Story Note: This is my first piece of fan fiction anywhere. It's posted elsewhere, but I would love to have some more feedback on it! I have just done some major editing to the original.

This story is set shortly after the Season Four finale, "Mr. Yin Presents." It is primarily a Shawn and Gus friendship story with major Shawn whump, horror, suspense, and hurt/comfort. Lots of banter. Yes, the circumstances are very odd. But so am I. And so is Psych. I really hope you enjoy this.

This story contains somewhat graphic violence as well as salty language, so if either bothers you, please feel free to abstain. Also, if you have never been to Disneyland, this may taint your image of the lovely place. Sorry to make it into a horrific backdrop. Sort of.

I do not own anything officially connected to Psych. Just an unofficial podcast. You are welcome to check out Pineapple Radio. :)

The Crappiest Place on Earth

By Lassiturtle

"Shawn, we do not need a mascot."

"They're perfect, Gus. They have little spiny sensors all over." Shawn wiggled his fingers in the air, smirking. "They will sense things."

"We aren't getting a hedgehog."

"Oh, yes. We are. And he will eat all of insects in the office. And it will be… effulgent."

"You don't even know that word..." Gus trailed off as his eyes darted over to the word-of-the-day calendar sitting on top of Shawn's inbox. Yesterday's word was still half-there, torn haphazardly. Shawn was clearly messing with him. He wanted to see Gus's reaction to someone trying to out-Bee him.

"You just want the girls to come in here and fawn over his fuzzy little hedgehog belly, and then fawn over you."

"Don't be an Everlasting Gobstopper, Gus." He pursed his lips, looking thoughtful. "Hey, I wonder if they had Gobstoppers in Uganda. Note to self: send next girlfriend-in-Uganda Wonka basket." He shrugged at Gus's slack-jawed lack of response.

What could have been an uncomfortable pause was suddenly thwarted as the door flew open. Head Detective Carlton Lassiter hurled himself into the room headfirst, out of breath, and marched straight toward the empty phone cradle. Snatching it up in his right hand, he spun around and looked at Shawn and Gus for the first time since his invasion.

"This is not a Tomagotchi you can reset after it poops itself to death!" Lassiter's eyes flicked between the bewildered partners-in-crime. When they didn't answer, he lowered his voice, emphasizing each word individually: "Where's the phone?"

Shawn took a step forward, carefully relieving the detective of the receiver with both hands, as if dismantling bomb. "Lassie! Old buddy. Perhaps it headed off to the graveyard to pay homage to its predecessor, which, by all accounts, remains treed..." He glanced at Gus.

"Spencer, why don't you two have your cells on?" Lassiter started to lean back against Shawn's desk, and then decided against it, narrowly averting an avalanche of stacked papers and falsified business cards.

"Lassie, what's going on? The chief sent you all the way over here to tell us to turn our phones on?" It was Gus's turn to take a step forward.

"I was the closest one to your, uh, office."The word, "office" came out strained, catching in his throat. He glanced at Shawn, and then looked intently at Gus before speaking. "There's been a death threat."

Shawn swallowed hard as he felt his throat close involuntarily. Why was Lassiter looking at Gus? Shawn had his fill of death threats. First his mom. Then Abigail and Juliet. Now... He opened his mouth to crack a snide aside (as one does in these situations), but his breath caught noisily and embarrassingly. He cleared his throat instead.

"Oh my God," said Gus. "I'm going to die. I'm going to die before I meet Diana Ross." Shawn knew him well enough to guess his actual thought was more along the lines of, Oh my God, I'm going to die. What is Shawn going to do without me and how on God's great Earth is this going to be amusing given present context? …I need props.

Lassiter squinted, and then looked into the air. "Annnnd the death threat goes to..." He pointed his finger: "Shawn Spencer. Whatever you did, we are going to have to undo very carefully."

Shawn's heart jumped, and then missed a beat. Good, not Gus. Wait, what? His mind leapt back frantically, attempting to decode the Spencer-cipher that usually kept things so neatly filed. Instead, he accessed an internal error that left his stomach in an increasingly painful knot and his memory a hazy shade of winter, without possibility of supporting even the temperatests of tropical fruits. He couldn't remember a damned thing.

"Shawn..." Gus had abandoned his prop-quest, likely trying to ponder his partner's likely transgressions. There were too many, thought Shawn. Maybe Gus should start his own Shawn-doings manifest. You know, for posterity. Gus liked lists. Lists and charts.

"I just hate to do this." Lassiter reached into the breast pocket of his suit, and pulled out an envelope. "This pains me, but The SBPD thinks you should both go into hiding." He handed Shawn the crisp business-sized envelope.

"Shawn & Gus" was looped neatly across, hamburger-orientation in blue ballpoint cursive. Shawn slid his fingers under the unsecured flap and pulled out a wad of cash, neatly folded in half and binder clipped together along with a sea foam Post-It. His feelings of anxiety were quelled momentarily by what he saw peeking up at him from the note.

"Did you draw this, Lassie?" Shawn stared with admiration and more than a little incredulity.

"Yes. Yes I did. And the reason this pains me is because I wish to god I was going with you." Lassiter flashed a half-smile, his disappointment visible, though his eyes twinkled a little. "I mean... withoutyou." He flashed a sneer. "But I could always lose you suckers around the Penny Arcade. Or The Great Adventures of Mr. Lincoln, or..."

"The man himself would be proud of your Post-It Note prowess." Shawn held the note up a bit so Gus could catch a peek. "Gus, we're goin' to Disneyland!"

"Wow." Gus glanced up at the detective, who was looking around nervously, hand on Glock (as it had been since he walked in.) "This is one fine mouse. And you mean Great Moments with Mr. Lincoln." That was Gus's favorite "ride."

"Off you go." Lassiter had, by this time, located both Shawn's and Gus's sets of keys, and was shoving them into the wrong respective hands, while herding the two toward the door.

Gus opened his mouth—

"Your jackal ways do not escape me, Guster! Yeah, that's right. I know things. Now, move!"

Gus shut his mouth, reached out for Shawn's shirtsleeve, and all jest ceased forthwith: they were all too hastily cast into the open. Lassiter had his hand trained on his weapon, and his eyes narrowed and trained on possible hiding places—

—Well, perhaps forth-hence: Shawn and Gus had their hands covering one another's heads, their eyes shut, and they were both trying to crouch behind a single potted Daphne.

"Really?" Carlton Lassiter looked down at them.

"Hello," said Gus.

"Come on, Buddy." Shawn jumped up. He gestured toward the direction of Gus's company car (Shawn didn't think his motorcycle would do for a road trip), and they darted off, both jogging.