How Not to Eat Fried Frog Legs

Starsky can’t bear to eat them. How will he escape the horrid fate?

Story Notes:

A challenge story using the word ‘Frog.’ Not beta read. Thank you for reading.

Tick tock. Tick tock…..

I could hear Starsky’s stomach grumble. This was taking too long. He’d been sitting there for twenty minutes now.

“Starsk,” I gently said. “Just try them.”

Starsky gulped hard, and looked up at me with a look that said, I should be cut off from the human race.

“Hutch! Are you crazy? I can’t eat this.” He eyed the plate I’d put before him. “When you said you were cooking dinner, I figured the ‘usual’. Couple of steaks, baked potato, baby peas with those cute little pearl onions, maybe a salad?”

“Starsky, I have one word for you. Tasty-Club.”

“Two, Hutch. That’s two words.”

Starsky’s face paled slightly, and I stared into the water blue eyes, that looked more like a fearful childs, than the tough guy I knew he was.

“You’re a coward,” I said sweetly, trying not to grin, while nursing my bottle of beer.

“Hutch, if I eat them — I’ll be sick.”

“Starsky, if you don’t eat them, they will have died for nothing.”

“If I eat them — I’ll die. Is that what you want, Hutch?”

“Starsky, that’s not going to happen. Will you just try them. One bite won’t kill you.”

Starsky poked at the fried frog legs with his fork and held a piece up to his mouth. There was an awkward pause, and then a funny look passed across his face, like he was going to be sick.

“Hutch, I think I’m going to be sick.”

“Starsky, that’s not going to work. Take a bite,” I yelped my impatience.

“I’m trying.” My partner swallowed hard on nothing, still glaring at his fork.

“Starsky, will you relax, it’s not that bad.”

“Isn’t it?”

“Starsk, I worked hard to prepare those for you. What do you want me to do? Pour chocolate sauce over them?”

“It’d be an improvement.”

“Funny. So, hot shot, what do you suggest I do then?

“Toss them in the garbage, nature lover.”

Another awkward pause, and I swore I could hear my partner’s stomach acid churning. I watched him clench his teeth, thinking he was going to throw up all over my fried frog legs.

“Starsky.” I set my beer done leaning my elbows on the table. I got no answer. “Starsk?” I was getting worried, he really was looking green.

My partner dropped his fork and looked up at me. “Hutch, how do you know these are frog legs?”

“Trust me. I bought them, at the butcher shop today,” I sighed, leaning back in my chair, deciding he was only feigning vomit.

“What if they weren’t?”

“What if they weren’t what?”

“Frog legs.”

“What else would they be, dummy?” I challenged, knowing he wasn’t about to try them.

Starsky shoved his dish away.

“You know my uncle knew a guy once who owned a butcher shop.”

“Uncle Sid?” Here it comes, I sighed, shaking my head. “The one who found a gold wedding band in his chopped sirloin?” I asked in disbelief, taking another pull of my beer.

“That’s the one. ”

“Starsky, you’re ridiculous. They are frog legs.”

“That’s what Uncle Sid’s wife said.”

“She said they were frog legs.”

“No she said it was just a wedding band someone lost.”

I sighed, taking another slug of beer, exhausted from the whole conversation.

“Uncle Sid found out a week later, the butcher was having an affair and tried to hide the evidence from his wife. He killed his mistress, and stuffed her piece by piece into the meat grinder. Sold her at twenty cents a pound. Made a fortune, until he got caught.”

“You are such an asshole! Starsky, I highly doubt Tommy the butcher is a killer.” I rolled my eyes at what just came out of my mouth, it didn’t sound right — not even to me.

“You hope,” my friend uttered under his breath.

“Starsky, what do you want me to do? Call the FBI? Get a crime team over to Tommy’s? Have them tear the place apart looking for human remains?”

“Might help.” Starsky stood and moved away from the table.

I suddenly had a vision. The small butcher shop was surrounded by the entire Bay City Police Department. Whooping helicopters hovered overhead. Concerned citizens stood behind the yellow ‘do not cross — police’ tape. News’ teams from five channels lined the streets, and spotlights lit up the tiny corner store. And in the center of it all, stood Captain Dobey, negotiating the whole deal with a bullhorn in hand, barking out orders to swat, who had taken up position on the roof.

Inside, the local shop, Tommy had ducked down behind the meat counter, with a rifle in one hand and the telephone pressed to his ear, demanding a–”

“Pizza?” Starsky’s voice brought me from the movie playing in my head.

“Huh?” I looked up to see my partner with the telephone pressed to his ear.

“I asked, what do you want on your pizza, Hutch?”

There was an eerie calm, followed by Starsky prancing in place impatiently waiting for my answer.

“Black olives, and mushrooms,” I said flatly, standing and taking the dish of frog legs to the trash, letting Starsky off the hook.

I mean… you can’t just make that stuff up.

You just can’t.