What? A short one from me! Well, this was a story I wrote for a writing course I took. I was limited to 1500 words and well, that's kinda where I left it. Just adding a handful of words to postit here. I discovered I very much liked the whole thing of forcing myself to be disciplined to produce a story based on a set criteria. And after some serious writing chatting with Wuemsel, I kept the exercise going--producing a handful of stories. Meeting deadlines and challenge topics. Gonna post a few of them. These fics may are not my usual fare but I completed them!
For those people are wondering why I'm not writing "Circle of Grief", I have also finished the next chapter for it and it's just waiting to be corrected and betaed. I'm hoping these writing drills will help me to be a more focused and prolific writer
So, much thanks to my friend Wuemsel for being a wonderful & hard taskmaster
And much gratitude to my pal Robbin Lafoon, for her editing this piece for me. Your time and help is always appreciated, chickie! And right-- it's desiccated not dessicated!
Desiccated Liver and Showdown at High Noon
"I'm tired, Hutch. We've just finished working a sixteen hour shift. It's hot –gonna hit 103 out here today and, this is our third stop to find that dess--a … liver powder junk..."
"It's desiccated, Starsk. And who was it that had me out looking for some taco stand last Friday at three a.m.?"
"That makes sense-- it's food. This is dried liver powder."
"It's as important to me as those mystery meat filled concoctions you insist on chasing down whenever anyone mentions a taco stand you didn't know about."
"Look, I'm telling you--this is my last attempt of chasing after some dessa..."
"Desiccated..."
Annoyed at being corrected again, Starsky said, "...desiccated liver from some mystical Argentinian cow!"
"It's not a mystical cow..."
Starsky eye-balled Hutch. "Mystical, organic, philosophical, flying-- laughing, whatever. My last stop, got it, partner?" He reiterated his position.
"Got it," Hutch muttered.
They drove in silence until Hutch pointed to a tiny shop with the sign – GREEN EARTH – Organic Foods. "Hah, there it is, U-turn and park across the street. I'll be right out."
Starsky looked at his watch. "It's 11:45. That means you got 15 minutes to gather up your dissipated liver..."
"Dessicated."
"Whatever! Like I said 15 minutes. Get your liver junk, your blackstrap molasses, your Japanese seaweed and your curds and whey and get your butt back by 12 noon or you'll be taking the long way home, pal." He pointed to Hutch's feet.
Hutch frowned, jumped out, slamming the passenger door shut.
-o-
Distracted by the afternoon fighting with his partner, Hutch stomped through the store's front door. A ringing bell announced his arrival.
Shock met him, as he was accosted from behind. Caught off guard by the tight pressure of a forearm across his neck, his hands immediately went up to pull at the choke hold.
"Don't," the unseen attacker, tall as him, hissed into his ear. "I've got a knife. Don't make me kill you."
The arm loosened marginally, allowing Hutch to suck in much needed air. Sweat dripped into his eyes, he blinked it away to find the terrified store owner staring at him from behind the counter. The cash register was open. "He needs money for drugs," the owner announced shakily.
"Shut-up." Irritated, the robber curled his arm more tightly against Hutch's windpipe.
Hutch tried to calm him. "Whad-ya need, buddy?"
"Gimmie your wallet."
Unsure if the appearance of his police badge would help or hurt him, Hutch lied. "In my c-car."
"Dammit." The loud curse from behind startled him. Hutch could tell the addict was desperate for a fix. He made a quick study of what he could see of the man holding onto him who smelled like the inside of a city garbage can. The jean-jacketed arm was grungy, the smell coming off wafted to his nostrils, making him nauseous.
"Pal, you don't want to do this," he said smoothly, swallowing down the bile creeping up into the back of throat.
"Your money!"
Pressure on his neck intensified, the glinty shine of a two inch wide blade was thrust in front of his face.
"Now!"
"Outside," Hutch croaked out. His only hope and help was the pissed off partner waiting for him in a car across the street. That's if it wasn't already noon and Starsky hadn't been annoyed enough to drive off and leave him stranded. Then …?
"Where?" the addict shrieked.
"Just outside the door," Hutch answered evenly, lifting his hands in complete compliance.
-o-
Starsky peered at his watch. "Five more minutes and you're on your own, partner. It's hot and I need a shower." He tugged at the shirt sticking to him, sniffing it. "Guess you think I won't leave you out here, huh?" Never missing the chance to reference an old movie, he tipped down an invisible cowboy hat, smirked to himself, speaking in his best gunfighter drawl, "Looks like we've got a showdown, pa-artner. At high noon."
