The Droid Wars

Starsky and Hutch get new phones…and the war begins.

Originally published in the SHareCon 2010 zine.

Starsky pulled out his candy apple red iPhone and started to thumb-type, “I smell cookies! Peanut btr—” He shook his head, concerned the abbreviation wouldn’t be understood. He deleted the last word. “—butter? My fav choc chip but in a pinch will be happy to—”

“It’s oatmeal raisin with nuts,” Hutch said from the couch. He was hunched over his plain blue Droid phone. “Keri’s making them to celebrate the final printing of the zines. She’ll bring some up later.”

Starsky just stared. “How do you—?”

Hutch waved his Droid. “Venice Place Twitter feed. She just sent it out.”

“Why didn’t I—?” He glanced at his iPhone and realized he’d once again lost his signal. He tried to remember when he used to speak in complete sentences. He glanced at Hutch again. He was studiously hunched over his phone, totally absorbed.

“What now?” Starsky asked, annoyed.

“Hmmm?” Hutch looked up, clearly distracted. “Oh, nothing from Twitter. I just went back to my book.”

“Book?”

“Yeah, yesterday I downloaded the new Gutenberg eReader Android app. It delivers free eBooks on demand. I can browse and read any eBook on the Project Gutenberg catalogue. It’s got great icons and large titles, so I can navigate easily through hundreds of categories, search for my favorite authors, or titles, or subject. The app remembers the book I’m reading and will take me back to wherever I left off. It supports HTML eBook format, so I can even read e-zines, if I want.”

Besides Hutch’s clear advantage in the complete-sentence arena, Starsky was doubly surprised by that last comment. “You? Read a zine? Would you—?”

Hutch just chuckled and went back to his phone. “Don’t be silly.”

Starsky glanced at his iPhone. He had one bar. He checked the Twitter feed. Hutch had 40 comments on his last tweet, which was a review of Dostoevsky’s, “Crime and Punishment.” “@Hutch: Should be requird for any cop. Opens ur mind 2 nature of existence, possibility of a superior person, good & evil. Opens ur mind 4 future possibilities.”

Starsky stared. How did this happen? While Hutch had been into every spontaneous fad back in the 70’s, including his infamous bout with the biorhythm device, Starsky focused on technology that had ramifications for the future. He’d been the gadget guru, the techno geek of this partnership since the first portable CP/M machine came out. He was the one who showed Hutch how to do email, how to do his first internet searches back before the net had dirty pictures on it. It was Starsky who first figured out how to “chat” and how to send files to the net, how to upload files to the discussion list folders for the VP ladies to enjoy. Starsky had been the one to master archive searches (looking for Starsky angst of course), zine production, podfic—Starsky had shown Hutch all those things, like any good partner, but Hutch had proudly worn the mantle of “Disinterested Luddite” to his “Electronic Pioneer.”

Starsky was the first one in Venice Place to get an iPhone. He’d spent a fortune on it the day they came out. Hutch ridiculed him mercilessly, clinging to his old-fashioned cell phone—it wasn’t even a trek-like flip phone!—until just a few weeks ago. They were rousting some perp and in the ensuing street battle, Hutch’s phone took a dive into a storm drain. It was irretrievable. Hutch mourned that stupid phone like it was his favorite hunting dog or something.

“I had contacts in that phone going back years!” the big blond Viking whined. “I could dial it with one hand. I had everything in the speed dial memorized—”

In a moment of gracious generosity—and in a desperate attempt to halt the torrent of unrelenting whining—after booking the perp and treating Hutch to a great deli lunch he hardly touched—Starsky got his pickle—not that pickle, a kosher dill, please! Ladies, pay attention—Starsky steered Hutch to the nearest Apple store to get him a real phone, an intelligent phone…an iPhone.

He worked on the big sell all the way there. “You’ve gotta get with the times, Hutch. We can connect with Metro’s central database when we’re out on patrol, look up warrants, verify IDs, get photos. Besides, a really smart guy like you needs a really smart phone.”

Flattery always worked with Hutch, at least Starsky’s special brand of flattery—no, not the kind he uses in those special romantic moments! Ladies, keep your mind on the subject, please!—Hutch isn’t like most guys. He can see through flattery about his looks, his blue eyes, his great ass, those legs that go on forever…

Starsky forced his mind back on topic.

No, Hutch would see right through that kind of flattery. But if you talked about his brain—It never ceased to amaze Starsky, because most men would take the blue eyes, great ass, gorgeous face, long legs, big dick kinda compliment any day of the week. Most men were pushovers for that kinda talk. But not Hutch. Just tell him he’s the brains of this partnership, that he’s too smart to be taken in by a pretty face, that an intelligent guy like him needs a phone that’s as smart as he is, and he’d be eating out of your hand like a baby. Or a puppy. Or whatever eats out of your hand. A pigeon?

Never mind. He was just about eating out of Starsky’s hand as he steered him into the nearest Apple store—until he caught the price tag on the phone and the monthly service.

He gave Starsky one of those sideways glances. “You paid what for this oversized brick of a phone?”

“Well, it doesn’t cost nearly that much now—”

“Oh, you mean they convinced all the suckers to pay top dollar first, and when they’d cornered the gullible market, they lowered the price for smarter consumers?”

Starsky wisely realized that was one of Hutch’s notorious rhetorical questions and decided the less said the better.

“And correct me if I’m wrong,” Hutch continued, warming up to his subject, “but ever since you got this thing you’ve been using my old antique phone to make calls when you can’t find a signal?”

That wasn’t a rhetorical question, but Starsky decided not to answer it anyway.

“You know, you’re right, Starsky,” Hutch said decisively, just as Starsky started to show him some of the apps the phone had available. “I am a smart guy. And I need a smart phone. But I’m too smart to buy this expensive toy. I need something more reliable so that when we’re on a case and you can’t get a signal, one of us can call for help.” And before Starsky could stop him, Hutch handed the iPhone back to the clerk and stormed out of the store.

