Hi, Ho, Torino!

Their first story swept the Torino awards. What do the boys do for an encore?

This is the second story in a trilogy. The first story is If You Can’t Beat ‘Em. The third story is The Elusive Muse.

“Huuuutch!!”

Heart thumping at the sound of the plaintive wail, the blond half of the Dynamic Duo dropped the book he’d been reading and raced over to his partner sitting at the desk.

“What is it, babe?” Hutch asked in his calm soothing voice. “Are you hurt? Wounded? Drugged? In physical or emotional distress? Tell me what’s wrong and I’ll make it better, I promise.” Already his large finely boned hand with the long tapered fingers was squeezing Starsky’s shoulder in their age old gesture of comfort and support.

“Hutch, we won,” Starsky whispered in awe, his sapphire violet blue eyes shining with joy.

“We did?” Hutch elbowed Starsky off the chair and stared at the computer screen. Sure enough their story Ouch, That Hurts by mutt and jeff had won first place honors in the Torino Awards!

“Don’t know why you sound so surprised. I told ya we’d win.” Starsky peered over Hutch’s shoulder, his famous thousand watt smile brighter than the cyber glow radiating off the computer.

“Yeah, you did,” Hutch smiled back at his partner. In fact, winning the Torino was all Starsky had talked about since Wolfpup notified them the story had been nominated.

“We have to tell Huggy and Dobey. Minnie and Merle. My mom and Nick. Your folks. Uncle Al and Aunt Rose. Smitty the shoe shine guy…”

Starsky continued to reel off names as he walked into the living room in search of pen and paper. Hutch wasn’t even listening. He stared shocked, dumbfounded, flabbergasted at the award list for the Torinos.

Drama Story.

Action, adventure, tearjerker.

Hutch Angst Story.

Starsky Comfort Story.

I Can See It in My Head Story.

Huh? Hutch didn’t even know what half the categories meant but their story had won first place honors in all of them except poetry and beta reader.

It was incredible! It was exciting!

It was scary.

What had started out as a simple little hurt/comfort story about a paper cut had, with Starsky’s vivid imagination, turned into a War and Peace epic. Hutch had gone along with it because Starsky wanted to do it and it was a cliché of fanfic that he always let Starsky wrap him around his little finger. He couldn’t disappoint all those readers, could he?

So every day for two weeks they’d rushed home from work, ordered a pizza, drunk beer and tossed out one outrageous idea after another.

The paper cut had turned into gangrene. Starsky was brave and stalwart as he faced the prospect of losing his hand. Hutch cried. When he wasn’t wallowing in guilt because he’d been the one to hand Starsky the piece of paper that had cut his finger, he went for walks on the beach where the gentle sea breezes ruffled his silky blond hair and stray sunbeams shimmered off the golden strands creating a heavenly halo of light.

Meanwhile, at the hospital, Starsky flirted with a beautiful nurse who wasn’t the angel of mercy she seemed to be. Turned out she was Diana Harmon’s twin sister — why no one had noticed the resemblance sooner was never explained but, like Starsky said, it was fanfic and didn’t have to make sense — who mistook Starsky for Hutch and went after him with a bedpan and a hypodermic needle. Only Hutch’s quick thinking and lightening swift reflexes saved Starsky from certain death, though he did suffer a concussion, cracked ribs and bruises and cuts too numerous to count. Then, for good measure, he developed pneumonia and fell into a coma.

Hutch cried some more.

He sat for hours, days, weeks in an uncomfortable chair by Starsky’s bedside. Refusing to leave. Keeping vigil because only his presence kept his beloved partner, best friend, buddy, pal and all around nice person from slipping into the netherworld of death.

Finally Dobey ordered him to go home.

As he’d left the hospital, he’d been kidnapped and taken to the cold damp basement of the conveniently located old abandoned warehouse by the docks. He’d been starved and beaten. Blood flowed. Ribs popped. He had a head wound, went blind and regained his sight. He suffered heroically, his only thought to get back to his dying partner.

Finally Hutch couldn’t take anymore. He was having a hard time getting out of bed in the morning, dreading what new torture Starsky had dreamed up for him. Besides they were up to 128 chapters and even Starsky had to admit it was time to end the damn thing.

So Hutch escaped. He stuck his finger in his pocket, pointed at his captor and told him he had a gun. Fortunately, their villain was violent but stupid. One of those generic bad guys with no identity except a name and no logical reason given for his hatred of the heroes. Confused and frightened, unable to remember if he’d taken Hutch’s gun and too dumb to ask himself why Hutch hadn’t used it weeks ago when he’d first nabbed him, he fled.

Hutch raced back to the hospital. Weak, bruised and disoriented, he’d crawled to Starsky’s bedside. Starsky was still in the coma, still surrounded by dozens of machines.

He wept, prayed, begged his partner to open his eyes. He held Starsky’s cold limp hand. Brushed the tousled unruly curls from his forehead. Caressed his cheek, kissed his forehead, called him babe twenty two times.

In the last paragraphs, Starsky woke up. Instantly alert and able to carry on long coherent conversations with Hutch full of banter about burritos and the Striped Tomato. They called each other Gordo and Blondie.

Starsky asked about his wristwatch. Hutch felt guilty about leaving his plants unattended.

They both cried, sobbing in each other’s arms.

Huggy brought in burgers. Dobey went to call Edith. The doctor came in and exclaimed, “I’ve never seen such a bond! You are truly two halves of a whole!” Not only was Starsky out of the coma but his finger was all healed and the gangrene and pneumonia had miraculously disappeared. The doctor signed the release papers and in less than an hour they were back at Metro as if nothing had ever happened.

Huggy was speechless when they told him they’d written a fanfic story but got his cousin-in-law’s wife’s maid of honor’s boyfriend to create a website for them with a link to the BCL. They’d posted the story and within hours received thousands of hits.

