In the mid-1990’s, email discussion lists, like VenicePlace (the first S&H slash discussion list), were the primary social media for fans. Fans treated VP like “…a large, rambling virtual apartment building with unlimited space where we all live next door to those two gorgeous cops, and where every window has a great view of the boys when they come after work!” (From the FAQ) (Thanks to Fanlore.)
In 2004, the SHareCon zine featured Partners in Adversity by CrowRow (Rosemary’s VP name) and Flamingo that focused on the Starsky and Hutch movie with Ben Stiller and Owen Wilson released that year. In the movie, after the “new” Starsky drops his Torino in the bay, the original Hutch (David Soul) sells a Torino to him over the protest of the original Starsky (Paul Michael Glaser). On VP, we decided that replacement Torino was only one of the original Starsky’s cars, since he had one for every day of the week. It became our new “fanon.” The story also treated the movie S&H (sometimes referred to by their first names, or as “the short one” or “the blond one”) as interlopers at VP.
In 2006, Starsky is still dealing with the interlopers and decides creating a vid for showing at that year’s SHareCon is the perfect way to prove to the VP ladies that he and Hutch are the only One True Pairing. Hutch has a different point of view. Doesn’t he always?
Okay, that’s the Cliff Notes. Remember Cliff Notes?
Originally published in the 2006 SHareCon zine.
“Gonna find my baby, gonna hold her tight….”
Detective Kenneth Hutchinson nearly levitated out of bed. The twenty-year-old — well, actually, thirty-year-old — song roared through his room louder than the chords from the Close Encounters of the Third Kind’s mothership. His heart racing, his mind completely befogged, he stared wildly around his dark bedroom, looking for the source of the noise.
The glowing red letters on his alarm clock read 2:21 AM. A chill went through him when he realized that the other side of the bed was empty.
The song lyric cut off as abruptly as it started. A cold sweat broke out over his skin as Hutch tried to figure out what was going on.
Quantum physics had flown out the window in Venice Place long before the town of Eureka had ever heard of the subject. First, there was his ever-expanding apartment building that seemed to have dozens of new neighbors moving in every week. Then there were the women: they hung around by the dozens, lying in wait around corners that didn’t exist when that song was young. As if that weren’t enough, his building had turned into Animal Rescue Central in the last few years, and he’d had to learn to live with the added chaos of Flamingo and CrowRow’s herd of rampaging, psychotic canines. But as Hutch liked to say, there was always more. With the ominous basement Rumpus Room, and never-ending band practice — there was no telling what kind of sounds might be heard in the building these days.
Hutch’s sleep-fogged mind fixed on the idea of band practice, but… he hadn’t heard a single kazoo in the sound that assaulted him into wakefulness, and, well, to be frank, as enthusiastic as the Venice Place Band was, staying on key wasn’t exactly their strong suit. Brief as the refrain had been, it had definitely been on key.
There’d been a time when waking up to an empty bed after a bizarre sound like that would have had him fearing that serial killers had abducted his partner, but he couldn’t imagine even Simon Marcus’ goons making it through Starsky’s battalion of smitten lady friends. Not to mention those dogs. Hell, that red demon dog — what was her name, Feisty? no, Foxy — that Flamingo had set loose on them in January had burrowed her way through his greenhouse, where she’d uprooted plants and devastated wicker baskets at will. That dog was so crazy, she actually climbed trees. These days, she spent more time in his ficus than Flamingo’s apartment. But Starsky thought she was “fun” so he fed her cookies on the sly. There was no way Foxy would let anyone near her favorite meal ticket. That dog was a survivor. So, Hutch could definitely rule out serial killers.
Wondering if he were psychologically stable enough to handle the source of the song, Hutch debated the pros and cons of going back to sleep. In the all-pervasive silence that had followed the blaring refrain, sleep was definitely winning the vote.
His eyes had just closed and he’d settled back into a light slumber when once again the inimitable Starland Vocal Band’s one hit wonder blared through the room: “Gonna find my baby, gonna hold her tight….”
The same 10 seconds of sound, then it cut off.
Okay, mentally prepared or not, he was going to have to do something about this before there were 200+ grumpy women pounding on their door. Like they needed an excuse!
Dragging himself out of bed, Hutch staggered naked through the bedroom, stopping to stare at the living room. Starsky was sitting at their PC, intent on the screen, cursing under his breath as that same line from the song thundered through the place. “Gonna find my baby, gonna hold her tight….” Muttering to himself, Starsky fiddled with the computer, thumped the table in frustration, then played the single line again.
This had all the earmarks of being one of those Starsky-situations that got out of hand way fast, so Hutch decided that, for something new and different, he’d take a rational, non-confrontational approach. Using what he considered to be his soft, reasonable tone of voice, Hutch spoke quietly in the silence that followed the abrupt cessation of song. “Starsky, what in the world are you doing?”
Starsky jumped so hard, the chair nearly skidded out from under him. Emitting a shocked yelp, he clutched at his chest. “Hutch! You just scared me to death! What the hell are you doing up at this hour?”
Staring into his partner’s intent blue eyes, Hutch held onto his temper and answered more calmly than anyone awoken at 2:21 in the AM should. “It was hard to sleep with all that Afternoon Delight going on in the next room. What are you doing?”
It was amazing how someone so good at undercover work could be such a lousy liar. Starsky’s entire visage took on a guilty air as he voiced the one word that put abject terror into every mother and lover’s heart: “Nothing.”
Hutch approached the computer desk. He caught a quick view of what looked like a small television screen with a picture of them on it. Below that were a number of weird grids with what looked like frequency or sound waves. But Starsky quickly minimized the screen. Then all Hutch could see was the wallpaper picture of Starsky’s six Torino’s — who in the world needed a car for each individual day? — lined up in a row against a picturesque ocean view.
Every cop instinct he had was on hyper-alert. “Nothing, huh?”
“That’s right,” Starsky answered, unable to hold his gaze.
“This isn’t another fanzine, is it?” Hutch voiced his deepest fear. “We don’t have enough credit to cover it if it is.”
