"Paperwork... You know, this job wouldn't be half bad if it weren't for the paperwork..." Detective David Starsky was slowly typing with only one finger from each hand. He looked up and grinned at his partner. "You wanna finish this report for me, Hutch?"
Detective Sergeant Kenneth Hutchinson looked across the desk at his partner's words. "Oh, no. You made the collar, you get the pleasure of writing it up."
"Dobey's not gonna like it."
"He's gonna pitch a fit."
"Aw, come on, Hutch. You know I'm no good at typing."
"Yeah, but what you lack in typing talent, you make up in creativity, Starsk."
With a hangdog expression on his face, Detective Dave Starsky turned back to the typewriter.
Hutch would have given in, if he hadn't seen the sparkle in his partner's deep blue eyes. He grinned and settled back in his chair to watch the show that was sure to begin soon.
"Accost... Is that with two c's?" Starsky muttered as his left forefinger hovered over the "c" key on the typewriter.
Down went the finger, followed by more finger tapping and muttering.
"Hey Hutch, was that stolen purse yellow?"
"No. The lady it belonged to said it was chartreuse."
"Oh." Starsky sat at the typewriter thinking.
Hutch could swear he heard gears grinding and smoke filtering out of his partner's ears. He hid a grin behind his hand.
"Chartreuse... Isn't that another word for yellow-green?"
"Sort of. Though as a matter of fact, even Crayola recognizes the color as a separate color."
"Oh, yeah?" Starsky glanced up at his partner with interest. "How 'bout that!"
Hutch nodded sagely, then pretended to study a file lying open on his desk. He watched Starsky out of the corner of his eyes.
"Got any crayons on ya?"
Hutch burst into laughter, flipping the file closed. "C-h-a-r-t-r-e-u-s-e," he spelled out for Starsky, chuckling as his partner quickly grabbed a piece of paper and wrote the word down.
Typing slowly, Starsky inserted the appropriate letters and sighed. "Thanks, pal."
Hutch got up to get a cup of water from the cooler in the corner of the office. "Want some water?"
"Nah... Fish swim and do other things in it," came Starsky's typical reply. Hutch shrugged and tossed the cup he'd used into the trash can. He looked across the room at Starsky.
"You about done with that?"
"Yep." Starsky pulled the report out of the typewriter, retrieving only the top portion.
Starsky cursed profoundly as he rose to his feet and stared down at the machine in pure disgust, holding the half-report crumpled in his fist.
"Did you see that?!" he growled. "It ate my report!"
"Don't you 'technically' me," Starsky snapped as he rolled the platen in an attempt to retrieve the rest of his report.
Hutch walked over to stand beside his partner, his face carefully schooled to a blank expression. "Need some help, buddy?"
"Yeah. Get it outta there, would you?" Starsky set the first half of the crumpled report on his desk and began smoothing the wrinkles out carefully.
Leaning over the typewriter, Hutch flipped the release switch and slipped the crumpled paper out and handed the tattered half-report to Starsky.
"How'd you do that?"
"See this?" Hutch indicated the switch beside the platen. "If you pull it forward, it releases the pressure holding the paper against the platen."
"How 'bout that!" Starsky was impressed and even went so far as to insert another piece of paper into the typewriter to check out his partner's theory.
"Uh, you aren't going to retype that report right now, are you?" Hutch didn't relish the idea of waiting another hour for Starsky to finish pecking out the new report. Their shift had ended thirty minutes ago and he was waiting on Starsky to finish so they could leave.
"Huh? Oh, no." Starsky turned back to the ruined report lying in two crumpled and ripped pieces on his desk. Grabbing the tape dispenser he ripped of a foot-long piece.
"I'll... uh, meet you at the car," Hutch said in a hurry. Grabbing his jacket off the back of his desk chair, he hurried from the room before Starsky could ask for his help again. He was halfway down the hall when he heard the expected explosion.
Knowing better, Hutch looked back toward the squad room doors. Starsky burst out of the room, the door rebounding against the wall and narrowly missing his shoulder as he shrugged into his blue windbreaker. His partner was moving out as if the hounds of hell were hot on his heels. He ran up to his waiting partner and grabbed his arm as he raced by him.
"Dobey's not too happy."
"No? You think?"
Throwing a quick look over his shoulder Starsky caught a glimpse of the captain as he charged out into the hallway, the barely repaired report dangling from his fingertips. Dobey's eyes swept the hallway before coming to rest on the pair hurrying away.
"STARSKY! Get your butt back in here and retype this report!" Dobey's started down the hallway toward them, and Starsky kicked into a trot, dragging Hutch along in his wake.
"No. He's not happy at all!"