Psych Fan Fiction ❯ Butter Side Down ❯ One-Shot

Disclaimer: I don't own Psych.

 

This is crack. Complete, unabashed crack. I blame it all on my little brother.

 

“Please, sir. Just put the butter down.” Juliet O'Hara's voice boomed through the megaphone. Behind her was a fair portion of the Santa Barbara Police Department, as well as Shawn, all watching in apprehension. Next to her stood Lassiter, rolling his eyes in incredulity. A fair distance before her, a man stood, holding a stick of butter in one hand and a butter knife in the other.

 

“I'm going to do it!” he declared, waving the dairy product threateningly.

 

O'Hara spoke into the megaphone once more. “You don't have to do this!”

 

“Yes I do,” the man said. “It's too late to turn back now.”

 

At this point, Shawn yanked the megaphone from Juliet's hands and added his own comment. “What did butter ever do to you?”

 

The man paused dramatically. “It,” he began, bringing both butter and knife to his chest, “it killed my father.”

 

Lassiter groaned in exasperation as Shawn piped up again. “You know, butter's not the only thing that gives you cholesterol.”

 

“No! My father died in a freak butter accident!”

 

Carlton was not impressed. “Freak butter accident?”

 

Unable to hear the Head Detective's comment, the fugitive continued. “He was a pastry chef, you see. He made the best butter croissants in the state. But one fateful day, the local creamery sent him a case of radioactive butter. The moment his knife cut into a stick, it exploded, taking the entire bakery out in a butyraceous blast. That day, I vowed to make everyone involved suffer the same fate as my father.”

 

For a moment after this proclamation, Lassiter had a brief image of a three-armed gingerbread man running around with a bazooka. He snorted. Maybe if Spencer ran the world…

 

At the man's comment, Shawn made a pained expression. “But the cows?”

 

The bomber ignored him, preparing to cut into the stick of butter. “Es ist ein rosen sprugen!” he shouted.

 

Lassiter had had enough of the insanity. In one fluid motion he pulled his gun from his holster, cocked it, and fired a round into the other man's chest. The butter fell harmlessly to the ground.

 

Spencer shrieked, O'Hara barked out orders, the bomb squad surged forward, and Carlton went to wait by the car. The head detective was not putting his name on the crime report.

 

So, about a year ago, my brother and I were watching Black Swarm, wherein they called an exploding wasp nest a freak wasp nest accident. My brother responded that was like calling and an exploding stick of butter a freak butter accident.

 

My brother has actually used that war cry before, simply because it's the only bit of German he knows. That's the result of high school chorus.