Title: Assume Makes an Ass of You and Me

Authors: Rebelcat and Elizabeth Helena

Series: Starsky & Hutch

Rating: PG 

Gen or Slash: Gen, and trust us, you'll be thankful we didn't go the Slash route.
Category:  Humor, Canon versus Fanon, Satire

Spoilers:  Everything, including all fanfic ever written for this show.  (Well, maybe not Sweet Revenge.)

Disclaimer:  In no way does this story violate canon.  Everything is technically plausible, if improbable and possibly anachronistic.  On the other hand, fanon is violated in ways that may be illegal in several states and a couple of territories.

Summary: Everything you think you know is wrong.

Beta: None, because we were too considerate (or Canadian) to inflict this on any of our friends.

Feedback/Critique: Critique may be pointless, but feel free to lob those rotten tomatoes.  We've heard they're good for our complexion.  And it's free Vitamin C!


Assume Makes an Ass of You and Me

“The dumbest people I know are those who know it all.” ~Malcolm Forbes

Hutch had always taken certain things about Starsky for granted.  Until that dark and stormy night when Starsky revealed that he was not, in fact, Jewish.


“But you own a menorah,” said Hutch, unable to believe his ears.


“Hey, I just figured that if one candle was sexy, eight would make me a certifiable lady-killer.”  Starsky hooked his elbows over the back of the couch and preened.


“And the Stars of David in your car at Christmas?”  Hutch wasn’t used to being wrong, despite having been woefully mistaken about a great many things in his life.  He’d gone to college on an athletic scholarship, and his grades were a secret he’d vowed never to share with anyone.


“I bought the ‘Holiday Decoration Kit’ from K-mart,” explained Starsky.  “It had all sorts of stuff. That’s also where I got that fat guy statue that I keep under my bed.”


“You mean the Buddha.”  On the other hand, Hutch very much enjoyed correcting Starsky.  It made him feel smart.


“Yeah, and you never assumed I was a Buddhalogist, now did ya?”


“Buddisht,” said Hutch, confidently.  Ah, this was the life.


“Tell me what else you know about me,” said Starsky, looking interested.


Hutch’s internal alarms immediately went off.  This was dangerous.  If he didn’t tread carefully he might end up wrong again.  He decided to go with the obvious, something that absolutely had to be true about Starsky.  “You were in the army,” he said.




“Look, I know lots of people are insensitive to Vietnam vets, but you don’t have to hide it from me.” Hutch was proud of his sensitivity.  His Mormon ex-wives Nancy, Vanessa, and Cinnamon had often praised him as the most sensitive man in the world, and he was fairly sure only Nancy was being sarcastic when she said it.


“Got drafted, but my flat feet disqualified me.”  Starsky frowned at his toes.


“You do not have flat feet!”


“Why do you think I wear sneakers all the time?”  Starsky waggled his feet at Hutch.


“Because you’re a slob?” Then again, Hutch thought, if Vanessa had really meant what she’d said about his sensitivity, why had she brained him with a cast-iron frying pan immediately after the declaration?


“Nothing can beat blue Adidas for their superior arch support and comfort.”  Starsky admired his feet for a moment longer, before adding, “Having flat feet ain’t so bad. It gives me a real sexy sashay when I strut my stuff.”


“But you couldn’t have got into the police academy with flat feet.” Hutch argued. After all, they’d barely let him in with his type two diabetes, a legacy of his years as a three-hundred pound Mormon polygamist.  And now that he thought about it, Cinnamon might not have meant the nice things she’d said either, considering that she’d helped Van and Nancy heave his unconscious body out into the rain after they’d all three decided to end their marriage to him.


“Uh uh.”  Starsky shook his head.  Bay City’s municipal counselors forced the Police Chief to change the rules after 1967. Said that judging people on things they couldn’t change wasn’t part of the Age of Aquarius and was seriously harshing their mellow.”


Hutch frowned. That would explain how he’d got through the Police Academy despite his occasional uncontrollable rages and hallucinations about being a Sea Scout in Duluth. However, Hutch was confident that his fasting regimes would get his blood sugar under control any day now.


Still, he wasn’t convinced Starsky was telling the truth about not being in the army. “But if you weren’t in the army, how’d you learn to handle grenades and automatic rifles?”


Starsky suddenly looked embarrassed. “My dad,” he admitted, quietly.


“Of course,” said Hutch.  “Because your dad was a cop.” 


Starsky didn’t answer.  The expression on his face was reminiscent of someone suffering severe indigestion, but Hutch attributed it to grief.  “His name was Michael Starsky and he was shot dead, right?  I know all about your dad.”


Hutch had always regretted never knowing his own dad.  Hutchinson” had been his mom’s best guess, but she’d never been certain about his paternity.


“You got the dead part right,” said Starsky, sounding strangled.


Finally Hutch had been right about something!  That should have made him feel better, except...  “Only the dead part?” he asked warily.


“My dad, Bill Starsky, was a button man, working for Joe Durniak.”


“Button man?”


“Muscle,” clarified Starsky.  “Leg breaker.  Toughest joe you ever met.”


“But he was shot, right?”  Hutch was having trouble imagining Starsky’s dad as thug.


Starsky was staring reminiscently up at the ceiling.  “Nope.  He tried a change of career, instead.”


Hutch’s world settled into something a little more recognizable.  “He tried to go straight!”


Starsky frowned at him.  “Whatever gave you that idea?  No, he decided to become a drug mule.  Tried to stuff sixteen condoms full of cocaine up his rear.”


Hutch was speechless.


“Sure wasn’t pretty when they broke all over our kitchen floor.”  Starsky shook his head.  “His last words to me before he died were, ‘Robot!  Blue!’”


“Robot, blue?”


“I never would have figured it out,” said Starsky.  “Luckily my mom’s a psychic.  Real famous, too.  Every hear of the Amazing Natasha?  She was part of Barnum and Bailey’s circus for awhile.”


Hutch shook his head.


“Well,” said Starsky.  “She said robots were, uh... symbolic of the system, right?  The Man.  And blue is the color of a police uniform.  So, she said I had better become a cop or he’d haunt my ass.”


“Your mom sounds like a terrific lady,” said Hutch, trying for something safe.


Starsky looked shocked.  “If she was a terrific lady, do you think I’d be living on the other side of the continent?”


“But you call her every week!”


“That’s just so she doesn’t get it into her head to come down for a visit.”  Starsky shuddered.  “Trust me, we don’t want that!”


It was too much.  Hutch couldn’t cope with being wrong about anything else.  One more word out of his mouth, and Starsky would be telling him his fro was actually a perm.  “Okay,” he said.  “It’s your turn.”




“Tell me everything you know about me,” said Hutch.


For the first time that evening, Starsky looked worried.  “Um.  You’ve got a bad back?”


“Bad back?”  Hutch was surprised.  Despite all his many medical woes since his college wrestling days, his back had never given him trouble.  Sure landing ass-first on car roofs every week occasionally left him a bit sore, but that was perfectly understandable.  “Why would I have a bad back?”


“I just thought you did,” said Starsky.  “The same way I’ve always assumed you’re a WASP, White Anglo-Saxon Protestant.”


Leaning back on the couch, Hutch grinned.   This was going to be fun.


“My mom,” said Hutch.  “Is Jewish.”