“No, no fanzine, I swear,” Starsky vowed, the picture of sincerity.
This time, Starsky’s eyes met his, so Hutch was fairly sure he was telling the truth.
“So what is it, then?” Hutch tried again.
And once again received that most frightening of words in the English language, at least, after the words We can do it uttered out of a certain neighbor’s mouth. “Nothing.”
“Well, do you think you can do this ‘nothing’ tomorrow, when people aren’t trying to sleep?” Hutch demanded, losing patience with his beloved lunatic.
Starsky gave him a sweet smile and answered with the vexing equanimity that made Hutch want to kill him at least a dozen times a day. “Sure! Anything you say, partner. I can’t find the next scene anyway.”
Hutch wished he’d gotten more sleep. There were times when living with Starsky felt like waking up in a parallel universe, and this was feeling like one of those times. “Scene?”
“Nothing.”
There was that word again.
Then Starsky powered down the computer and rose to follow him back into the bedroom.
They climbed into bed together, side by side.
Starsky gave him a sly come-hither look that didn’t have an ounce of self-consciousness about it and asked, “You wanna?”
Hutch could only stare at him. “You gotta be kidding.”
“What’s wrong?” Starsky sounded completely ill-used.
Hutch held those lugubrious eyes with his own narrowing gaze, gave a sweet smile, said, “Nothing,” and rolled over and went back to sleep.
*~*~*
Damn, Starsky thought as Hutch turned his back on him. That hadn’t worked out as he’d planned.
Just like his vid. That wasn’t going so great, either.
His zine hadn’t had the effect that he’d hoped it would when he’d produced it. To be truthful, there were still more than 400 copies of his opus in boxes all over the apartment building. He hadn’t been able to show the world that he and Hutch were the one true Starsky & Hutch and that those skinny, no account wanna-bes living in the broom closet in the basement were just posers. And they still had his Sunday car!
But his vid, that was gonna prove once and for all who the real Starsky & Hutch were. He was going to make the best vid ever. Hutch and him in living Technicolor. Those other guys couldn’t even fill out the front of their skin tight jeans when a naked woman was standing in front of them. And they dared call themselves Starsky & Hutch! Hutch was so packed, he coulda been a rock star, and he never would have needed to stuff socks in the front of his pants to get the full effect. Those posers didn’t have a chance in hell.
Once his vid was done, they’d get their respect back. Time was, no one would have dared disparage his manhood. Now, certain of the neighbor ladies were openly accusing him on line of wibbling. Wibbling, him! Hutch was the one who cried at super market openings, but there were his so-called friends, accusing him, on line, of misting up. That never would have happened before those other guys moved in.
But his vid was going to take care of that.
Only, he didn’t really have any footage. All his clips were, well, G rated, and kiddie stuff just wasn’t going to influence this crowd. No, what he needed was some up close and personal clips… the kind of scenes the security cameras recorded every single night, Starsky realized.
Hell, he could get clips of both them and the posers. Providing he could figure out how to get to them. A few years ago, one of the ladies took on the task of Head of Security (Don’t call me HOS!), but she’d left some time ago. Now, the equipment was added to and upgraded kind of willy-nilly, whenever Flamingo got around to it, or a critical camera (like one of the three trained on his and Hutch’s bed) failed, or whenever she talked a new neighbor with some techie skills into solving the problems. Some of the stuff went onto video tape, but slowly but surely, Cyanne was hooking them into high definition wireless and DVD. If he could get his hands on that source material… but Cyanne was super busy right now and either got flustered when he tried to talk to her, or started explaining things down to the technical nitty-gritty with had a tendency to make him glaze over. She was definitely too busy to help him. He’d have to find somebody else to help him snitch the scenes he needed. But who…?
He racked his mind, but nothing instantly popped to the forefront. He was snuggling down into his favorite position, spooned against Hutch’s back, when the answer came out of the blue.
“Agent Molo!”
“Huh?” his not-awake partner muttered.
“Nothin’, babe. Go back to sleep.”
But he had a plan now. And with Molo’s help, he’d get the clips he needed. But he’d have to get her alone. There was no way he could approach such a delicate topic in the building, not with a security camera on every wall, and dozens of women eavesdropping on his every word. Oh… the burden of being irresistible… He was going to have to get Agent Molo alone, and about the only time she was alone was when she was out on her bike.
Hey, Hutch had a bike in storage down in the basement! Starsky grinned as he worked out his plan. Tomorrow, he’d resurrect Hutch’s bike, and make like meeting Agent Molo on the bike path was an accidental encounter. Then he could casually let it slip that he needed her help getting clips from the security cameras. She fancied herself a spy. He could portray it all as subversive. Besides, she’d be biking, and he remembered overhearing her telling Flamingo that riding bikes had a tendency to make you a little dull-witted afterwards, from all the effort and adrenaline. This would be no sweat. He’d have those clips by dinner tomorrow.
Pleased with his ingenuity, Starsky surrendered to Morpheus’ call, the Starland Vocal Band singing nonstop in his brain.
*~*~*
Molo had already finished her 26-mile bike run and was now just cruising down Ocean Avenue, enjoying the breezes coming off Venice Beach as she drifted around the neighborhood before going home. It was a glorious day and had been a terrific ride. She’d just gotten in another shipment of “Hurt the Woobie” t-shirts with a whole new image of Hutch’s beautiful blondness on them, and was wearing one of them now. Sooner or later, she worried, Hutch would figure out what the message meant, but she was banking on the fact that most of the time he was simply too intimidated by the throngs of VP neighbors to even ask.
She suddenly became aware of an odd squeaking, grunting, whirring noise coming up behind her and glanced back, wondering what it could be. She was more than a little startled to see Starsky on a beat-up, rangy, antique 3-speed, peddling like a maniac, and ever-so-slowly gaining on her. She cruised, slowing to accommodate him. Something had to be wrong. She couldn’t believe that an aficionado of fine, pristinely clean, red automobiles of a certain vintage would be seen dead on a Vietnam-era rust bucket bike. She couldn’t even determine what color it had once been. Now it was just a motley rust brown. But odder even than all of that was the fact that Starsky was alone. Hutch was nowhere to be seen. It did not bode well. Her spy hackles immediately went on the rise.
