musicalluna

The smell of the ocean permeated the entire city of Santa Barbara, Saturday October 6th. It was a balmy seventy-five degrees out and a gentle breeze made it just cool enough to cover up with a light sweater. All in all, it was a classic, unbelievably fabulous Santa Barbarian day.

The weather couldn't have been more inappropriate for the mood of one of it's typically sunniest occupants.

"WOE IS ME!" Shawn wailed, throwing himself down on the steps of the Santa Barbara Police Station. "Oh, WOE IS ME!" Several passing officers regarded him with pity.

Shawn curled up into a tiny ball (his t-shirt riding up in the back and exposing smooth, pale lower back flesh) and, struggling to fight off a wave of melancholy the size of western New Mexico, moaned, "All I have ever lived for, everyone I love, all I have ever cared about is GONE. RUINED. DESTROYED!" He came very near tears at this last pronouncement, voice cracking painfully high.

So overcome by his grief, he was momentarily wrenched into the throes of a despair-induced seizure. He tumbled down the steps of the station, twitching and jerking the whole way down. When he finally fell still, lying there on the ground, he let out a gut-wrenching cry of soul-sucking despondency.

That was when he began bleeding. From his eyes. For he had cried so much and so long in the last 24 hours that blood was the only fluid his body had left to offer up.

He lay there at the bottom of the steps, weeping blood which soaked into the concrete beneath his head, never to be removed, despite the multiple sand-blasting treatments, high-pressure water cleaners, and gallons of bleach that would be inflicted upon the stains in vain attempts to cleanse the SBPD of the horrible reminder of their psychic's complete and utter mental breakdown.

It was about that time that the Chief of police emerged from the bowels of her station, to see the spectacle that her rookies had been gossiping about for the last thirty minutes. She spotted Shawn's form lumped forlornly at the bottom of the stairs (still with that smooth, pale lower back flesh exposed for the world to see) and she saw red. "MR. SPENCER," she bellowed, "WHAT IN THE NAME OF ALL THE HEAVENS ABOVE DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING WEEPING BLOOD OF ALL THINGS IN FRONT OF MY STATION? GET A HOLD OF YOURSELF MAN!"

Shawn rolled over, blood tears collecting in his long, luscious eyelashes and he sobbed something hysterically at the Chief. She glowered and stormed down the stairs, planting a firm swift kick in the rear on his painfully adorable jean-clad tush. "GET UP, MR. SPENCER. I WILL NOT HAVE YOU DISPLAYING THIS--WEAKNESS FOR MY MEN TO SEE. EVEN MY WOMEN ARE LESS PATHETIC THAN YOU. MY WOMEN'S CHILDREN ARE LESS PATHETIC THAN YOU." And for good measure, she planted another good swift kick on his bum. He let out a terribly woeful sobbing hiccupping sound and the Chief's lip curled in disgust. "Oh for heaven's sake. Get up Mr. Spencer." She dragged the poor blood-soaked, weeping-wearied man to his feet and steered him toward the interior of the SBPD.

As they strode (okay, more like, stumbled-half-dragged in Shawn's case) through the doors of the SBPD, Shawn's blood choked eyes caught sight of Juliet and he let out an eardrum ripping wail before throwing himself at her. She shrieked, immediately trying to pull him away from her figure. "OH MY GOSH, SHAWN! YOU'RE BLEEDING!"

"He's fine," the Chief replied. "He's only in a downward spiral of Shakespeare-worthy misery. He'll bleed for a few more hours and get over it. Call Mr. Guster."

At the sound of Gus' name, Shawn let out another god-awful, dog-calling screech of a scream and threw himself to the floor, entering into a tantrum the likes of which the world had never seen, squalling, "GUS, GUS, GUS, WHY GUS? WHY?!"

It was about that time that Gus arrived, looking peeved. "Shawn, get the hell up off of the floor. And give me the ketchup packets. Or I’ll call your dad."

Shawn simply wailed Gus' name again and he made good on his threat, punching the speed-dial on his cell phone for Henry. "Henry? This is Gus. Your son is crying like a girl in the middle of the Police Station and—"

Henry’s voice could be heard clearly over the tiny phone speaker. "SHAWN SPENCER GET YOUR PANSY ASS OFF THE FLOOR BEFORE I COME DOWN THERE AND PICK IT UP MYSELF. YOU WILL NOT LIKE ME, MISTER, IF I HAVE TO COME DOWN THERE TO GET YOU."

Shawn sniffled and sighed. "Daaaaad. I’m experiencing soul-rending despair right now, can we do this later?" It was about then that the Chief and Juliet realized that Shawn smelled like tomato sauce, and that the sides of his perfect head were curiously lumpy.

"Shawn!" Juliet said disapprovingly. "How dare you!"

She ripped the bizarrely camouflaged ketchup packets and tubes that led to his tear ducts from his head. He yelped, and then, with an absurdly pouty face, that should not look so cute on any man EVER, said, "Aw. No more Scene of Ultimate Despair?"

"NO," the Chief said sternly.

Juliet then leapt upon him, kissing him passionately and they made out ferociously on the floor of the SBPD, which had been Shawn's original plan all along. Gus looked disgusted and had to run to the bathroom to puke up his lunch. Karen simply rolled her eyes and went back to work. Buzz McNabb skirted the couple and paused when he noticed that both looked rather blue in the face. He bent, gently tapping Shawn’s shoulder.

"Um, Mr. Spencer? Mr. Spencer I think you should—"

Shawn’s hand shot out, smacking the totally-freaking-cute-officer-with-the-unbearably dark-and-sexy-hair’s hand away and he immediately burst into tears, sprinting for the little girl’s room. Several women officers darted after him to take advantage of said vulnerability. Lassiter emerged from the Interrogation Room where he'd been lurking all morning and stared at the couple kissing fervently and on the brink of passing out.

"Wha’d I miss?"