Hutch went without a phone for two whole weeks while researching the smart phone issue. They used Starsky’s phone—when he could get a signal—and the car radio system when they couldn’t. Good thing the car radio still did a good job.

And then finally, Hutch came home one day with a phone he determined through his endless research was the right phone for him with the exact functions he needed. He bought a Droid. This from a man who thought Star Wars was “…childish, poorly written, overblown, and derivative of the kind of movie serials we grew up with.” A droid. And life hadn’t been the same since.

Hutch—who could recite every ordinance in the city—discovered an app that let him download thousands of inane or antique laws. For days, that thwarted any attempt at normal conversation.

“Hey, babe,” Starsky had said two days after Hutch got the phone, “I was thinking…we don’t have to get up early tomorrow. Maybe you and could have a late romantic dinner and spend a little quality time practicing some of our favorite yoga positions…” Yoga was one of Starsky’s code words.

Hutch’s eyes were glued to his new screen. “Well, it’s a good thing we’re not in Arkansas, Starsk. Oral sex is considered sodomy there. I wonder if Bill Clinton knows that—?”

“He lives in New York, now, Hutch. About the yoga—”

“Oh, jeez!” Hutch said, sounding truly alarmed. “In Minnesota, oral sex is completely prohibited. And it’s illegal to sleep naked!”

Starsky frowned. Hutch was clearly not even listening to him. “You want I should arrest you now, or later?”

Hutch snorted. “You have no jurisdiction in Minnesota…but it’s gonna make trips back home even more boring—”

“Is that even possible?”

“Things are even weirder in Montana. There, it’s illegal to have a sheep in the cab of your truck without a chaperone.”

“I think it would be okay if you were the one alone with the sheep, Hutch…”

In a desperate attempt to get Hutch’s attention back where it belonged—on Starsky—he found an app that truly suited him. iFacts: a million useful trivia facts right at his fingertips. Hutch hated it when Starsky got on the trivia kick. It drove him nuts. This was guaranteed to get Hutch’s focus back on the important things in life—like Starsky’s lonely butt.

Though, in retrospect, Starsky probably could’ve picked a better time than at a crime scene.

“Looks like this body’s been here a few days,” Hutch said, walking around the corpse. They were in a park. “I think the crows have been at the poor guy.”

Starsky had noted the huge flock milling around when they pulled up. “Hutch, did you know a group of ravens is called a murder? Talk about coincidences. And even weirder, a group of bears is called a sleuth.”

Hutch stared at him. “I think we could use some sleuths around here right now, Starsky. How about paying attention to the scene.”

Embarrassed, Starsky applied himself to the task at hand, waiting until they were in Hutch’s beat up car before trying again. But before he could get cranked up, Hutch was bent over his phone.

Starsky decided to get serious. “Hutch, did you know that some fleas have split penises, like a Y-shape?”

Hutch made a grunty noise. “Starsky, if this is your new idea of seduction, I can play along. In North Carolina, you must stay in the missionary position while having sex, and have the shades pulled.”

Leave it to Hutch to bring up missionaries when we’re talking about doing the wild thing, Starsky thought, annoyed. “Yeah, well, a giraffe’s tongue is 18 inches long.” There were days when I made you think my tongue was that long!

Hutch tossed a wet towel on the conversation. “Well, in Oregon, it’s illegal to whisper dirty things in your lover’s ear during sex.”

“But we’re not having sex,” Starsky whined.

“That’s right,” Hutch said smugly. “Good thing. Because in Mississippi, it’s illegal for a male to be sexually aroused in public.”

Starsky sighed. “Then we’re in no danger.”

Hutch started the car. “Cheer up, Starsk. We’ve got reports on our brand new stiff to write up. But eventually, we’ll get home. And we don’t live in Iowa.”

“So?”

“In Iowa, kisses may last for no more than five minutes.” He pulled away from the curb and headed for Metro.

Starsky suddenly longed for Iowa and those fabulous five minutes.

The third day after the detested droid had upended Starsky’s universe, they were getting ready to leave the office after another eighteen-hour shift.

“What do you want to do about dinner?” Starsky asked as they headed for the elevator, food having been the only thing on his mind for the last six hours of interrogations and reports.

“Taya was making her amazing pot roast, but we were supposed to have been there five hours ago,” Hutch said, indicating he’d just realized how long they’d been in the interrogation room. “No way that crew would wait dinner on us the week before SHareCon. What about Chinese? Why don’t you call it in while I hit the men’s room?”

“Sure,” Starsky agreed, pulling out his iPhone, pausing to admire its custom skin. He’d had to sweet talk Suzan into painting the white racing stripe on the candy apple red body. Now, it looked like a mini-Torino. It sent a thrill through him just looking at it. Until he noticed the state of his bars. No signal—again. “Hey, Hutch….”

Hutch looked from Starsky’s iPhone to his face and passed across the snazzy metallic blue droid without saying a word.

“What the hell is this?” Starsky stared askance at the screen, which seemed to be showing a live feed of one of Hutch’s billions of plants in the greenhouse.

“Esmeralda’s been having some problems. I wanted to keep an eye on her.”

“You put a camcorder on your plant?” Even for Hutch, this was way weird.

“Well, yeah. What’s wrong with that?”

“Live feed is supposed to be for live things.”

“Esmeralda’s alive,” Hutch protested.

“Yeah, but she’s got roots. She doesn’t move.”

“Sure, she does. Look. I left the window open. The leaves on her left side are swaying.”

“This is like watching grass grow,” Starsky said.

“We don’t have any grass. And, even if I were watching grass grow, what’s wrong with that?”

“It’s stupid. Wasting your battery on somethin’ like that.”

Hutch stiffened the way Starsky himself usually would when some Neanderthal insulted his Torino. “I find it relaxing. And my droid’s battery actually lasts long enough for me to watch Esmeralda and make a call. Since you don’t care for my droid,” Hutch snatched the phone out of his hand, “you can try to make the call on that overpriced piece of junk.”

