There were few things in the world that Shawn feared. Raccoons were near the top of the list, as they would be for any sane person. Tassels weren't far behind, because pure evil was terrifying and tassels only purpose was evil. Of course there was also his undeniable fear of the entire world running out of pineapple, an event Gus constantly reassured him would not happen until well after Shawn's death. Other than that, he feared only one more item.

Nestled between raccoons and tassels was his fear of tattoos. Not just any tattoo, of course. Rather large, threatening tattoos on large, burly men. It was his newest fear, having only appeared some year previous when a large, tattooed man had shot him.

Bud Jenkins, bearer of the large tattoo that read KILL across his massive biceps, was half the time a blubbering mess and the rest of the time a crazed lunatic. Often he was both. His rap sheet encompassed its own filing cabinet. Most of the charges against Bud included attempted burglaries, assault, and parole violations. His most recent bought in jail, however, was for assault with a deadly weapon. Apparently the city of Santa Barbara didn't take kindly to psychotic, tattoo-bearing, blubbering masses attempting to kill their psychic consultant.

All of this made sense to Shawn. He understood tassels, raccoons, and tattoos well enough to know when to stay away and to know to be fearful of them. This was called sanity and Shawn prided himself on his clear headed connection to reality.

What didn't make sense to him, however, was the fact he was staring at the large KILL tattoo from across the glass and yet Shawn remained seated.

When he'd received the message that Bud wanted to speak to him, Shawn thought it was a joke. Someone was having a bit of fun at Shawn's expense, knowing full well that Shawn had no intention of ever seeing the psycho again, even if he did feel somewhat bad for the guy.

When the message was verified, however, and Shawn realized that Bud really was asking him to visit, Shawn decided to toss the letter in his desk and never think about it again. He didn't exactly owe Bud any favors.

The letter sat in his desk for a few days until Gus found it. His reaction was much like Shawn's. No way. No chance. Not happening. He even went so far as to make Shawn promise that he wouldn't go.

Two days later, another letter arrived. Shawn thought of avoiding it again, but something about the envelop called to him. It was almost as though there really were spirits and they were telling him this was important.

Shaking away the ridiculous thought, Shawn grabbed the letter. It didn't say much, even after Shawn decrypted the bad spelling and grammar, but one line stuck out. “Please, we need your help.”

'We' not 'I'.

Curiosity gave way to madness and Shawn soon found himself inside the maximum security prison's visiting area. If not for the bulletproof glass separating them, Shawn probably would have quickly ran the other direction.

“I want to hire you for a case. You know, see if those spirits of yours can help us.”

“The spirits aren't really that giving to people that shoot me. They're kind of funny that way.”

“I did buy you a beer first.”

“Yes, yes you did. Three as a matter of fact. However, and I can't keep stressing this enough, you did shoot me.”

Bud clenched his fists, swelling his massive biceps and enlarging his KILL tattoo. He made to hit the table before him, but a few glances at the guards and he thought better of it.

Shawn tried to remember why he'd decided to come here and came up blank. He'd have to plead insanity when Gus asked.

“You took Penny. I wasn't thinking straight,” Bud answered between gritted teeth. “I didn't want to shoot you. Hell, I don't like shooting anyone.”

“Really? Your tattoo seems to indicate otherwise.”

Bud's fist clenched even tighter before he released it altogether while drawing in a deep breath. “Look, man, I'm sorry. If it makes you feel any better I feel awful. Just awful.”

Tears began to stream down Bud's cheek, which really shouldn't have surprised Shawn at all. This was the guy that melted into a puddle of tears shortly after shooting him and somehow earned Shawn's sympathy in return. How a guy like Bud lasted in prison completely astounded Shawn. Surely blubbering cry babies weren't all that well accepted?

“Look, just tell me what you want.”

Bud sniffled loudly, blowing his nose on the short sleeve of his prison shirt. “I need to know if Lu Lu's okay.”

“Lu Lu? This is about a dog?”

The sniffling immediately ceased. Bud stood up, clenching his fists once more, and glared furiously at Shawn. If tattoos were worth fearing, it was nothing quite like Bud's expression. Definitely more terrifying than a raccoon or two.

“My sister ain't no dog.”