His amusement was cut short.
There was Hutch, and a man holding a knife to him, slowly making their way down the store's front steps.
His and Hutch's eyes met.
Trouble partner. Their silent communication.
Starsky sat up. Serious. Focused. He slid a hand under his jacket, and pulled out his Smith and Wesson. The familiar feel of the gun tempered some of the fear in his gut. The playback of their ridiculous disagreement tugged at him, filling him with remorse.
What if those were the last words between them? Starsky definitely had to make sure they weren't. Guilt inflamed. Why hadn't he been more patient? Shown more interest in his blond-haired partner's health conscious eating habits and gone inside so Hutch could have given him a tutorial on purifying the toxins from his body? It wouldn't have killed him and just maybe he could have helped take down this lowlife before he made move on Hutch.
All the tiredness disappeared, and his pure protective instincts kicked in. Adrenalin pulsed through him. Starsky, moving like a panther, eased out of the car, sticking the gun into the waistband of his jeans.
He listened intently to the frantic voice of the man dragging Hutch down the dusty road. A few people nearby stumbled out of the way of the odd sight.
"Hey." Starsky called out to the criminal in a firm voice. Noting the condition of the man suggested he was probably an unpredictable druggie, Starsky was letting him know upfront who was in charge.
Wobbling to face him, the man, unbalanced himself and Hutch. That was when Starsky saw the good-sized knife with its tip pointing at Hutch's side.
"That's my friend you got there." The apology to Hutch for his earlier moodiness.
A slight turn up of Hutch's upper lip acknowledged the olive branch, until the sharp edge of the knife poked into his flesh. Hutch grimaced.
Incensed, Starsky stepped toward them, yelling at the addict, "You're hurtin' him!"
"One of you better start showing me some green or..."
"Or what?" Starsky roughly defied him, hoping to gain the man's full attention, possibly giving his partner a chance to slip free and escape.
A shaky hand waved the knife that had just pierced Hutch's flesh.
Starsky watched the red dot of blood coloring Hutch's shirt, his eyes darkened menacingly as he took another step forward.
"I'll kill him!"
"You hurt him again-- and you're a dead man," Starsky stated plainly.
"Screw you," the druggie spat back.
Starsky pulled out the pistol, levelling it at the entangled bodies of his partner and the man threatening to kill him. "Let... him...go," he ordered.
"I swear to God I'll gut him," the addict shrieked.
"Kill a cop? I don't think so. He's a cop...and so am I."
"Cops?" Was the shocked reply.
Starsky flashed his badge.
"Mother," the man mumbled, angry with the predicament he'd gotten himself into. "All the dumb stupid luck..."
Hutch, taking advantage of the distracted criminal, tried to twist out of the man's hold.
Desperate to hold onto his only chance of getting a fix, the addict tussled to keep his captive. Panicking, he drew back the knife.
The noon day sun's bright glare flickered off the blade and Starsky watched where the action was headed. "No!" he yelled.
Hutch's bark of pain signaled the bad news, his long legs buckled, and the dead weight of his body pulled him and his attacker to the ground.
Starsky leaped, landing an elbow to the chin of the man who had just stabbed his partner in the back. Delivered another punishing blow, rendering him unconscious.
"Hutch, buddy. Hear me?" He pled.
In shock, Hutch weakly answered, "He, stuck me... Starsk."
"Hold on partner. I'm coming." Starsky, keeping his eyes on his injured friend, roughly handcuffed the addict. "Somebody call an ambulance!"
-o-
"The blade nicked his liver, but looks like we got it all under control."
The irony wasn't lost on Starsky, but he humorlessly nodded at the surgeon, asking. "Can I see him?"
'He'll be out for hours."
"I don't care. I wanna be there when he wakes up."
-o-
Hutch's eyes fluttered.
"Hey," Starsky said softly.
Hutch, high on anaesthesia, moved his mouth to give a wordless answer.
Starsky smiled warmly, "Don't worry about anything. Kay? You're gonna be alright." He deliberately paused, "Got you sumpthin'."
His partner's light blue eyes studied him, and Starsky retrieved a bag from his jacket. Pulling out a large green bottle, he held it up. The label on it : Desiccated Argentine Beef Liver.
"Store owner told me this was the best kind they had in the joint."
Hutch, barely able to keep his eyes open, turned a slight smile in his direction.
"I'll just hold onto it for ya," Starsky promised.
"Thanks, partner," Hutch whispered.
"Anytime, buddy." Starsky's eyes glistened over. "I wouldn't've left ya."
"I know," Hutch said, before falling back to sleep.
(end)