The answers to what strange things happen in one writer's modest apartment and why it really takes me so long to write my little fan poems. This snippet was written as a last-minute entry for the 2007 Cabrillo Con 'zine.

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters from "Starsky and Hutch." I do occasionally borrow them, but never with fraudulent intent or with an eye to monetary gain.

The Reason Behind the Rhyme

By e-pony?

At two o'clock on a Wednesday morning, the residents of a small Midwestern town are all fast asleep, drifting far from the workaday world into dreams of the upcoming weekend. But in a two-bedroom apartment just off the main street, a solitary light still gleams through the living room window.

If you listen carefully, you can hear the slow, uneven click of a keyboard punctuating the drowsy silence – tap, tap, tap – followed by the low murmur of a solemn recitation….

"When I'm weary of the beat,

And my eyes have seen too much,

He makes me laugh with just one word

Or calms me with a touch.

My best friend in the world –

That's Hutch."

"When my back's against the wall

And there's danger on the street,

When I think I've lost it all

And I'm about to claim defeat,

The answer to my call –

That's… Starsky?"

Silence.

"STARSK!"

"What?"

"This isn't working."

"What do you mean, it ain't working?"

"Well, for one thing, buddy, 'Starsky' doesn't exactly rhyme with 'defeat.'"

"I know that, dummy." A pensive frown. "Uh, try this: 'The answer to my call… comes on blue-Adidased feet.'"

"Hey, thanks. That works."

"Nope."

"Sure it does. See –"

"Nah, I mean the whole thing don't work. Look here. Your first and third lines rhyme and so do your second and fourth ones –"

"But only your second and fourth lines do. You're right, partner; it's all wrong."

"So, what're we gonna do, Hutch?"

"I don't know. But I think you'd better have another word with the writer."

"Hey! Heeeey!! That's a good idea." A pause. "Pony? Hey, e-pony!"

"Uh, Starsky? Starsk!"

"Yeah?"

"I meant in the morning. I think she went to bed an hour ago. Said something about having a double-strength headache. Whatever that means. "

"Really?"

"Yup."

"Oh, that's terrific. What now, bright boy?"

"Call Dobey?"

"And say what? Cap'n, please send backup right way, 'cause we're having a poetry-deadline emergency?"

"Okay, okay. Not an attractive option, unless we wanna be permanently transferred to Traffic." Fingertips drum lightly on the edge of the keyboard. "Got it! Huggy! He's good at rhyming."

"Nah, he's just good with street jive. This is poetry we're writin', pal – fine art."

"I don't know about that, Gordo…."

"Well, all right, maybe not. But it's for a con 'zine – the big time!"

"I know that, mush brain. But we're never gonna finish this on time without help. Maybe we should just drink up our beers and call it a night. There's always Cabrillo Con 2009."

"But, Huuuutch, that's two years away!" Pleading blue eyes meet a resigned stare. "'Sides, I got this really terrific ending."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

A sigh of surrender. "Let's hear it, then."

"When justice sometimes bites the dust

And criminals walk free,

When we fail to make a bust

And good folks pay the fee,

I still know where to place my trust:

Like always, me and thee!"

A long silence, followed by a warm smile. "That's perfect, Starsk, just perfect."

"Really?"

"Hey, buddy. Would your partner lie to you?"

"Nah. 'Course not."

"Good. Then, should we take it once more from the top?"

An enthusiastic nod. "Well, here we go again: 'When I'm weary of the beat….'"

The end?