Starsky swore Hutch was cooing to the damn droid as he walked away. Feeling like he’d stepped into some Twilight Zone episode, Starsky valiantly tried to place the call from his iPhone. Getting no more bars in the hall than he’d did in the office, he returned to his desk to put their dinner order in on the office phone.

***

The signal problem was only one of the most annoying things about this new situation. Hutch’s growing proficiency at texting, tweeting, and researching the things they needed to know was worse than annoying. Hutch’s snooty intellectual side that had a tendency to come out when he’d mastered some arcane task was showing up often enough that Starsky was starting to refer to that side of his persona as Master Hutchinson. Master Hutchinson was not someone you’d want to sleep with. Sometimes Master Hutchinson wasn’t someone he wanted to have dinner with!

But the worst part of it was that Starsky was convinced he was losing the interest of the ladies who lived in Venice Place! He couldn’t believe it, but it was true. In spite of CC showing him what to do, he had trouble with Twitter. He didn’t have the patience to try to cram everything he had to say in 140 characters. He was never quite sure if that included spaces, so he always ended up choking at the most critical part of this tweet. CC had helped him set up an account, and given him all the essential information, but he just had too much on his mind to care about how many letters he was allowed to use.

Hutch, on the other hand, seemed to have a mathematical ability to know exactly how much he could cram into a tweet. And who the hell tweeted about dead Russian writers anyway? Starsky considered sending a review of Michael Connolly’s latest book, which he really loved, but every time he tried to figure out how to put all his feelings about the well-crafted novel into a tweet, he started worrying about giving away too much, or making no sense at all.

The problem was that the VP ladies expected him to be able to figure out the latest fad and participate in it with them. They considered him one of them. Hadn’t he put out his own zine, Hutch and Me Get It On a Whole Lot? Hadn’t he put out a special podfic just two years ago? Wasn’t he the one who made sure the WIFI feed on the cameras in their bedroom was fully functional at all times?

That was part of the problem, he knew. They expected him to be good at this stuff. Hutch’s proficiency usually only came after extensive coaching. Whenever Starsky had a little trouble with the newest thing to come along and asked for help, they’d show him but in the kind of truncated way you would show an expert. Like when CC gave him the Twitter lesson. She had an iPhone and was always happy to show him new uses for the handy device. But when she showed him how to Twitter, she gave him the five-minute tour, a quick, “That’s all there is to it, hon, see, easy?” in that lovely Tennessee accent, and she was gone. The trouble was, they expected more of him.

Hutch, however, being the official Luddite in the building, needed help. Lots of it.

KimberlyFDR had shown Hutch how to use LiveJournal, and Starsky suspected she was his secret Twitter Tutor, too. Sue had showed him all the new Comms—and made sure he knew which ones to avoid. The SH911 crew explained how to lock his own LJ so he wouldn’t have to friend anyone, and then they made sure everyone in the building knew a work around for that. And every time Starsky turned around, Cyanne was helping Hutch with something or other. She had a Droid, too. Suddenly, Cyanne, the building’s resident electronic whiz—normally a very shy person—and the building’s resident Luddite were thick as thieves—sharing apps, talking downloads, texting each other—while Starsky was left to figure stuff out on his own.

Of course, he could, but that wasn’t the point. He missed the attention. Not to mention the cookies.

“Hey, Starsk,” Hutch said, suddenly distracting him from his plaintive musings. Hutch had the kind of lilt in his voice that went straight to Starsky’s groin. He knew that tone better than he knew the sound of the Torino’s engine when it was tuned. Granted, he usually heard that tone more than he heard the sound of the Torino’s tuned engine—

Starsky forgot all about his phone for a moment and looked up at his partner. Was that a come-hither look in Hutch’s eye? Starsky swallowed and dredged up his husky bedroom voice. “Yeah, babe? You want…something?”

Hutch held up his phone. “Look at this cool app Cyanne just showed me.”

Starsky blinked. What? Hutch was using that tone, his special I’m-feeling-in-the-mood-and-if-you’re-smart-you’ll take-advantage-of-it-right-now tone about some phone app? Starsky burgeoning erection shrank so fast he felt like he’d just stepped barefoot in ice water.

Then he noticed the blinking lights on Hutch’s phone. Like a helpless moth to a flame, he moved closer. “That…that…looks like—”

Hutch laughed, delighted. “Yeah! It looks like a Star Trek tricorder! Isn’t that cool?” He handed Starsky the phone.

Starsky stared at the phone’s screen. It looked just like a functioning tricorder from Star Trek. Just like it!

“Cyanne sent me the link. I thought you’d get a kick out of that. How many times did you make me watch that show?”

Starsky stared, mesmerized. A tricorder. In his hand. It looked real.

“You can play with it, if you want,” Hutch said magnanimously, then added casually. “It’s only available on Droids.”

Starsky felt the ice water inching up around his knees.

As he stared at the tricorder, somewhere in the back of his mind he heard Bugs Bunny’s nasal Brooklyn-Bronx accented voice swear, “You re-a-lize this means war!”

***

The next day they were in Dobey’s office, going over their latest expense vouchers. And, as Starsky expected, Master Hutchinson was in his glory.

“I must say, Hutch, I’m impressed with your report on this month’s expenses,” Dobey said.

Hutch nearly glowed. “Well, I guess I owe it to my new phone. It’s got a great expense voucher app. I can use the camera to record our receipts—even when Starsky crams them in the Torino’s glove box—and it even keeps track of my business calls. I sent a printout to the squad room’s computer, and voila! We’re done. It’s saved us both a lot of time. Right, Starsky?”

Starsky managed a wan smile and managed not to blurt, “Oh, righty-o, Master Hutchinson.”

“I may have to look into getting the whole department on this program,” Dobey said. “It saves me work, too.”

“I’d be happy to write up some figures on the advantages—”

“Good idea, Hutch—”

Starsky stared out the window, as if disinterested. And started counting. —Five, six, seven—He glanced at Dobey’s clock. —Eight, nine, te—

There was a sudden loud, drawn out bwahp sound that could only have come for the general direction of Hutch’s rear.