Shawn glanced at the guard making sure they were there if things turned ugly, which really wasn't going to happen with the glass between them, but one could never be too careful.

“Your sister?” Shawn repeated. “Lu Lu is your sister's name? That must have gone over well in grade school.”

Bud glared a few seconds longer before taking his seat. “She's in trouble,” he whispered sadly. “And I'm back here. Not a damn thing I can do about it. Can't even buy the bastard a few drinks so I can punch him plenty.”

Shawn remembered Bud's trademark. Get the victim drunk before beating the crap out of him. It didn't make a whole lot of sense, but Bud didn't make much sense in general anyway.

“So your sister is dating a guy you don't like? And you want me to do what exactly?”

“Find out if she's safe. I dunno, man, something just ain't right about him. The way she's been talking and the things she's been doing. I dunno. Guy's trouble. I know trouble guys and he's it.”

There were a hundred jokes Shawn could have made right there, one among them recognizing just how much trouble Bud himself was, but instead, Shawn blinked twice and tried to reason through the surreal nature of the situation. “Right. So you want me to use my, and I quote you, 'mumbo jumbo spirits' to find out if the guy is dangerous and to help your sister.”

“Exactly.”

“Because you can't help her.”

“That's right.”

“Because you're in jail.”

“Yes.”

“For shooting me.”

“I can see how that might not look too good. Would it help if I claimed it was an accident?” Bud's voice raised an octave in question. He raised his eyebrows, clearly hoping Shawn would buy the excuse.

“Rear ending a vehicle is an accident. Purposely bringing a gun and then buying me beers so you can beat me up and then shoot me is not an accident.”

“No. I suppose not. But look. This isn't about me. It's about Lu Lu.”

“Yes, the not-a-dog sister. I'd nearly forgotten.” Shawn glanced at his watch. Maybe he could ask God for the last fifteen minutes of his life back. This was the last time he answered letters from crazy, gun-wielding, blubbering masses.

“She's a good kid, my sister. Not like me. She sees the world like momma always wanted me to.”

“So she's not a crazed attempted murderer?”

“Hippy actually. A bit crazed in the head and none to smart, but a good kid.”

“And why do you think she's in danger?”

“He brainwashed her. Gonna take her away, she says, to his private land up north. Got a whole community there but it don't sound right.” The tears began to reform causing Shawn to roll his eyes.

“What, like a cult?”

“She used to come and see me every week but I ain't seen her for two weeks now. Not like her at all. Last I heard, she was going to follow him up there. Follow in the way of the light or some nonsense like that.”

It took a full thirty seconds for Bud to blow his nose again. He wiped away the remaining snot on the two L's on his biceps.

“I don't suppose you can actually pay for my services?”

“I could get my tattoo man to give you a free tattoo.”

“Right. And I don't suppose you know where I can find this guy you distrust?”

“She never said. That's where your spirits gotta come in.”

“My mumbo jumbo spirits?”

“You got it.”

Shawn rubbed his hands through his hair, trying to sort the details. It had the added affect of hiding the snot on Bud's shirt and arm away from his sight.

“Anything else you'd like to add?”

“Just that she met him at an ice cream shop. Not sure which one. Guess he gave her a job there for a while. That's about all I know. You're taking the case, right? I can count on you?”

Shawn stopped himself from bursting out laughing if only because Bud was clearly distraught over his sister's disappearance. “As it turns out, I have a pretty full schedule this week. I'm teaching my pet lion to salsa. Next week, we're going to compete in the All American Salsa tournament.”

Bud's fists clenched again. He growled, moving his furious face as close to the glass as he could. “I won't be in here forever, pretty boy.”

“So now you're trying to intimidate me into helping you? Really?”

“Free tattoo or I find you upon my release. Your choice.”

“You do realize that I can testify at your parole hearings, right?”

Apparently Bud hadn't thought of this. He fell back into his chair, burying his head within his hands. “Please, man, you gotta help us. You took Penny. Lu's all I got.”

If Gus had been there, he'd have kicked Shawn into leaving and not promising a thing. But Gus wasn't there. Bud's worry for his sister along with his tears and disgusting snot had their desired effect. Shawn drew in a deep breath, already regretting what he was about to say. “I'll see what I can do.”