Uh-oh, Hutch. Now you've done it...
March 17, 1999
"Now you've pissed her off!"
"Pissed off who?"
"Glo-ira, Band Leader Extraordinaire! She-of-the-transposed-letters! That noise polluter crack really got up her nose."
"So, she plans to start band practice a little early tomorrow. Say, five - freakin' - AM!"
"She wouldn't! That would be mean, vile, vindictive..."
"Hutch, listen to yourself. This is Glo we're talking about here."
"You're right, she would. Come on, let's get the hell out of here."
Hutch ran to pack a bag while Starsky went to the door to check if the coast was clear. From the bedroom, Hutch heard the front door open and immediately slam shut. He looked around the divider to see his partner, spread eagle, back against the door. "What now?"
"Can't go that way."
"You don't want to know."
"Starsky, for the love of....What is it?"
"Would you believe a six foot butterfly?"
"You're right, I don't want to know. How about the back way?"
"Uh-uh, no good. We had the back steps removed and the door sealed shut, remember?"
"Oh, I don't know, Hutch. Maybe it was to keep deranged Martha Stewart clones from breaking in here and rearranging your furniture every ten minutes! I know, how about the window?"
"Starsky, it's a twenty foot drop onto concrete."
"Come on, Hutch, we used to do it all the time."
"Yeah, but we were a lot younger then. I'm not made out of rubber anymore. And lying in a hospital bed with two broken ankles and a concussion is not my idea of a relaxing weekend."
"Okay, so what do we do?"
Hutch sighed and walked to the closet, reached in and pulled out his six string.
"You know what they say, Starsk. If you can't beat 'em..."
"But my guitar is being restringed. What will I do?"
"There's always interpretative dance. Come on, Starsk. There's a butterfly out there who would just love to meet 'Ramon'."
(Please, stop me before I snippet again!)