Dobey, standing closer to Hutch than Starsky was, drew back in reaction, looking shocked. “Hutchinson!”

Hutch’s face flamed scarlet. “That wasn’t me! I swear—”

It happened again, only the sound was different, lower, more drawn out with several exaggerated popping sounds at the end.

“Hutchinson!” Dobey barked, stepping away from him. “Get yourself under control!”

“It wasn’t me!” Hutch protested helplessly.

Starsky couldn’t remember ever seeing quite that shade of red on his partner, not even in their most successfully intimate moments. He’d have to remember it. If it wouldn’t have been so obvious, he’d have taken a picture with his iPhone. Its color clarity was unmatched.

Hutch turned to him, helplessly seeking support.

Starsky affected his most wide-eyed, disingenuous appearance. “Hey, Hutch, I warned you all that fiber in the morning was gonna get you in trouble.”

The next sound was positively ominous, a loud growling crescendo of bodily noises. Without another protest, Hutch dashed from the office, presumably for the bathroom.

Not that it would help. Starsky wondered how long it would take him to realize his phone was the culprit. While playing with the Droid’s tricorder, Starsky downloaded the Droid’s FartPhone app. It was a simple thing to set it up to make gas passing noises at a prearranged time.

Dobey suddenly eyed Starsky with suspicion. “Why do I get the feeling you had something to do with this?”

Starsky looked hurt. “Captain! Is it my fault most adults produce about half a liter of flatulent gas per day. That amounts to an average of about fourteen events per day. And did you know people still pass gas shortly after death?”

“And you know that because—?”

Starsky showed off his iPhone. “iFacts. Free app.”

“Get out of here,” Dobey snarled, “and make sure your partner’s okay.”

Smiling, Starsky sauntered from the room.

And ran straight into Hutch who was standing ramrod straight in the squad room. Master Hutchinson was nowhere in sight. In his place was the Avenging Viking.

Starsky froze.

The Avenging Viking wasn’t someone he wanted to sleep with, either. The Avenging Viking was staring at his Droid.

Starsky knew he had to head this one off at the pass, and plastered on a more-confident-than-I-really-feel smile. “Feeling better, partner?”

The Viking almost started spluttering, but clamped his mouth shut before that happened. When he was able to speak, there was no bedroom tenor in his tone. “I feel fine. There’s nothing wrong with me. You sabotaged my phone! I let you play with my tricorder and instead you sabotaged my phone!”

Starsky was grateful that whoever might have been in the squad room when Hutch made his discovery had already fled for higher ground. He suspected if there were any witnesses to this lover’s spat he’d be hearing the question, “Play with Hutchinson’s tricorder lately?” for months.

For a split second, Starsky considered acting the innocent, blaming human error or coming up with some other lame excuse. But he was a man. And a man faced up to his actions.

He leaned into Hutch’s personal space. “You had it coming.”

“What?” Hutch’s outrage was genuine. “I had it coming? I deserved being humiliated by bodily noises that weren’t even my own because I let you play with my tricorder!” Hutch’s volume increased with every word.

Starsky knew he’d be hearing the tricorder remark from everyone on the floor. He moved in closer, going toe-to-toe with his partner. “No. You deserved it by acting like such an insufferable know-it-all with your Dos-stove-ski-ev’s tweets—”

“Dostoevsky!” Hutch corrected.

“—and your Gutenbergs and your tricorders and your—”

“—Jealous! You are just plain jealous, because you spent a fortune on that Steve Jobs’ rip-off phone and half the time you can’t even make a call!”

“Not true! The iPhone is the top-of-the-line item. It is the gold standard—”

At this point they were both yelling. Starsky noticed the crowd gathering outside—at a safe distance—the glass squad room doors, watching. He suspected this was another of those moments when the other cops were starting a betting pool on the outcome of the battle royal.

“Fools gold you mean—” Hutch interrupted.

Before Starsky could respond, Dobey’s office door slammed open, nearly causing the coffee pots to fall to the floor. The storm cloud on Dobey’s face, coupled with his dynamic entrance, effectively shut them both up. “That’s enough out of both of you! I’ve heard more adult arguments out of my kids! Now hit the streets and act like partners, not ten-year-olds.”

Starsky was aware there wasn’t a single person standing outside the squad room doors now. Dobey had that effect on his staff.

With a few mumbled apologies, the two detectives fled. But just before the squad room doors closed behind them, Hutch’s phone farted once more.

Enraged, the Viking turned to Starsky and said under his voice, “This means war!”

Starsky thought, You just figured that out?

***

The ride back to Venice Place at the end of their shift was predictably strained. Hutch’s flatulent phone continued to serenade them with obscene, disgusting noises while Hutch frantically tried to turn off the app. Apparently, Cyanne’s coaching must have paid off, because the droid finally cut off mid-fart. Starsky knew better than to even glance at his partner.

What most people didn’t know was that the Viking’s version of hell wasn’t a fiery burning pit. Instead, it was a frigid, ice-locked wasteland without comfort or warmth. The temperature seeping over from the passenger side of the Torino felt like a hundred below and dropping fast. He was getting frostbite in his right shoulder just from its proximity to the Ice Prince.

Things were always really bad when Hutch didn’t shout when angry.

The Torino squealed to a stop in its usual place and Hutch shot out the door without a backwards glance. Watching that tall Viking stalk away, Starsky shivered in dread, realizing that he might have gone too far in humiliating his partner in front of Dobey. Not only had the rash act guaranteed that it would be a cold day in non-Viking hell before he ever heard his partner’s bedroom voice again, it had set him up for some pretty major payback. And, the one thing everyone knew about his butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-his-mouth beautiful partner was that Hutch was mean. Really mean. No one was allowed to say those words out loud around the VP ladies or at cons, but they all knew it was true.

Starsky knew that he was in for a vivid demonstration on just how mean Hutch could be. With a sinking heart, he followed his lover into the building.