“I love it.”

“I laughed, I cried.”

“This is wonderful.”

“Me too,” were only some of the comments they received. They rushed home every night so Starsky could check his in-box. He basked in all the attention and pouted in his usual puppy dog fashion when after a week the hoopla died down and there were no further messages.

Things were back to normal or so Hutch had thought.

A few months later they began receiving notices their story had been nominated for something called the Torino Awards. Starsky was like a little kid on Christmas morning, bubbling over with childlike excitement. He strutted, swaggered and sauntered with wild abandon, his derriere in those tight fitting jeans swishing more than usual.

If he was impossible before, Hutch knew he was only going to get worse now.

Rubbing a hand over his eyes, the blond turned off the computer and walked into the other room. Starsky was sitting on the couch, furiously scribbling on a pad of paper.

“What are you doing?”

“Writing our next story.”

Hutch felt a foreboding shudder of deja vu.

“Wha… what is it going to be about this time?”

“I thought we’d go for something different. Don’t want to repeat perfection. So this one’s going to be an AU.

“Alternate Universe,” Starsky explained patiently, seeing Hutch’s confused expression. “It’s us — you and me — but in a different time and place. Some readers don’t like them, feeling it destroys the me and thee concept, but a writer’s got to write what they want to write. And it’s the only way to work in the beheadings and stake burnings. Won’t work in a modern setting.”

Lurid images of lopped off heads rolling on the ground and charred limbs flitted through Hutch’s head. “Starsk, I was just kidding. Why don’t we do something else, huh? An explosion? Or maybe an earthquake? Yeah, that would be good. We could be buried under a collapsed building and…”

“It’s been done before.” Starsky dismissed away such a mundane plot with a wave of his hand. “Nope, the French Revolution, that’s what we’re going to do.”

In a daze, Hutch wandered into the kitchen and grabbed a couple of beers. Maybe the alcohol would dissolve the shards of ice forming in his stomach.

“I got it all figured out, Hutch. You can be the Comte de Hutchinson, minister to Louie what’s-his-number and lover of Marie what’s-her-name. A haughty aristocrat but nice to the peasants. You give ’em money and bread and stuff like that. And I’ll be Count Starsky, a Polish nobleman who pretends to be a fop but in reality is the leader of a band of merry men who hide out in the woods and rescue beautiful women from being burned as witches and nice guys from the guillotine. We’re friends of course and well, read it for yourself.” Starsky thrust the paper into Hutch’s hand.

The crowd parted as the tumbrel made its way through the square. Women wept at the sight of the prisoner. What a shame! Such a handsome man! And he had such lovely hands! But he was an aristocrat and the Revolution demanded his death.

The Comte de Hutchinson’s lapis cornflower blue eyes flared in indignation as the gendarmes dragged him from the cart. How dare these buffoons with their rough dirty hands soil his silk waistcoat! His attempt to wag his finger in their faces was thwarted as he was pushed up the stairs of the platform and came face to face with La Guillotine!

The executioner — his bare chest flecked with the blood of his earlier victims, his head covered by a black hood with slits for eyes and mouth — pulled his arms behind him, securing them with a rope.

The Comte shook his head at the proffered blindfold. No! He must be able to see. Somewhere in the crowd was his friend and compatriot, Count Starsky, and he must be able to look into his azure midnight blue eyes. He must be able to speak to him in the silent language in which they carried on so many silent conversations and say goodbye.

But alas, nowhere in the sea of faces did he see the one he longed to see. Fighting back the bitter tears, the Comte de Hutchinson tossed his head defiantly, allowing a shaft of sunlight to glint off his honey colored cornsilk hair.

The muffle of drums announced it was time for the execution to begin. Hutch, as he was called by his friends, knelt beneath the steel blade suspended against the cloudless blue sky. But just as the executioner was about to place his neck on the chopping block, a horse and rider thundered through the crowd!

Men, women and children scattered as the fiery steed skidded to a halt next to the platform. The horseman — dressed all in black, a sequined mask covering his eyes — slid from the saddle and with saber in his left hand dashed up the stairs.

As evidenced by the patented lopsided grin, the mysterious swashbuckler was enjoying himself as he parried and thrusted. Finally all the foes were vanquished except for the burly executioner, who with a mighty roar, released the crank and the Maiden of Death began her swift descent! Just in the nick of time, Hutch’s head was pulled from its deadly path.

With a single stroke, the rope binding Hutch’s wrists was sliced apart and the smaller man tossed him the arquebust he had tucked into the waistband of his skin tight knee breeches. Flourishing sword and gun, the two men leapt onto the back of the black charger.

“Hi, ho, Torino, away!” the masked man shouted and with a clatter of hooves, they galloped away to freedom.

Hutch bit his lower lip. Starsky was sitting on the edge of the couch, that bright eager expression on his face that Hutch was loath to dispel with his pent up laughter.

“So what do you think?”

“It’s… ah…um…”

“Pretty terrific, huh?”

“That’s not the word I was searching for but yeah, it’s certainly different. A combination of The Scarlet Pimpernel and The Lone Ranger. I bet that’s never been done before.”

“And Robin Hood. We still have those merry men waiting for us in the woods.”

“Oh, yeah. How could I forget them.”

Starsky reached for the pen and paper, which in his excitement had fallen to the floor. “I was thinking we could have Dobey in the Friar Tuck role. He’s got the weight to carry it off. But we need something for Huggy.”

“Court jester?”

“Hey, that’s good.”

Starsky scribbled notes while Hutch considered another run to the kitchen for more beer.

It was going to be a long night.

End

Chapter End Notes:

Despite the often unpopular genre, the readers loved the second story by mutt and jeff and once again they swept the 2003 Torino awards.