Slowly, Starsky drew up alongside, still peddling frantically. “Well,” he said cheerily, “look who’s here! Agent Molo. What a surprise. Who would’ve thought two bike enthusiasts like ourselves would meet while cruising around the streets.”
Her spy hackles stood up straighter. She eyed his bike again and weighed her response. “Yeah. Imagine that. You better not let Hutch catch you ‘cruising’ without him.”
He stared at her for a moment as though he didn’t get the joke. That could’ve had something to do with the frantic pace he had to peddle just to keep up with her. But finally he laughed thinly. “Oh, yeah. Right. Cruising. Gotcha.” With some effort, Starsky sucked in a ragged breath, expanding his chest. “Boy, there’s nothing like bike riding on a clear day like today to expand those oreo-li’s… uh… olive-oiley’s… no… uh… ravioli’s…”
“That’s alveoli,” she corrected him, “and you can forget the spiel. I saw that episode.”
He looked crestfallen. Or maybe it was sheer exhaustion. She couldn’t be sure.
“Where’d you get the wheels, Curley? Somehow, it doesn’t quite look like the kinda bike I would’ve thought you’d be sporting.”
“Oh… well, actually… I was just… uh, taking it out for a spin to help Hutch out. It’s his bike. He was saying he thought there was something wrong with it, so I thought I’d run it around the block a few times and see if I can figure it out.”
“Uh-huh,” she said skeptically. “And then you’ll bring it to Merle to fix, just like you do the Torinos?”
He laughed thinly again.
She was amazed at the level of energy he had to produce just to make the bike go forward, not to mention the fact that it was at least 3 inches too tall for him. However, she had to give it to the cop — those cuts off sure did enhance his incredible legs, and that ass —
She caught herself staring and turned her attention forward. He was up to something, and she’d watched him often enough using his physical attributes on her more gullible neighbors. She needed to be strong or she was gonna fall into the same trap most of her sisters did. She had to remain above it all. Unless it had something to do with Hutch…
“Cool t-shirt,” he said, suddenly, distracting her.
She grinned. “You like it?”
“That’s one of my favorite pics of him,” Starsky admitted. “I love it when he gets that semi-confused, semi-annoyed look just before he blows a gasket.”
“You, too?” Molo said, enthusiastically.
Starsky gave her a look. “Ya think?”
Watch yourself, agent! Molo chastized herself, pulling her eyes away from him. He’s doing it to ya. Be careful…
“Listen, Molo — ” Starsky was openly puffing now. “I was wondering — ”
And here comes the pitch —
“I’m — uh — working on a project — ”
“Uh-huh.”
“Something… private. A… surprise for Hutch.”
I’ll bet.
“So, he can’t know about it.”
She narrowed her eyes. “You want me to lie to Hutch?”
He gave her one of those, What do you take me for? looks.
The one she gave him right back clearly said, I take you for the irrepressible scoundrel you are, dude.
“Molo,” he said with infinite patience, which was pretty hard to pull off considering he was heaving for breath and still peddling insanely, “I know Hutch is your favorite. I’d never ask you to betray him. I mean, come on, he’s my favorite too, y’know.”
“So, what’s the project?” Time to get to the point, Davey.
He hesitated a beat, then blurted out, “I’m doin’ a vid. It’s to prove to everyone at VP that me and Hutch are the One True Pairing. It’s to put those basement jerks in their place, once and for all. But I can’t find the right footage! I need really strong stuff and — ”
She couldn’t help herself. She was grinning like a fool. “Dude! You’re doin’ a vid! That is so cool! You rock! Man, I’ll be happy to help you with your vid. No problem. Why didn’t you say so!”
Starsky started laughing with obvious relief. “You would? Oh, you’re the greatest, Molo! I knew I could rely on you!”
“Don’t worry about a thing,” she gave him a sultry look and said in a husky voice, “I’ll download all of your Codecs –”
He hesitated, confused. “That sounds painful.”
She grinned. “Doesn’t hurt a bit. I’ve got it all under control.” She shook her head. Starsky doing a vid! This would be fun! “So, what’s the tune?” she asked.
Starsky grinned, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “Afternoon Delight, by the Starland Vocal Band.”
Molo imagined this was what it would feel like to be kicked in the nuts, if she’d had nuts. “You’re kidding.”
“No. I’m not. Is that a problem?’
She shook her head. “You are a total loon!”
“… Is that good?”
She closed her eyes. He was starting to fall back, so she braked a little to let him catch up. “Okay, I’ll help you on one condition.”
“And that is…?” He seemed to be bracing himself as if she were going to ask for a moment of intimacy.
“That I never have to hear a single note of that horrible song.”
He looked pensive. “That could make it kind of hard to get the timing right. I know! I’ll sing it to you myself!”
She realized with some chagrin that she’d just made the situation worse. “Never mind. I’ll deal.” Finally, she couldn’t help herself. She had to ask. “Starsky, is there some reason you’re peddling in first gear?” It would surely explain the frantic pace and the lack of progress.
He looked over the bike as if completely baffled. “This… this thing has gears?”
“A couple, maybe three.” She started laughing.
“Gears, huh? How many does yours have?”
“Oh, this is the Lance Armstrong special,” she said. “It’s got 38 gears.”
“Thirty-eight…?” he said weakly. But he quickly recovered. “With all those gears, you should get it a better paint job. Like, maybe red and white.”
“I hear you, dude. Come on; let’s go get those clips before you break your neck on that thing.”
*~*~*
Hutch stopped out in front of the building and got a sinking feeling. What now? He’d gone to pick up a few items at the store like milk and beer (“Life’s little essentials,” Starsky called them), and when he returned, he found his old bicycle — which should have been in the storage cage in the basement — leaning against the building. He really should get rid of the relic — the gears were stuck in first, and the front tire was bent, and the seat was miserably uncomfortable — but it had been his since high school and he was oddly sentimental about it. What was it doing out here?