Keri was coming down the stairs with a plate of warm cookies when he got in the door. Her new poodle puppy with more names than Starsky could remember was dancing joyfully around her feet. Starsky started to reach for a cookie, knowing that she’d force at least six of them on him before they parted.

To his shock, she pulled the plate away. To his greater shock, the poodle puppy growled at him. “What did you do?” Keri demanded.

“Huh?” He looked from his empty hand to the cookie plate in confusion.

“Hutch just stormed past me all upset. He only gets that way when you’re mean to him.”

He’d forgotten Keri was a Hutch girl. “ME? Mean?”

“You know the con is this weekend. People are coming from all over the world. We have Chel flying in from Australia for the festivities, and SHaron’s coming from England, and Moni’s coming from Germany! You know how hard everyone’s worked to make this con a success! We have six zines coming out. People have made dozens of vids. You know how much work that takes? We’ve rented a popcorn machine for movie night. What kind of movie night are we gonna have if you two aren’t even talking? How could you be this thoughtless?”

Sweet, lovely Keri looked distraught. The puppy obviously picked up on it because she grabbed the hem of Starsky’s bellbottoms and, snarling, started tugging at them fiercely.

“Hey, I wasn’t thinking…” Starsky shook his leg gently, trying to dislodge the tiny thing without hurting it.

Keri paid no mind to her puppy’s sudden Cujo-like behavior. “You bet you weren’t thinking. You’d better start thinking, right now, ’cause God help you if Flamingo finds out.” She looked down at the puppy as if only now realizing something was amiss. “Emma Abigail, you come along now. We have things to do!”

Like magic, the puppy disengaged from Starsky’s now gnawed, wet bellbottom hem, give one final sharp bark. Having given their ominous warning, Keri and Emma Abigail stormed past him, the scent of chocolate chip cookies lingering in the air behind them. The puppy’s tail waved proudly in the air.

Christ. Flamingo. He was so screwed, it wasn’t even funny. No nookie, no cookies, and, once Flamingo got wind of what he’d done, no Starsky.

With visions of Flamingo’s pack of crazed pooches working on more than his bellbottoms, Starsky hurried up the stairs. He was man enough to admit when he was wrong. He’d apologize, sweet talk Hutch into the bedroom, and give the ladies a show that was sure to get him back into their good graces and restore his cookie privileges.

Once again, his plans shattered around him. As he got to their door, Hutch was leaving through it.

Stunned, Starsky stared down at the overnight bag in his partner’s hand. The cord from their alarm clock was trailing out of it.

“You’re leaving me? Over a stupid phone?” Starsky stammered. No matter how bad things had gotten in the past, Hutch had never left him before.

The Viking stared at him, nothing of his Hutch anywhere in those icy blue eyes. “I’m going to spend the night with one of the neighbor ladies. You can have my egg foo young.”

“Hutch, you’re not safe with the neighbor ladies. You know that.”

“Crowrow said I could sleep on her couch,” Hutch said.

Starsky relaxed a bit. Crowrow was one of just a few women in the building who didn’t want to jump his blond partner’s bones. Still, Hutch didn’t belong there. He belonged with him. “When did you see Crowrow?” They’d only been in the damn building for five minutes.

“I texted her when I was packing my overnight bag.”

“You know you’ll get no rest there. She’ll make you hold the hoops while she trains those crazy chihuahuas to dance.”

Their eccentric neighbor’s latest hobby, canine freestyle, was making the entire building unlivable. At any hour of the day or night, you could find her in the halls with three or four dogs making like a circus act. Lately, he’d seen her knocking on other dog-owning neighbors’ doors trying to get them to join her like those religious groups that went around waking people up on Saturday mornings. He wondered if she’d already corrupted Keri and Abby Emmagail.

“At least she won’t make my phone fart,” Hutch snarled. “Or pester me with ridiculous or gross trivia just to prove she has a superior phone.”

Stung, Starsky retorted, “Hey, who spouted off every crazy law from every blessed state in the Union, huh?” He knew it was a mistake the minute it left his mouth.

“Well, here’s another one, buddy. In Australia, a life sentence is 25 years! Sound familiar?” Hutch started to shove past him bodily.

Starsky grew desperate. “Don’t go, Hutch. Crowrow will suck you into her dog-dancing cult. Mark my words, you’ll be out there with a chihuahua in a pink taffeta tutu before you know it.”

“I’ll send you a live feed, if you can get a signal.” And, with that coldly furious line, the Viking walked out on him.

Completely miserable, Starsky entered their apartment. The place felt cold and lonely, completely devoid of light or life. Starsky had a panicked moment that Hutch might be gone for good. This could be what his life felt like forever. Dark empty rooms, no Hutch picking at his guitar or murmuring sweet nothings to his plants. Panicked that Hutch really had left him forever, Starsky ran over to the greenhouse, half expecting to see nothing but empty shelves with dry soil and broken pots on them. But, no, the room was still filled with lush life. The famed Esmeralda was still sitting there patiently in front of their camcorder. But for how long?

Hutch had never been this angry at him before.

He had to make it up to his partner. Somehow he had to—

The ringing doorbell interrupted his thoughts. Maybe Hutch had changed his mind and come back? Ten minutes of dancing chihuahuas was enough to send any sane person packing. Hutch was back…

Starsky ran to the door and flung it open, dropping to his knees to beg forgiveness. “I’m sorry, Hutch. I was a jerk. Please come back. I’ll do anything you want to make it up to you—”

The shocked delivery man stammered in broken English. “You, ah, order Chinese food?”

Down the hall, he could hear several distinctly feminine giggles.

Oh, god, he was gonna end up on YouTube.

Feeling his face heat with shame, Starsky climbed to his feet, dug a twenty out of his wallet, pushed it into the guy’s hand, grabbed his bag, and slammed the door shut behind him.

Hutch wasn’t even gone fifteen minutes and he was cracking up.

Too miserable to eat, Starsky dragged himself to their empty bedroom, stripped down, and climbed between sheets that were as frigid and unwelcoming as Viking Hell.

