Deadline

Hutch is there for Starsky–sort of–as Starsky frantically tries to meet an important deadline.

“And do not point that thing at me!” shouted Starsky.

“What thing?” yelled Hutch.

Starsky slapped at Hutch’s raised right index finger. “Your goddam Hutch Finger!” he bellowed.

“You’re damn lucky I don’t point my Magnum at you!” roared Hutch.

“H-U-U-U-U-U-U-U-U-TCH!”

Hutch came running into the room, tripping over a box and catching himself in mid-fall by grabbing at the back of Starsky’s chair, which tipped backward, nearly spilling its occupant onto the floor.

“Hey! What the hell are you doin’?” snapped Starsky as he caught the edge of his desk, knocking over a pile of papers as he tried to keep his balance. “Look what you did!” He slid the rest of the way down, snatching up crumpled, torn, and otherwise mangled documents. “Shit!” he exclaimed, forcefully articulating the ‘t’.

The men bumped heads as they both tried to retrieve the scattered papers from the floor.

“Dammit!” yelled Starsky, rubbing his forehead just as Hutch yelled, “Dammit!” and rubbed his forehead.

They slapped the papers back together in irritated silence.

Finally, Hutch said, “Starsky, it’s already 10:30. Did you factor in the drive time to deliver this?” He sighed with undisguised exasperation. “Why do you always–”

“Don’t give me any speeches, Hutch,” Starsky muttered, dropping heavily back into his chair and rubbing his face with fatigue and exasperation. “I hate this! I cannot do this,” he moaned.

“Oh, be a man about it, Starsk,” said Hutch as he aligned corners of mismatched notes. “What did you want?”

“What?” Starsky looked wearily up at his partner.

With obviously feigned patience, Hutch asked, “Why did you call me in here?”

Huh? Uh…why…?” Starsky thought for a moment before his face brightened. “Oh! Coffee! More coffee. I need coffee.” He absently handed his cup up to Hutch.

Upon his return with fresh, hot coffee, Hutch tripped over another box that had been kicked out of the way while he was in the kitchen. He spilled the coffee into it.

“Dammit, Hutch!” yelled Starsky at the same time that Hutch yelled, “Dammit, Starsky!”

Hutch threw the coffee cup at the wall, where it shattered and left a wet stain dripping toward the floor.

“My favorite cup!” screeched Starsky.

There followed some discussion of parentage, of personal care, of handedness, of lifestyle choices, of clothing choices, of food choices and their effect upon intelligence, of vehicular choices, of sexual prowess, of gender identity in general, and finally of dissolving The Greatest Crime-Fighting Duo of All Time.

“And do not point that thing at me!” shouted Starsky.

“What thing?” yelled Hutch.

Starsky slapped at Hutch’s raised right index finger. “Your goddam Hutch Finger!” he bellowed.

“You’re damn lucky I don’t point my Magnum at you!” roared Hutch. He hurled a handful of carefully sorted papers at Starsky.

Starsky hurled a box of staples, then a stapler and then an adding machine at Hutch who was looking around for something equally substantial with which to defend himself.

Suddenly they both whirled toward the door. Someone was pounding on it, gruffly identifying himself, “Bay City Police!”

Starsky yanked open his front door. “Yeah? Bay City Police already here! Whaddya want?”

Two uniformed officers, hands on guns, warily scanning the premises, pushed into the room.

Hutch stepped into the officers’ sight, sheepishly holding up his badge and ID.

“Hutchinson?” one of the officers asked, giving him back the ID.

“So you must be…Starsky?” said the other one, giving Starsky a careful once-over.

All four men looked into the room at the overturned chair and boxes, spilled coffee, broken pottery, stained wall, and the jumble of papers, pencils, and small office equipment, then back at each other.

Hutch held his arms out, wrists together. “Please help me. Arrest me. Put me in cuffs. Put me in a straight-jacket. Put me in a mental institution. Put me in prison. For a long time.” He shot a pointed look at Starsky. “Solitary. Really. I mean it.”

“What the hell? What’s going on in here?” asked one officer.

“We had a noise complaint,” said the other one.

Hutch looked at Starsky, leveling The Finger and his most intimidating icy blue glare at him. Starsky was duly silenced.

Hutch turned to the cops with a grim little smile and simply said “Taxes.”

One officer whistled a sympathetic little sound and the other gave them a sympathetic little smile and nod as they backed out the door, closing it gently after themselves.

“What are we gonna say? We gotta call it in,” said one officer.

“Let me do it,” said the other one, eagerly. “Wait till the other rookies hear this. My first night out and I bust the great Starsky and Hutch!”

The sound of a lamp breaking against the door followed them to the squad car.