More significantly, why was it perched right next to Molo’s hyper-driven, Lance Armstrong 38-gear titanium-framed, special edition racing bike? It was like seeing a broken down plow horse hanging out with Seabiscuit.
He mulled over the answer as he slowly and quietly climbed the stairs. With luck, all the neighbors would be out and about or in and around, which was more likely. SHareCon was in another week or so, and the “ladies,” as Starsky liked to call them, were all busy putting out zines — he could hear printers and photocopiers whirring — or writing stories, or plays, or who knew what else. The less he knew about these things, the better. It was nice to be the focus of attention sometimes, but everyone in this building seemed to be obsessed with his and Starsky’s life and love for some reason. He tried not to think about it. Some things were just easier if you accepted them and moved on.
As he approached his doorway, he heard unrecognizable mumbling. Alarmed, and long experienced with criminals breaking in and ransacking the place, he placed the groceries on the hallway floor and drew his gun. Then he stopped to think. The one positive thing about having all these lady neighbors was that break-ins had been completely halted. They’d installed extensive security cameras everywhere, and monitored all suspicious activity. Hutch never fully understood why so many security cameras had to be placed around his bed, but Starsky reassured him it was for their own safety. He insisted the cameras were only activated when no one was home.
Hutch heard more mumbling, so he moved closer to the door. Then he clearly heard Starsky’s voice: “Hey, what about this? You like this? Huh?”
Then another voice said, “That’s pretty good. But make it tighter. Yeah. Yeah! Like that!”
It was a woman’s voice, soft, low, approving.
Hutch was stunned. He knew Starsky had never lost his interest in women, but Starsky was, if nothing else, completely faithful.
“Here,” Starsky said. His voice was pitched low, husky. Hutch knew that tone. “How about this?”
“Ooooh,” the woman breathed, “Dude, that is it! That is soooo damned hot…!”
Hutch had heard enough! Forgetting about his drawn gun in his shocked outrage, he flung open the door so hard it slammed against the wall with a bang.
Two dark heads shot up in surprise to peer over a laptop computer screen. Both looked incredibly shocked and guilty. To Hutch’s intense relief, both people were fully clothed.
“What’s going on?” he said irritably.
Two things happened at once: Starsky slammed the lid down on the laptop and held a hand on it protectively, and Molo saw the Python perched in Hutch’s hand and raised her own hands high into the air. At the exact same time, the two of them chirped the identical answer: “Nothing!”
With the laptop closed, Hutch was able to see how incredibly close the two were sitting. Molo was wearing a dark t-shirt with his own image on it. His expression made him look constipated. The legend under the picture said, “Hurt the Woobie.” Or maybe it said, “Wookie.” He only glanced at it.
“What is going on?” he asked again, more forcefully.
Molo snatched the laptop away from Starsky. She had to use some force; he was holding onto it pretty tight. “Well, I can see you two have things to talk about,” she said nervously. “I’ll be going. Starsky… you, uh, that is… well, you just keep on keeping on.”
She scurried out of the room, but was unable to contain an expression of sheer mirth as she scuttled around him. Slipping out of the door, she closed it quietly behind her.
Starsky sat facing him with one of those, Oh shit, you caught me dead to rights expression on his face. Hutch had a feeling this was more serious than eating the last of the cookies.
“Are you going to tell me what this is all about?” Hutch asked, almost dreading the answer.
Starsky smiled wanly, and then finally said, “It’s… a surprise.”
That was the only thing Starsky could’ve said that would rattle Hutch more than the “Nothing,” answer. Starsky’s surprises could be… terrifying.
Suddenly, the door behind him eased open just enough for Molo to stick her head back in. Has she been eavesdropping?
“Uh… listen, big guy, I… uh, just thought I’d mention, you’ve got groceries out here. Your beer is getting warm…”
“Thank you,” Hutch said frostily. She disappeared again, closing the door quietly.
It was more than any one person should handle. “I’m going out,” he announced to Starsky. “You can put the groceries away.”
Starsky actually looked pleased. “Sure, Hutch, no problem. Any idea… how long you’ll be gone?”
“A while,” he said ominously, then left the apartment. He was totally aware of a tall dark hulking shadow at the end of the hallway. The silver laptop in her arms completely gave her away.
*~*~*
“You don’t know when Flamingo will be home?” Hutch asked plaintively, as he sank into the overly soft pink couch.
CrowRow bustled about Flamingo’s place, bringing him a hot cup of tea he hadn’t asked for, and an array of cookies and cake he didn’t want. Her crazed border collie, the one with the separation anxiety, had been barking at him non-stop since he’d entered the apartment. The noise that dog produced could shatter glass. CrowRow seemed not to even notice the ear-splitting sound, though every now and then she would admonish, “Cody, stop barking,” in a soft, totally agreeable voice. The dog, encouraged, no doubt, to think it was doing a good job, kept up the nerve-jangling noise.
“She had to step out for a few minutes,” CrowRow said amiably. “She and SHaron are getting the ingredients for some special dessert SHaron wants to make. What can I do for you, Hutch? Cody, stop barking.”
The dog continued non-stop.
“I would really rather talk to Flamingo — ” CrowRow’s other dog, a small Benji-type terrier, cuddled up to Hutch’s lap, and without realizing it, he started petting her. She rolled over onto her back so he could rub her belly. After a moment, he discovered it had a very calming affect over him. If only that other mutt would just shut up — !
“Have some tea, luv,” CrowRow said gently. “Cody, stop barking. I’d be happy to help you while you’re waiting for her.”
Hutch eyed the tea warily. It looked like hot water with a lot of milk in it. Maybe it had been frightened by a tea bag in a former life, but — “I don’t know if I should say — ”
“You can speak to me in complete confidence,” she assured him. “Have a cookie. Cody, shut up.”
“I… well, that is… do you think it’s possible that Agent Molo… might… be interested in Starsky?”