***

Some unspecified time later, Starsky bolted up in the bed, his heart pounding in terror as an eardrum-piercing sound blared through the room loud as an air raid siren. It took him five whole seconds to realize that the glass-shattering noise was—barking dogs. Not just any dogs…but dogs Starsky knew all too well. One of them had the shrillest, most horrifying sound known to man. Starsky recognized that unholy symphony as the sounds that emanated from Flamingo’s feisty dog and Crowrow’s border collie whenever some unsuspecting soul knocked on their door. The UPS and FedEx delivery men drew straws to see who had to knock on that door. And, now that sound was here, in his bedroom.

Starsky stared around the place, looking for the troop of canines that had to be about to pounce on his bed—but there weren’t any dogs around, not even a chihuahua in a pink tutu. Fumbling out of the sheets, Starsky traced the sound to his tangled clothes on the floor by the bed. There on top of the clothing mound was his iPhone in all its racing-striped glory. His phone was making those hellish noises.

He was sure he’d put the phone back in his pocket last night. How did it get on top of his clothes like that? And, more importantly, how was it doing all that barking? He’d never programmed those sounds into it.

The noise pierced his skull, turning his brain to soup as he picked up the phone. Someone—someone from Minnesota where it was too cold to sleep naked, never mind illegal—someone named Hutch—had snuck in here during the night and set that godawful howling as his wake up alarm sound.

Did Hutch hate him that much? No…

Hutch was mean. His partner would have thought this was funny—the way Starsky had thought the farting phone was funny. Abruptly, Starsky understood just why Hutch was so mad at him.

It took his shaky hands and brain nearly three minutes to figure out how to turn off the damn repetitive alarm. The snooze function just postponed the inevitable. Once the barking ceased for good, he sank down onto the end of the bed, shaking all over.

This wasn’t the way they were supposed to be. They were partners and lovers. He was supposed to be waking up to sleepy kisses, not howling hell hounds.

Realizing this was all his fault, Starsky tried to tweet his lover. “I’m really, really sorry. I was a complete jerk. Please come home?”

A second later, a ringtone Starsky definitely had not programmed into his iPhone sounded. Heart’s If Looks Could Kill filled the deadly silent bedroom, the cheery words, “If looks could kill, you’d be lying on the floor. You’d be begging me, please, please, baby, don’t hurt me no more,” cut off before Hutch’s text filled the screen, “You humiliated me in front of our boss. An insincere tweet ain’t gonna cut it.”

Starsky recognized that he was well and truly doomed.

***

His day didn’t improve after that, not that he’d expected it to. When he got down to the Torino at their normal leaving time, Hutch’s ancient, decrepit Tercel was already gone.

Sighing, he got into the car and drove to headquarters. Hutch was at his desk, busily finishing up their report when Starsky entered the office. Everyone gave their usual morning greeting, except for Hutch, who never even looked up from his computer screen.

Hurt bleeding over into anger, Starsky gave into the same type of impulse that had gotten them into this mess and commented, “You know, holding a grudge is the sign of an immature personality.”

The Viking didn’t even glance his way. He said to the air, “Y’know, in Rhode Island, any marriage where either of the parties is an idiot or a lunatic is null and void.”

Starsky gasped. “Well… I’ll have you know that left-handed people are better at sports that require good spatial judgment and fast reaction time, compared to right-handed individuals.” He restrained himself from adding, “So there,” but it was hard.

Hutch still wasn’t looking at him. He merely pulled out his metallic blue droid—which exactly matched the color of his eyes and shirt, the nookie-deprived Starsky couldn’t help but notice—and pushed a single button.

Instantly, the traitorous device in Starsky’s pocket that never got so much as half of a fucking bar in this office, blared out another ringtone he hadn’t added at a volume level most disco speakers would have envied. Horrified, Starsky heard Kermit the Frog’s voice singing, “Why are there so many songs about rainbows and what’s on the other side? Rainbows are visions or simply illusions, rainbows have nothing to hide. So we’ve been told and some choose to believe it. I know they’re wrong, wait and see. Someday we’ll find it, the rainbow connection, the lovers, the dreamers, and me.”

Starsky hadn’t even known a ringtone could go on that long. The entire office was howling with laughter.

Unable to believe that his lover had done this to him, he turned on his heel and stormed out the room. Maybe some coffee and a jelly donut would improve his mood.

The entire day continued along those lines. Starsky erased all his ringtones, including his beloved Blueberry Hill. Although he could swear that his phone was never off his person or out of his sight, in a meeting with the DA, Dobey, and the lieutenant from the Drug Squad, who’d been involved in their most recent case, his iPhone went off, regaling them all with Right Said Fred’s I’m Too Sexy.

Starsky had tried to silence the damn thing, but he was so wired he ended up juggling it for two full lines before he got it under control.

An hour later, he’d been online in the cafeteria—alone, because the Viking wasn’t associating with him outside the line of duty—when Mac Davis’ It’s Hard to Be Humble set the entire cafeteria line laughing at him.

Ding Dong the Witch is Dead went off when he was trying to sweet talk a report out of the mean desk sergeant who wouldn’t give them gun permits when they were temporarily off the force.

He was publicly embarrassed by Barry Manilow’s Mandy, the Back Street Boys, the Partridge Family, Bobby Sherman, and a dozen other bubble gum bands he couldn’t even name. The entire crappy day culminated when he was trying to act street tough to get a murderer’s whereabouts from his gang banger buddies when I Feel Pretty made him a complete laughing stock. The only good thing that came from it was because the Viking had to move in at that point, too sexy for his shirt, and gotten the information from the street punks, who were laughing too hard to give the blond cop attitude.

Starsky drove home alone in his Torino and ate cold Chinese food from the fridge, while the fucking iPhone sang Alone Again Naturally.

He’d always known Hutch was mean, but he’d never known his lover could be this relentlessly cruel. Nor would he have believed that the top of the line mobile phone, which was a source of unending amusement to the rest of humanity, could be so easily turned into a torture device by a Luddite who hadn’t even been able to log into LiveJournal a year ago.

