none could. Until, of course, all of you came along.

Shawn Spencer shuffled into the Psych building, wincing as he strained his arm, and slurped on his—aptly named—slurpee. The building was dark except for the dim glow of the TV set up in the other room, and Shawn could just make out the outline of Gus' head in the light. Setting his slurpee on his desk, Shawn glanced out the window and smiled slightly. Lately, after he'd been shot, he'd taken to watching the moon at night. It was calming, kept out the threats that repeated themselves so often in his head.

It kept out the numerous dreams where he never got that call to Jules, where the gun was always placed to his temple. Where he always died, over and over, again and again.

"Shawn! Get your butt in here before I make you," Gus shouted from the other room, making Shawn snort in laughter.

Shawn then decided something. He decided that his next big case would be to find the person who said best friends were compassionate when you have been shot and/or kidnapped and arrest him for all those brush fires he started. Didn't anybody know the term 'liar, liar, pants on fire' anymore?

"Aw, is wittle Gussy-Wussy afraid?" Shawn crooned as he strutted into the dark room, smirking down at Gus who sat on the floor with eyes fixed to the TV.

"No, Shawn. Watching old horror movies at night in the building you claim that a ghost haunts doesn't scare me at all," Gus replied, and Shawn frowned as he tried to figure whether that was sarcastic or not. Why did his friend have to have such a messed up sarcasm voice?

"Hey, there is a ghost haunting the place! You read the story online."

"Firstly, you could have typed that up for all I know. Secondly, you don't believe in ghosts. Thirdly, what does scare me is when channel 5 News interrupts the old horror movies with news of a serial killer."

Shawn turned to the TV and, sure enough, ol' Gary Mendez was rattling on about a rather large gravesite found by a couple of teens who went to bury a dead animal. Economist freaks that they were, they didn't feel right about letting the body decompose above ground and put the small—what was that, a cat? Squirrel? Mutated rat?—animal in a bag, carried it to the woods, and started digging.

They found a hand first. Next it was a head, a foot, two other hands. Then, naturally, they called the police. They had fifteen bodies, and counting.

The worst part about the tragedy—so said FBI agent Aaron Leeland, who was working together with SBPD—was that the parts were badly decomposed, cut, chopped, the list went on. It would take some time before they found out who the bodies were, or if they had been reported missing.

"We will keep you updated on what is being called the Santa Barbara Sweeney Todd case." Gary Mendez blinked at the teleprompter, furrowing his brow slightly at the name. "And now, back to your show."

"And now," stated a monotone voice with creepy music playing in the background. "A word from our sponsors"

Shawn turned to Gus, a glint in his murky eyes that Gus knew far too well. Shawn laughed eagerly, clapping his hands together.

"We're getting on that case, Gus. I can feel it!"

I narrowed my eyes at the TV; I should have been more careful. No. No, I was careful. Damn teens, I'd have to change my ways. Gotta make it clean, perfect. A+. I can do it, I know I can.

I could use some chocolate.

I glanced at the mangled flesh in front of me before tossing my knife aside and wiping my hands on a clean patch of shirt that I tore from the victim. It was time for lunch, anyhow.