Disclaimer: Starsky & Hutch do not belong to me. I'm only have a little bit of fun with the guys.
Future Fantasy
By: Vanessa Sgroi
"Ah, cripes, another one!" David Starsky grumbled as he glared at the typo on the 611 Form he was filling out, "This is getting ridiculous. Why do we have to type these forms anyway?" Grabbing a typewriting eraser pencil, he rubbed vigorously at the offending error, nearly putting a hole in the paper. He forcefully blew away the eraser crumbs. When he was done, he paused to bite into the apple fritter that comprised his mid-morning snack.
"Ya know, Hutch," he grumbled around a mouthful of the sugary confection, "I just read somewhere that someday—someday—everybody will have a personal computer on their desks at work. And not just at work! The article said there would come a day when every home would have a computer in it!" Finished chewing, Starsky licked some glaze off his fingers.
Detective Ken Hutchinson looked up from the file he was perusing and shot his partner a skeptical look.
"Do you believe everything you read, partner? I mean, Starsk, do you really think that's going to happen? A computer that sits on a desk? C'mon, you've been down to the computer room, right? You've seen that thing. It's huge! It takes up the entire room. You tell me, how're they ever going to make that behemoth small enough to sit on a desk?" Shaking his head, Hutch chuckled and added, "And then there're the card punch machines. Have to have those to program the computer, right? And they aren't small!"
"But just think of it, Hutch. It could mean information at the push of a button. Everything would go so much faster," the dark-haired detective sighed, "And best of all . . . no more typing triplicate forms!"
Hutch shook his head, "Okay, I'll admit that part would be nice. But I just don't see it happening." The phone in front of Hutch rang and he picked up the handset. A minute later, he hung up flipped the file closed.
Glancing at his partner who was once again pecking away at the typewriter, he said, "Come on. That was Rooster Raines. He wants to see us down at The Cage."
Acknowledging Hutch's words with a nod, Starsky's fingers hit three keys at once, causing yet another typo. Throwing his hands up in disgust, he ripped the form out of the typewriter and tore it in half. He stood and grabbed his jacket off the back of the chair along with the rest of his snack before following his partner toward the door.
"They should at least invent a better way to get rid of typos," Starsky declared. "I should invent something. Something like, I dunno, white paint." Snapping his fingers, he continued, "I know! I could call it 'Paint Out'. Oh—or better yet—'TypoWhiter'. Get it? TypoWhiter . . ."
Hutch, sensing a full blown scheme in the works, resisted the urge to cover his ears, but made sure to walk even faster.
FIN