Banging on the front door interrupted Starsky’s morose contemplation of his soggy eggrolls. Leaving the phone on the table, for fear of what it would do in front of the neighbor ladies, he went to answer the door.

A very annoyed looking Flamingo stood glaring on his doorstep. For once, her trailing feather boa looked a little wilted. “You need to fix this mess,” she began without preamble.

“Huh?”

“There has been no inspirational footage from the security cameras for the last 24 hours. Do you realize how damaging that can be the week before the con? Suzan has the graphic novel segment to finish! Laura has vids halfway done. Kat’s ready to sell her soul to the devil while she works on her edits. Suz^tm says everything’s gone monochrome for her. Dana’s story isn’t called Murder Ward by accident. Kaye’s starting to refer to her latest Affirmation story as Defamation. And Sue’s starting to call the Big Bang, the Big Burp. Not to mention Crowrow’s training schedule’s gone to hell, which means the building is in chaos and all the dogs are out of step! Do you know how many new fans are coming to this con? A LOT! Do you know we have Susan, Kaye, and Dana coming from Canada, and Tina from Montana, and—”

“Do you think I care about your stupid con?” Starsky groused. “Hutch left me.”

“Not for good. His plants are still here. You can still fix this.”

“He hates me. He’s been torturing me all day with embarrassing ringtones.”

Flamingo knew him too well. Even though he tried his best puppy dog eyes and turned a little to the side to try to distract her with the view of his ass, which never failed to work, she persisted. “You telling me you didn’t earn that?”

“Well, maybe, but….”

“Do you know where your partner is right now?” Flamingo demanded.

“Online downloading new humiliating music?” he guessed. The irony is that it was all coming from iTunes.

“No. This is where he is.” She pulled out her phone, a bright red droid, quickly blanked out the embarrassing screensaver of Hutch and him that Suzan had done for one of her earlier zines. She punched a button and a live feed showed Crowrow and Hutch on a beach. Crowrow’s four dogs—the ancient border collie, the sweet Maltese mix, the princess-of-evil-Jack Russell mix, and the newest yorkie-chi—cavorted around them, weaving in and out of their legs in perfect figure eights, prancing on their hind legs, and jumping through hula hoops on demand.

It took him a second to notice that Crowrow had another dog with her, a little white puff ball that looked like a poodle. Another Gailen Abbyman he supposed. It was dressed in a pink tutu and had matching bows in its hair near its ears. Starsky shuddered for the poor thing.

“Crowrow got another dog?” he asked.

“Not exactly. Hutch drove her to Petsmart for kitty litter after dinner. The store was having an adoption event. April Valentine was there and showed them that little girl.” April was responsible for Crowrow’s fourth dog, and had even talked Flamingo into adopting its sister. The whole place was turning into a kennel ever since April got involved in rescue work.

“So Crowrow’s got a fifth dog,” Starsky reiterated.

“No. Hutch has his first dog. Crowrow’s teaching it to dance. Unless you want to spend the rest of your life driving across country to doggie dancing events, you’d better perform an intervention now.”

“Hutch adopted a teacup poodle?” Starsky asked in horror. Starsky would like to think that Hutch would never do such an absurd thing, but he knew what a soft touch his partner was.

“He misses you. God knows what April will talk him into adopting next if you don’t settle this stupid feud. She’s got a drooling Saint Bernard looking for a home.”

“But he hates me now,” Starsky said pitifully. I’ve been replaced by a poodle. It’s over!

“He’s mad at you,” Flamingo said, reasonably. “But you know he can’t stay mad forever. Get your butt down there and make things right. I don’t have time for this nonsense. I have a vidshow to finish, and another zine to print, and art racks to pick up—and Anne says if you two don’t get your act together fast, she’s gonna knock both your heads together, then tie you to that damned antique brass headboard.”

That sounded like something a Three Stooges fan would do. Starsky took that threat very seriously. Next to Dobey, Anne was the most formidable person he knew.

“Oh…and Anne had one more message for you,” Flamingo said threateningly.

Starsky held his breath.

“She said, and I quote, ‘Whatever you do, don’t let Crowrow bring that poodle home!'”

Her pinkness left him standing there in the doorway with his mouth open.

***

Since the entire fight started with the damn phones, Starsky thought it only fitting that he use it to end the war. It only took him a minute to devise a suitable strategy—with CC’s help. He talked it over with her, and she took her time showing him just how to work the special magic he needed to work right now. Whatever guardian angels looked out for hardheaded cops must have been smiling down at Starsky, because he actually had three bars when he tried to use his iPhone. It took a few minutes, but he had his make up ammo loaded and ready to go by the time he walked out the door.

It took about ten minutes to get to the beach. Hutch and Crowrow were still there with a bunch of yappy dogs running all around, weaving in and out of their legs and bouncing through hula hoops. A crowd of laughing onlookers watching them.

Hutch was wearing white cut offs and a bright blue t-shirt. The setting sun was turning the clouds on the western horizon the same orange and magenta as a Good Humor fruit stick. It was turning Hutch’s hair into liquid gold.

Starsky stood there for a moment, simply watching his partner. Hutch was incredibly beautiful. As he watched, Hutch bent down to pet the little white ball of fluff Starsky had noticed on Flamingo’s phone. It was a ridiculously girly dog, the kind of thing you’d have seen in Beverly Hills Chihuahua. But the gentle expression on Hutch’s face was heartbreakingly loving. It was clear his partner had already bonded with the yapping cotton ball.

Hutch picked the dog up in his arms and the little thing bathed his partner’s face in puppy kisses.

Starsky hadn’t even met the thing yet, but he knew at that moment they were keeping it.

Taking a deep breath, Starsky pulled out his iPhone and emailed Hutch the ringtone he’d found. The song had been popular back when love was new to Hutch and him.

Thirty yards down the beach, Hutch took his phone out of his pocket and stared down at it.