“Of course she is,” CrowRow assured him with a big grin. “Everyone in Venice Place is interested in Starsky… Cody, shut up.”
“No, no,” he said, not wanting to say too much, but needing her to understand, “I don’t mean interested, I mean interested!”
She looked at him, confused. She waved a hand at the dog to shut up, but he was totally focused on Hutch and continued barking shrilly.
“You know,” Hutch said, growing more irritated, “interested as in, wanting to sleep with him interested!”
CrowRow started to laugh. “Oh, don’t be silly, Hutch. The only person Molo wants Starsky to sleep with is you. Besides, you’re her favorite. Cody, shut up.”
He was more confused than ever. “I don’t understand what’s going on here. I think Starsky went bike riding with Molo, and on that old bike of mine, the only way he could’ve had a hope of catching up with her is if she let him. Then I found the two of them upstairs, clustered over her laptop, and it sounded like they were doing something — almost sexual — with it before I came in. When I got there, they acted all guilty, like I caught them at something. But she was wearing a t-shirt with me on it and — ”
Hutch had to stop before he drew his gun and shot the dog who was still barking furiously at him. On second thought, maybe shooting the dog — He drew his gun. The dog only barked louder.
Suddenly, CrowRow shrieked in a voice worse than the dog’s, “CODY, SHUT THE HELL UP NOW!”
The silence that descended was so overwhelming, Hutch’s ears rang. Cody looked at CrowRow as if to say, “Oh, is that what you wanted?”
“Come here,” she said to the dog in a sweet little voice. He obeyed instantly and sat at her feet staring at her in adoration. Hutch thought shooting him would be doing the woman a favor. Maybe the dog, too.
He looked at CrowRow. In the silence there seemed only one logical thing to ask. “Please, I’m begging you, will you tell me — what’s a Woobie, and why should anyone want to hurt one?”
CrowRow shook her head. “Oh, Hutch, there are some things man was never meant to know — ”
He stood to leave. There were no answers for him here.
Cody started to bark.
That horrific sound finally shoving out the one line of Afternoon Delight that had been haunting his mind all day, Hutch fled the apartment.
*~*~*
“Did you hear, Hutch?” SHaron asked as she and Flamingo walked down the hall, their arms overflowing with books with colorful covers of what looked like him and Starsky barely dressed in some kind of fancy costumes. SHaron was also carrying a bag of groceries.
“Hear what?” he asked, trying to hold back that feeling of dread. If he’d had spy hackles, they would have been bristling. As it was, he felt like he was getting a tick in his right eye.
“Someone banged into Starsky’s Thursday Torino,” Flamingo offered. “He’s outside having kittens.”
Struggling to ignore that amazing mental image, Hutch’s sense of duty insisted that he should be out there, helping calm Starsky down. His partner was armed and he had an almost unnatural relationship with those vehicles, but… if Starsky was outside dealing with his cars, then he wouldn’t be in the apartment guarding the PC.
“Thanks. I’ll see what I can do,” Hutch said, heading up the stairs to his apartment.
“He’s going the wrong way; isn’t he?” SHaron asked in her cultured British voice.
“Isn’t he always? I find it best not to even ask anymore,” Flamingo advised. “Though I think it might have something to do with the virtual expansion of the building. I think he’s lost his sense of direction.”
“You mean, like thinking up is down,” SHaron suggested, “and in is out?”
Flamingo grinned. “Or…bottom is top…”
The two women burst into gales of laughter and continued on their way.
Hutch decided CrowRow had a point. Some things man was not meant to know — Realizing that he had once again missed an opportunity to have the word “woobie” defined for him, Hutch rushed up the stairs.
It was just as he’d hoped. The apartment door was wide open. The PC was running, an abandoned coffee cup and half-eaten Ring Ding sitting beside the mouse pad.
Feeling like a thief, Hutch rushed over, jiggled the mouse, and stared at the line of minimized applications at the bottom of the screen. Yahoo Mail, Windows Movie Maker and something called AVI? What the hell?
Deciding to go with the thing he at least recognized, Hutch clicked on the Yahoo Mail.
Starsky must have been in the middle of an e-mail when he’d received the car news. The message read:
“Molo,
It’s done! Finally. I think we proved my point. Thanks for all your help. You’ll go down in posterity for this!
Starsky”
Another cold feeling of dread shivering through him, Hutch clicked on the Windows Movie Maker program. It was the same confusing collection of frequency waves and a picture box. The project title was Afternoon_Delight_version-623.
Seeing a play button, Hutch hit it.
The strains of that 70s’ pop song filled the room. “Gonna find my baby, gonna hold her tight….”
But, instead of a “her,” the film above the music track showed Starsky and him… buck naked in bed, doing what came naturally. Or, unnaturally, depending on who you talked to.
His first thought as he watched all that palpitating flesh was that he really should start jogging again. Then, his more refined sensibilities kicked in and his skin started to burn. Experience told him that he’d just turned beet red.
Dear God, Starsky was recording their sex lives and setting them to music!!!! His mind just seemed to freeze there and couldn’t go any further.
The song progressed, the scenes changing. Hutch’s embarrassment turned to mortification as the only two other males living in VP suddenly filled the screen. They, too, were stark naked. Watching those two doing it, Hutch realized that he really didn’t need to worry about jogging. Those guys were just, well… um, un-blessed was the kindest way he could describe his neighbors. Comparing those two to Starsk and him… about the only thing they had in common was that they were all carbon-based life forms. Beyond that —
He snapped out of his reverie. No matter how smug the filmed comparison of Starsky and him to the other two made him feel, the whole thing, basically, was indecent. What the hell was Starsky doing?
As soon as he asked himself that question, he knew the answer. Ever since those guys had shown up, Starsky had been obsessed with proving that he and Starsk were the true Starsky and Hutch. Viewing this piece of… cinema? … Hutch didn’t think there could be any question at all who the real men were here. However reassuring this… film might be, it was still pornography. He couldn’t let Starsk show this thing to anyone. And, since Starsky never did anything privately, no doubt he was planning on revealing this piece of cinematic embarrassment at SHareCon. If he did, those poor guys in the broom closet would probably sue, if not shoot, Starsky. He didn’t necessarily fancy the idea of the neighbor ladies seeing this, either. They didn’t have any privacy as it was. If the women got a gander of this, he and Starsky would never have a moment’s peace.
