1.90.1.E - Quote - (realmofthemuse)
"Now they show you how detergents take out bloodstains, a pretty violent image there. I think if you've got a T-shirt with a bloodstain all over it, maybe laundry isn't your biggest problem. Maybe you should get rid of the body before you do the wash."
Jerry Seinfeld
"But it doesn't make any sense!" Shawn threw the tennis ball so violently against the wall that it bounced back and hit his forehead. "Ow!"
Gus rolled his eyes and closed the program, which he had tried not to for the last half hour but proved impossible with his friend around. He should seriously consider an order that he had to stay away from any Central Coast building. "Shawn, will you listen to me? I'm sorry if this sounds like I don't have your back but just because some random guy has a bloodstain on his sleeve doesn't mean he murdered someone."
The hand that rubbed the aching forehead stopped in irritation as Shawn regarded him with a baffled look. "Dude, that... sounds terribly like you don't have my back."
"Whatever. It's worse enough that you always drag me to cases when I got other things on my mind but this time you're trying to drag me to something that isn't even a case, because nothing happened. I got two presentations coming up, Shawn and you got nothing. You're loosing it, I'm telling you, man. This is ridiculous."
Shawn scowled and started pacing again, restless and just so very annoying. "Dude, have you seen his desk? The way he made even the paperclips look like trained soldiers? This guy is sick, he has this weird... everything must be clean... neatness disorder."
"... It’s not called neatness disorder, Shawn. There is no such word."
"Gus, this is not about words! There is NO way he was involved with something that includes blood and doesn't change his clothes without making SURE everything is fumigated twice!"
"Maybe he didn't see it."
"Please, he scratched his lower arm like he had the rash of the century."
"That's disgusting, Shawn." Gus closed his eyes for a few seconds, trying to remember the things he had tried to memorize during the last days.
Nope. Nothing there but the awareness of Shawn drumming stupid patterns on his jeans. No way he was getting back to work until he somehow got him out of here.
He opened his eyes, glaring. "Fine. Suppose you're right, Shawn. Still, no one's missing. No dead body found. Not even a report about an attack. We've been to the station, because we're low on cases and there was nothing going on. You're wrong."
"I'm never wrong." Shawn bit his thumb and frowned. "He knew it was there but he couldn't leave his desk. He must haven been really out of it if he forgot to even change his clothes. I think it was an accident. In the heat of the moment."
"Shawn, blood doesn't equal body." The frustration was slowly boiling up to righteous anger. "He could have gotten into a fight."
"But he didn’t. He's not a fighter. He'd never get out of a fight without a scratch."
"Maybe he smacked an old, weak guy. Shawn, how are you doing to solve a case that doesn't exist?"
"Easy." Shawn's face hardened in stubborn resolution. "I'm gonna find that body."
Muse: Shawn Spencer
Fandom: Psych
Words: 507
Jerry Seinfeld
"But it doesn't make any sense!" Shawn threw the tennis ball so violently against the wall that it bounced back and hit his forehead. "Ow!"
Gus rolled his eyes and closed the program, which he had tried not to for the last half hour but proved impossible with his friend around. He should seriously consider an order that he had to stay away from any Central Coast building. "Shawn, will you listen to me? I'm sorry if this sounds like I don't have your back but just because some random guy has a bloodstain on his sleeve doesn't mean he murdered someone."
The hand that rubbed the aching forehead stopped in irritation as Shawn regarded him with a baffled look. "Dude, that... sounds terribly like you don't have my back."
"Whatever. It's worse enough that you always drag me to cases when I got other things on my mind but this time you're trying to drag me to something that isn't even a case, because nothing happened. I got two presentations coming up, Shawn and you got nothing. You're loosing it, I'm telling you, man. This is ridiculous."
Shawn scowled and started pacing again, restless and just so very annoying. "Dude, have you seen his desk? The way he made even the paperclips look like trained soldiers? This guy is sick, he has this weird... everything must be clean... neatness disorder."
"... It’s not called neatness disorder, Shawn. There is no such word."
"Gus, this is not about words! There is NO way he was involved with something that includes blood and doesn't change his clothes without making SURE everything is fumigated twice!"
"Maybe he didn't see it."
"Please, he scratched his lower arm like he had the rash of the century."
"That's disgusting, Shawn." Gus closed his eyes for a few seconds, trying to remember the things he had tried to memorize during the last days.
Nope. Nothing there but the awareness of Shawn drumming stupid patterns on his jeans. No way he was getting back to work until he somehow got him out of here.
He opened his eyes, glaring. "Fine. Suppose you're right, Shawn. Still, no one's missing. No dead body found. Not even a report about an attack. We've been to the station, because we're low on cases and there was nothing going on. You're wrong."
"I'm never wrong." Shawn bit his thumb and frowned. "He knew it was there but he couldn't leave his desk. He must haven been really out of it if he forgot to even change his clothes. I think it was an accident. In the heat of the moment."
"Shawn, blood doesn't equal body." The frustration was slowly boiling up to righteous anger. "He could have gotten into a fight."
"But he didn’t. He's not a fighter. He'd never get out of a fight without a scratch."
"Maybe he smacked an old, weak guy. Shawn, how are you doing to solve a case that doesn't exist?"
"Easy." Shawn's face hardened in stubborn resolution. "I'm gonna find that body."
Muse: Shawn Spencer
Fandom: Psych
Words: 507