Occam’s Razor

Starsky has a brilliant plan for cleaning out Hutch’s car.

Many thanks to babs for giving us fic prompts and to Kira_Berlin and Astrid B Caine for their help and advice.

“Starsky,” I snort-laughed, “you look ridiculous.”

And he did. He was decked out in a heavyweight mechanic’s jumpsuit with the legs tucked into his police-issue galoshes. My blue bandana was trying, but losing its attempt to secure his curls and one of our ‘bedroom’ silk scarves was being used to mask the lower half of his face.

“I still can’t figure out how the Turbos blew a 23 point lead in the 4th!” He said with the same tone of voice he used making dental appointments. “But a bet’s a bet.”

Starsky pulled on some leather gloves that looked better suited to falconry than cleaning out my car. Then he grabbed a box of industrial sized trash bags and headed for – as he put it, ‘Number 16 on the EPA’s most wanted list.’

I grabbed a beer and followed him down, mostly to be sure he didn’t just shove everything he pulled out into the trash bags. But a little gloating is always fun, too.

He was crouched over the fire hydrant, doing things that created metallic clanks and Starsky-ish grunts. When he started dragging something towards my car, my brain caught up with what I was seeing.

“Starsky! Don’t you dare! You put down that fire hose this instant!”