Hutch knew what he had to do, only… this program looked more complicated than Excel. No way was he going to be able to handle this. Not alone.
Bowing to the inevitable, he ran to the window. Starsk and his dark-haired counterpart from the broom closet stood nose to… well, the little guy was up on tip-toes, which meant his nose was somewhere around the hollow of Starsky’s throat. Meanwhile, Hutch’s beloved partner was burning up a lot of energy, waving his arms around and screaming over the mini-Starsky’s head. Starsky’s former Sunday Torino was mashed deep into the Thursday Torino’s passenger door. No guns were in evidence, yet.
Thinking he had some time, Hutch hurried down the stairs to Flamingo’s apartment.
*~*~*
“No, thanks, really,” Hutch tried to refuse politely as CrowRow attempted to force another cup of dishwater-colored hot milk on him. The border collie was screeching at him, only now, since everyone was home, it had been joined by two yodeling Chihuahuas and that little red demon that was usually in his ficus tree.
“Please, I know you know about this vidding thing,” Hutch said to Flamingo, who was hunched over a laptop that looked to be about four inches big. Molo sat next to her with an identical miniature laptop. Her silver one was also nearby. The two women’s eyes kept scanning all three screens, their hands and fingers working controls Hutch could only guess at.
SHaron, meantime, was puttering about the kitchen cooking, assuring him the food would soon be ready. She took something out of the microwave then clucked something about “not ready yet” and “damned American equipment” and put it back in. In the quick glimpse he had, he thought he saw something oddly brown and oblong. It smelled like dessert but sure didn’t look like it. He could’ve sworn SHaron said something about getting the “spotted dick” ready for dinner, but he had to have misunderstood. In any event, he decided the safest course of action was to eat elsewhere tonight. As crazy as these women were, that dick could belong to anyone. Though he suspected Starsky’s was safe, and he still had his. For the moment.
Anne, the only non-fan — and therefore sane female — sat at the kitchen table, calmly reading the newspaper while bedlam raged around her. Hutch saw her reach into the fridge behind her. A second later, a Millers’ Light blue beer can emerged. She passed it over to him without a word.
That, he could really use. “Thanks,” Hutch said, popping the top and taking a healthy swig. If only he could convince her to drink real beer —
“I still don’t understand what the problem is,” Flamingo said, gleefully highlighting a section of the screen in front of her, without looking at it, it seemed.
“The problem is,” Hutch pointed the infamous Hutchinson finger at Molo, “she helped Starsky make a porno flick.”
“You what?” Flamingo yelped.
“And you didn’t call us?” CrowRow asked, sounding totally outraged, from the center of the milling dog pack that was mobbing her for cookies.
“It’s not a porno flick,” Molo said defensively. “It’s just a vid. Starsky is making a vid.”
“He’s what?” SHaron, Flamingo, and CrowRow all echoed in the same horrified tone, visions of the 400 boxes of Starsky’s last opus no doubt dancing through their memories.
“He’d better not be using one of my songs,” Flamingo said grumpily.
“Making a vid,” Molo repeated. “What’s wrong? How bad could it be? He’s vidding Afternoon Delight, for Pete’s sake!”
“Oh, this is bad,” Flamingo said.
“Quite,” SHaron agreed. “But I don’t believe that’s one of your songs. Unless AC/DC recorded Afternoon Delight.”
“Not that I’m aware of,” Flamingo said. “Maybe I should check I Tunes.”
Once again, Hutch felt as if he’d fallen down a very bizarre rabbit hole. That feeling only intensified when SHaron held out a microwave dish of something and said to him, in that lovely, cheery, British voice. “Spotted dick?”
“Not since I got the shots,” he said without thinking, then immediately turned red again. “Ladies, please, focus! You’ve got to help me fix this. We’ll lose the tiny shred of privacy we had left if this airs.”
“Worse,” CrowRow said. “It could end up on YouTube.”
He had no idea what that meant.
“Worse,” Molo said. “It could end up on America’s Funniest Videos.”
“Even worse!” Flamingo added. “It could end up on Animal Planet’s Funniest Videos!”
“Ladies!” Hutch exclaimed, becoming completely exasperated. He announced the worst possible fate that any police officer could think of. “We could be sued. He’s got footage, well, millimeters, really, of the guys in the basement. They’re not going to be too happy.”
“He didn’t tell me he was going to — ” Molo said angrily, stopping abruptly as if realizing that she had incriminated herself as an accessory after the fact.
Hutch was about to descend on her with the Hutchinson finger, when she held up her hands again and said, “I swear, Officer, I only helped him with his Codecs.”
“I hope it hurt like hell,” he growled, wondering, as he stared at her shirt, if that was the best way to hurt woobies.
“Sued!” Flamingo cried. “Oh, shit. This place has no Home Owners Insurance. It’s simply not possible to get a policy on a virtual building. We’ll lose our collective asses. Okay, Hutch, we’ll help you. Come on, guys,” Flamingo said to her cohorts. Stopping at the door, she held it open a few scant inches for them to squeeze through one by one while she fended off the dogs, and left with a promise to Anne, “We’ll be right back.”
Anne gave a languid wave and never looked up from the paper.
*~*~*
Starsky was furious. He hadn’t been this mad since that little twerp from the basement dumped his own Torino in the bay and Hutch went and sold the fool Starsky’s Sunday Torino. He still hadn’t gotten around to replacing it, and now that idiot from the basement had mashed in the Thursday Torino’s door and damaged the Sunday Torino at the same time. He just knew Merle was gonna soak him on this repair. Ever since he’d fixed the Torino’s bullet holes from Gunther’s hit, and only charged him for materials out of sentimentality, he’d been recouping his charitable moment with every ding and ping Starsky brought to him.