It was only Starsky’s imagination, of course, but he swore he could hear Player’s Baby Come Back from where he stood.

Baby come back, any kind of fool could see
There was something in everything about you
Baby come back, you can blame it all on me
I was wrong, and I just can’t live without you

When that ended, he immediately sent another 70’s fave, Don’t Give Up on Us, Baby.

Don’t give up on us, baby
Don’t make the wrong seem right
The future isn’t just one night
It’s written in the moonlight
Painted on the stars
We can’t change ours

When that ended, he sent Police’s Every Move You Make, followed immediately by Lobo’s Me and You and a Dog Named Boo.

Hutch raised his head and looked around, droid in one hand, puppy in the other. Those magnetic eyes, a blue far deeper than his droid, pinned Starsky from clear across the beach.

Gulping, Starsky slowly crossed the cooling sand to where his partner stood. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Crowrow clear out with her pack with surprisingly little noise.

By the time he reached Hutch, the crowd of onlookers had dispersed and they were alone on almost exactly the same spot they’d thrown their badges into the sea all those years ago.

Not knowing what to say, Starsky began with the most important part. “I was a real jerk. I’m sorry.”

To his relief, the Viking of the past two days and his haughty counterpart, Master Hutch, were both gone. His own loving, gentle Hutch was looking at him out of shadowed eyes. “Me, too. Today was a little overkill,” Hutch admitted.

His pride still stinging a bit, Starsky chuckled and gave a wry, “You think?”

To his relief, they shared a laugh.

When the laughter died, Hutch held out his droid in the palm of his hand and said the words that had catapulted them into one of the craziest times of their lives. “I feel like this thing’s polluting me, partner.”

When those beautiful eyes settled questioningly on him, Starsky took his beloved iPhone out and stared at it. It had come between him and his one true love. He looked at it like the enemy it had become, then turned to Hutch. “Mind if I join you?” He remembered how much it had hurt all those years ago when he’d thrown his badge away. He knew this would be just as bad.

With love in his eyes and without another word, the two of them walked towards the waves, and together, they threw their phones into the crashing waves.

Barely able to believe what he’d just done, he stared at the foamy spray. “Damn thing could never hold a signal anyway,” Starsky said, hoping his voice didn’t sound as choked up as he felt.

Realizing something was dancing around his feet, he looked down and found himself staring into two small black eyes. As Hutch picked up the puppy, Starsky regarded the puffball cradled between Hutch’s left arm and his chest. The puppy gazed curiously up at him, not at all afraid. She already knew she belonged to Hutch, and what better protector could there be? “So, a puppy, huh?”

Starsky didn’t miss the anxious look in his partner’s eyes or the unconscious way his arm tightened around the fuzzball. “I, ah, know I shoulda talked to you before I—”

“She’s cute,” Starsky cut off the stumbling words. He reached out to pat the furry head and ended up with a pink tongue licking his fingers.

This definitely wasn’t what he would have ever pictured as their kind of dog, but looking down at that tiny tongue licking his fingers, he could understand how Hutch had ended up taking the thing home.

“You like her?” Hutch sounded stunned.

“What’s not to like…well, maybe the pink bows,” Starsky admitted.

Hutch laughed as hard as those gangbangers had this afternoon. “God, I thought you’d hate her.”

“I’m just kinda surprised. Always pictured you as a golden retriever kinda guy,” Starsky joked.

“When we stopped at the Petsmart this evening, April was there with her rescue group. Maggie and her sisters were rescued from a puppy mill. Her mother didn’t make it out. If you don’t like her, they said they’d take her back.” Hutch sounded like he’d forced those words out.

“What? And break your heart a second time this week? You want a puppy, we got a puppy.”

When those strong arms closed around him, Starsky felt right for the first time in two days. The little dog squirmed up between their chests to lick both their chins.

Putting her back down on the sand, Hutch threw both arms around Starsky. “I missed you so much!”

“You did?” Starsky said, hugging him back.

“Yeah. And Crowrow’s couch is about a foot too short for me. Not to mention that I had to share it with Fiona.”

They both laughed.

Starsky said, his voice husky in that special way, “I wanta make love to you like Burt Lancaster did to Deborah Kerr in From Here to Eternity—”

“Stop right there!” a familiar voice shouted.

Both of them jumped a foot apart. Maggie the poodle started barking shrilly.

It was Huggy. Dressed in white linen pants and beige t-shirt, Starsky wondered if he were in mourning. “Look you two,” Huggy said warningly, shaking a finger at them. “I am tired of accidentally wandering into yet another of your overwrought sexual trysts! This is a public beach. Not to mention that most of the beach is covered by security cameras anyone can observe.” Huggy pointed to a pole-mounted camera just as Starsky remembered Flamingo showing him footage from it. “So before you got halfway into the down-and-dirty tango, you’d end up in your own jail for lewd and lascivious! Not to mention suddenly having sand in places people were never meant to have sand! Ya dig! Go home! Have dinner! Put your puppy to bed like decent parents. Then bang yourselves silly—someplace where I won’t have to see it! Thank you!”

And having ended that lecture, he sauntered off into the sunset. Maggie gave a parting woof.

“He’s got a point,” Hutch agreed. “Besides, we work best in front of our own security cameras.”

Starsky nodded. “Let’s go home, babe.”

Hutch passed little Maggie over to him to hold, then settled his strong arm across Starsky’s shoulders. Surrounded by love, Starsky let Hutch guide him home.

The End

Chapter End Notes:

Authors’ note: No one writing this story actually owns an iPhone. And only one of us owns a smart phone and is barely able to make calls on it. Though she does enjoy the Star Trek tricorder app. So, please don’t bother telling us how incorrect we are with our use of apps, twittering, or anything else included in this story. It is fiction, completely and thoroughly. We made it all up. Except for the state laws and the iFacts, both of which are actually iPhone apps. CC, who actually does have an iPhone and knows how to use it, sent us that information after we begged pathetically for help. The iFart is a real app no doubt designed by someone with too much time on his hands. Something no one in this house has.