On a horse with no name
"Dude, I got it! Get everyone down to the track," Shawn told Gus before he had left the Jockey Club box. He didn’t just ‘have’ it, he had it, and now came the best part, the pay off, the grand reveal where he got to flex his psychic senses for all to see. It was his time to shine like the brilliant star that he was.
That was the plan, anyway, except it’s a lot easier said than done this time around. Usually, though, there isn’t a horse involved.
"Oh, C’mon, Flicka! You’re a racehorse for Jiminy sakes. Giddyup!" Shawn pleads impatiently, wiggling his feet in the stirrups, trying to makes the horse he’s decided on get a move on. (They were at a racetrack, after all. What was the point of having horses at his disposal if he wasn’t going to use one for the big moment when he solved the case? Shawn feels that it adds a touch of je ne sais quoi to the entire production. Plus they were adorable, if not completely stubborn.)
"Move! Go! Your delicious bag of oats will be here when you get back! Get! Ride like the wind, Bullseye! Hi-yo, Silver! Awa --whoa." Finally, the horse’s get-up-and-go got up and went and Shawn was off, heading out of the stable at the speed of… slug.
Old slug.
Slug that’s had salt poured over it and is almost dead slug.
"Oh. Come. On!" He squirms in the saddle. By the time the horse got where he needed it to be the track would be completely cleared out and his criminal trio would be long gone, laughing their way to the bank. Except they won’t have to go to the bank, because the track paid winnings in cash!
"Kind of got a schedule to keep here - oh, there. There we go, okay, now we’re rolling. Woo-hoo!" Okay, they we’re just clocking about half a mile an hour, but it was progress. Why didn’t he ever read the manual?
...because it’s something his father would have recommended, that’s why.
That, and horses didn’t really come with them.
"Alright, fine, I got’cha. You’re the driver; I’m the Shawny on your back." The horse’s ears swivel back, listening to him, Shawn idly swings his feet in the stirrups again, deciding it best not to fight it. Flicka (or was it Flicko? He doesn’t know the horse’s real name, and he hadn’t stopped to check its sex either) is obviously a strong willed animal and Shawn is, unfortunately, equine-impaired. There was nothing to do but sit back, enjoy the ride, the scenery and put his faith in Flicka/o to get him to the winner circle.
"Cows and chickens and goats, oh my... Something tells me you took a wrong turn by that second dung pile Flicka..." When did the track get its very own petting zoo? "E-I-E-I-O…," Shawn sings quietly.
"Old McDonald?" he calls. "...Farmer Shooty Pants?" Oh, God, please don’t let that guy answer...
"GUS!?!!"
When in doubt, call Gus. It’s never failed him before.
(Shawn Spencer, psychic detective and 'Flicka' have come out of the barn, feel free to find them headed in any direction from there. First person has the pleasure of explaining the island itself. ST & LT are very welcome.)
That was the plan, anyway, except it’s a lot easier said than done this time around. Usually, though, there isn’t a horse involved.
"Oh, C’mon, Flicka! You’re a racehorse for Jiminy sakes. Giddyup!" Shawn pleads impatiently, wiggling his feet in the stirrups, trying to makes the horse he’s decided on get a move on. (They were at a racetrack, after all. What was the point of having horses at his disposal if he wasn’t going to use one for the big moment when he solved the case? Shawn feels that it adds a touch of je ne sais quoi to the entire production. Plus they were adorable, if not completely stubborn.)
"Move! Go! Your delicious bag of oats will be here when you get back! Get! Ride like the wind, Bullseye! Hi-yo, Silver! Awa --whoa." Finally, the horse’s get-up-and-go got up and went and Shawn was off, heading out of the stable at the speed of… slug.
Old slug.
Slug that’s had salt poured over it and is almost dead slug.
"Oh. Come. On!" He squirms in the saddle. By the time the horse got where he needed it to be the track would be completely cleared out and his criminal trio would be long gone, laughing their way to the bank. Except they won’t have to go to the bank, because the track paid winnings in cash!
"Kind of got a schedule to keep here - oh, there. There we go, okay, now we’re rolling. Woo-hoo!" Okay, they we’re just clocking about half a mile an hour, but it was progress. Why didn’t he ever read the manual?
...because it’s something his father would have recommended, that’s why.
That, and horses didn’t really come with them.
"Alright, fine, I got’cha. You’re the driver; I’m the Shawny on your back." The horse’s ears swivel back, listening to him, Shawn idly swings his feet in the stirrups again, deciding it best not to fight it. Flicka (or was it Flicko? He doesn’t know the horse’s real name, and he hadn’t stopped to check its sex either) is obviously a strong willed animal and Shawn is, unfortunately, equine-impaired. There was nothing to do but sit back, enjoy the ride, the scenery and put his faith in Flicka/o to get him to the winner circle.
"Cows and chickens and goats, oh my... Something tells me you took a wrong turn by that second dung pile Flicka..." When did the track get its very own petting zoo? "E-I-E-I-O…," Shawn sings quietly.
"Old McDonald?" he calls. "...Farmer Shooty Pants?" Oh, God, please don’t let that guy answer...
"GUS!?!!"
When in doubt, call Gus. It’s never failed him before.
(Shawn Spencer, psychic detective and 'Flicka' have come out of the barn, feel free to find them headed in any direction from there. First person has the pleasure of explaining the island itself. ST & LT are very welcome.)