This was all Hutch’s fault anyway. If he hadn’t sold that little bastard Starsky’s Sunday car — his best car — none of this would’ve happened. It was enough to take the joy out of his brand new completed vid, and even tarnish the joy of getting one of Molo’s coveted brand new “Hurt the Woobie” t-shirts. He glanced down at the image of constipated Hutch, who, from this angle, was upside down, and growled at his partner, “I oughta kick your butt, woobie, for sellin’ my car!”
He flung open the door of their apartment, ready to give Hutch a piece of his mind in person, yet again, about selling the car, when he realized Hutch wasn’t there. He frowned. Something else wasn’t there, either, but at the moment, he wasn’t sure what that was. He prowled the apartment, knowing something was missing but unable to put his finger on it —
AH-HAH! His laptop was gone! Nothing else was out of place — cold coffee sitting where he’d left it, half eaten Ring Ding untouched, but the computer, that was AWOL. He frowned. Who would take a laptop and leave behind a perfectly good half of a Ring Ding? He was baffled.
Maybe Molo snuck it out of the apartment so she could view the progress on the vid. Maybe she wanted to beef up the Codecs or do some other sexy stuff with it. That had to be it! He went to find Molo on the uppermost floor.
*~*~*
“Do you see him?” CrowRow asked.
Hutch pulled away from the window. “He went inside after threatening to clobber the little guy. I lost sight of him. He’s probably heading for our apartment.” Hutch sounded incredibly anxious. “Aren’t you done yet?”
Molo looked at him, incredulous. “I’ve been working on this for fifteen minutes! It can take 12 hours or more to do a vid right!”
“You mean, he’s been working on that for 12 hours or more?” Hutch asked.
“I said,” Molo reminded him, “‘to do it right. We… that is, he… cobbled this thing together in about an hour. So it’s gonna take me a little time to fix it.”
“CrowRow says the next scene you’re looking for is in Season Four,” SHaron said, consulting an episode guide.
“Can’t work with Season Four,” Molo said to her. “I’m saving those eps.”
“Yeah, ya can,” Flamingo interjected. “It’s Black and Blue. You’ve seen that one.”
“Oh, right,” she said, fingers flying over the keypad. “Here it is, here it is. Awww, isn’t that cuuuute –“
Every woman in the apartment clustered around the screen of Starsky’s laptop. Hutch decided to mind his own business. Then he remembered this was his business. “Ladies! We’re running out of time!”
*~*~*
It was bad enough Molo could ride a bike for a million miles a day, Starsky thought as he dragged himself up another flight of stairs, but did she have to establish several more floors to the building just so she could live in the highest apartment? He swore he was about to get a nosebleed. By the time he got to the landing in front of her place, he had to stand there wheezing like an old man. He hadn’t felt this winded since the night he climbed the stairs to Bellamy’s roof when he was dying of poison.
As he paused there, catching his breath, he thought he heard sounds from inside the apartment. He didn’t expect to hear strains of Afternoon Delight, considering how Molo felt about the song, but he did. And he heard a lot more than that —
“Wait, Hutch, wait!” That was Molo. With Hutch! “Be patient! I’ll show you how — You want to put that right there. See! That works perfectly!”
Starsky’s eyes widened.
“Wow,” said Hutch breathlessly. “That was a lot easier than I thought. It’s good! In fact, it’s exactly right! What next?”
“I think if you put this one here, it works for me,” CrowRow said.
Hutch! His Hutch! In a ménage! Without him! Horrified, yet fascinated, Starsky pressed his ear to the door.
“Oh, yeah,” Hutch said appreciatively. “Molo, you put it in. I’m too nervous. We’ve really gotta hurry –”
“Some things can’t be rushed, big boy,” she said in that lush baritone.
“Oh, that’s perfect!” Flamingo agreed.
Flamingo! Three women and Hutch! He knew his partner was a hell of a man, but still —
“You know,” SHaron suddenly piped up in her lovely British accent, “I’ve never really understood the point of these things, but now that I see how you do it, I’m beginning to learn to appreciate it. Though it’s a tremendous amount of labor.”
Starsky’s eyes widened. Hutch always did have a soft spot for a British accent.
“Okay, now,” Molo said softly, “we’re getting to the big climax!”
“Hurry!” said Hutch, “we’re running out of time!
“Don’t rush me, dude!” Molo said authoritatively.
“You’re gonna actually use that?” Flamingo said derisively.
Molo sounded huffy. “Maybe it’s a little more subtle than your heavy metal sensibilities are used to.”
Starsky felt a chill. Was Flamingo using hardware on his Hutch!
“Can we work out the aesthetics later?” Hutch asked impatiently. “We need to finish!”
“How about this right here!” Molo declared.
“Yes! Yes! Yes!” SHaron cried out.
“Ooooooooooh, awwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww…” CrowRow emitted a high-pitched keening sound. Starsky knew her well enough to know that hideous sound was indicative of intense delight.
“Is it good for you?” Molo asked.
“It’s good,” Flamingo said grudgingly. “It’s good for me.”
“It’s good for me, too,” Molo agreed. “I mean, look at the woobie!”
Hutch suddenly chimed in. “Uh…that’s a woobie…?”
“Well…yes and no,” Molo said vaguely.
“Just tell me — is it finished now?”
One thing was for sure. Starsky was finished. He flung open Molo’s door with a bang, startling everyone in the apartment. “What hell’s going on–?”
He didn’t get to finish his demand. A 17-pound ball of red fur suddenly landed in his arms, a warm wet tongue bathing his face furiously.
He could hear Flamingo shouting, “Foxy, get down! Get down!”
By the time he managed to wrestle the dog into some form of control, he looked up to see four women and one Hutch peering up at him over the screen of his purloined laptop. He was almost disappointed to discover they were all fully clothed.
“What the hell is going on –?” He almost finished the sentence before a doggy tongue slipped into his mouth. He dropped the dog and grimaced.
Once the French-kissing canine was safely on the ground, he asked, “What are you doing with my laptop?”
Everyone looked at Molo, even Hutch.
She grinned weakly. “Not to worry, Curly,” she said with a thin laugh. “I’m just fixing your Codecs.”
He narrowed his gaze. “You couldn’t do that in our apartment?”
“I needed some special equipment,” she said.
“Yes, equipment!” SHaron chirped. “Which reminds me. Starsky, can I interest you in some spotted dick?”
“Thanks,” he said offhandedly, “but Hutch got shots for that. He’s okay now. Well, if you’ve fixed all that stuff, Molo, let’s see how it plays, huh? The con’s only a week away. We don’t have much time….”
Everyone in the apartment froze and looked at each other guiltily, except Foxy who was sniffing at Starsky’s pockets, looking for a cookie.
“Come on,” he said, “let’s see what you’ve done to improve it.” He walked over to the crowded table and stared down at the computer screen. “Go on, Molo, play it.”
There was a tense silence for two beats and finally Molo shrugged, and glanced at Hutch, who nodded grimly. She hit play.
Starsky stared at what had once been the most amazing proof positive of his and Hutch’s manliness and passion, now forever changed. “What… what the… what the hell…?”
He stared horrified as bland, every day scenes of him and Hutch doing their jobs in Bay City rolled by. Though he had to admit, that time he took his clothes off in the alley so Hutch could take a “laundry load” into a Laundromat as it was being robbed really showed off his great arms, pecs, and attractive body hair. And that scene with him stretching in his red underwear left little to the imagination. And that scene with him and Hutch walking down the street during the Professor Gage case showed off their asses terrifically. But still–
“What happened to all my scenes!!!”
“Starsky, Starsky, Starsky,” Flamingo said, commiserating with him. “You didn’t need all those scenes to prove anything! You two are packin’ more heat fully clothed than any other two mortal men. These scenes are full of subtlety, they’re full of class. And they’re full of ass! Great ass. Yours and Hutch’s. And using these scenes instead of those others will keep us from getting sued, losing the building, your jobs, and my sanity. And all Molo had to do was change a couple of Codecs. No harm done.”
Starsky stared at the screen sorrowfully. “But… the vid… the con–”
“It’ll be a huge hit at the con!” Flamingo assured him. “These are some of the ladies favorite scenes. And look at this great finish. You and Hutch, in the clinches!”
He watched the two of them hug and clutch each other for all they were worth, heavy leather jackets creaking, Hutch clinging to him sobbing while Starsky manfully refrained, only letting his eyes mist up just slightly–
He glared at Molo. “That is not wibbling!”
She nodded vigorously. “That’s right. You got it. No wibbling. I’m down with that.”
Hutch was staring at the screen. “Is wibbling different from woobling?”
Molo shook her head. “Not woobling. Woobie. There. In the clutch. That’s my woobie! Ahhhhhh.”
“Oooooooooooooooooooh,” CrowRow squealed for so long, watching the hug scene, Starsky thought she would faint from lack of breath.
“I’m confused,” said Hutch. “And do you have to wear that shirt?”
“I’m devastated,” Starsky declared, suddenly very depressed. “My vid’s been changed, censored, my Thursday car’s been wrecked, those jerks are still in the basement, and some of the ladies in the building still think they’re a reasonable facsimile of Starsky & Hutch.”
As if hearing the plaintive sound of his lover were all Hutch needed, he came to Starsky and pulled him to him in a hug very reminiscent of the one they’d just witnessed, except without the leather jackets.
“I don’t know why you’re so worried about that,” Hutch murmured. “No one thinks those two guys are us. They just think they remind them of us, in a funny kind of way. When they’re looking for the real thing, they know there’s only one place to find it.” And with that, Hutch proceeded to kiss Starsky with everything he had, until Starsky’s head swam and his blood pounded in his ears.
“Promise me you’ll stop worrying about those two,” Hutch murmured.
“What two?” Starsky mumbled, gazing at Hutch adoringly.
Behind them, Starsky could hear Flamingo and SHaron sigh, in a Brooklyn and British accent respectively. Molo murmured, “Ah, the woobie!” and CrowRow emitted a very soft version of her squeal until Flamingo kicked her.
“Come on, buddy,” Hutch whispered. “Enough of all this. We haven’t had any private time together since you got obsessed with this vid thing. I want to go home. I want to be with you. And… if you take off that shirt… I’ll even …show you my woobie…”
“Yeah. Sure. Home. Shirt. Woobie,” Starsky said dazedly, staring into Hutch’s intense gaze. For a moment, he thought of the laptop, but Hutch was leading him toward the stairs and it was a long walk down. He soon forgot about the computer.
He heard one of the ladies shut the door quietly behind him, while Flamingo scolded, “No, Foxy, you can’t go with him!”
*~*~*
SHaron peered through the peephole. “They’re off the landing! Coast is clear!” She scurried back to the laptop where the other women clustered.
“You did save the original vid, didn’t you?” Flamingo asked.
“Are you kidding?” Molo said, fingers flying over the keys. “It’s already on the network. Anyone in the building can plug right into it. And, man, is it hot!”
“And Starsky still doesn’t know about the network, right?” Flamingo asked again.
Molo shook her head. “Some things man was not meant to know…”
“Do you think what they’re about to do will qualify as ‘make up’ sex?” SHaron asked, pulling up a comfy chair.
“Oh, for sure,” Molo agreed, adjusting the computer and sending the signal to the big plasma screen she had on the wall. “That new digital camera has incredible depth of clarity! We’ll be able to count the hairs on Starsky’s chest!”
“Oh, lovely,” SHaron exclaimed.
“Does anyone want popcorn?” CrowRow asked amiably.
“NO!” the other women snapped.
With a little pout, CrowRow settled on the floor.
The screen flickered to life as Molo adjusted the contrast. The ladies blinked at the Technicolor scene before them, and as one, they sighed, lustily. Foxy yawned, bored.
As they sat and watched the events unfold live, they could hear Hutch asking softly, “But what I still don’t understand is, if they like this woobie so much… why do they want to hurt it?”
end
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