"No Hope For Butch" was an impromptu performance of the world-famous repertory theatre group known as "Bad SH Theatre" which has been holding performances at SHareCons since bad SH stories have been written. In other words, a very long time. The performance was held at SHareCon 2000 before an appreciative audience, which was positively struck dumb by its wit and charm. And weirdness. The "script" was written in a feverish burst of creativity right at the con. Which shows. During the performance the "story" was read by the Narrator (which was good since no one had any time for rehearsals), and acted out by SHareCon members who had no lines, no props, and no shame. They did, however, have wigs, which didn't fit, and appropriate looking leather jackets made of plastic. And, of course, raw talent and more brass than a statue in the park. Comments on this story can be sent to Flamingo who will forward them to the authors.


< b> NARRATOR:                                   APRIL VALENTINE


< b> STARSKY:                                        LINDA R.

< b> HUTCH:                                            SUZ


                                                           PLACED UNDER ROSEMARY'S SHIRT

And so, without further ado, we bring you "Bad SH Theatre." Adieu.

He had been waiting for months for this opportunity of a lifetime.

It was their fault. ALL their fault. He knew that if they hadn't busted him that night, his life would have been so very, very, very different. His marriage to the wealthy orange juice heiress, Anita Valencia, would have gone off without a hitch and he would have been richer than Rockefeller, with a wallet bigger than Onassis's—wealthy enough to make Scrooge McDuck look like a plucked chicken.

But noooooo. One last lousy little armed robbery. One stupid 7-11 clerk who was too slow to dodge a warning bullet. And 600 pounds of cocaine transported across state lines in a stolen garbage truck. And a left turn that left him going in the wrong direction down the interstate. It could have happened to anyone.

And they had to make a federal case out of it.

And Anita, the ignorant slut, had thrown him away like a used orange peel. And six months in County lock-up before Bo and Lola had paid off the judge had turned him from Beauregard Brandon Beufort the Third to "Butch Bottom Boy."

And so here he was, in the alley behind the Green Parrot, waiting for the bane of his existence, the ruination of his plans, the dead fly floating face-down in the soup of life to come out and meet their fate.

Butch readjusted his grip on the sawed-off shotgun. He'd been waiting for Starsky and Hutch for hours.

Finally, the stage door opened. Bright light lit two figures from their behind. Butch squinted and aimed. He watched as the two leanly-muscled men, on tall, lean and blond, the other shorter, darker and leaner, came through the door.

Clearly, the two evil detectives were drunk. Neither of the two of them could walk the proverbial straight line. The two men clung to each other for support, grabbing arms, griping shoulders, hands roaming over the other's body for support, heads leaning together, tripping over two pairs of shows, throwing up their hands in dismay.

Butch aimed. He held his breath, squinted his eye, and waiting. The two deserving detectives climbed clumsily down the back stairs. Upon reaching the bottom, the both erupted in spasms of giggles.

Butch released his breath. He took another breath, then another, then held the third. He fired off five shots in quick succession.

One of them was down! Hooray! But the other wasn't as drunk as he looked. He grabbed his big, huge weapon, aimed and fired. Six shots rang out in the night. He paused, fumbled in his jeans pocket and reloaded. Another six shots rang out.

Butch dropped his sawed-off in surprise. Shock cushioned the initial pain, but warm liquid began to flow from the holes in his body. Butch fell to his knees and looked up at the formidable figure standing before him.

Butch smiled weakly. "Got your partner, punk."

The blond, blue-eyed Midwesterner with the face of an angel didn't smile back. Instead, he put his finger on Butch's forehead, and pushed. Butch fell back, shrieking in pain.

The other man turned and ran back to his grounded buddy. "Starsky! Starsky!" he cried. He knelt besides his wounded partner. He cradled his head in his hands.

"Are you hurt, buddy-pal?" Hutch brushed the damp curls from Starsky's forehead. Tears filled his sad sky blue eyes.

"Can't tell," Starsky moaned. "Everything feels numb."

"I'll look," Hutch offered. He began to explore his partner's possible-wounded body. Starsky's hard, muscular, lightly-furred chest and wiry muscled arms seemed undamaged. His firm flat stomach likewise. He ran large, gracefully-shaped hands down Starsky's leanly-muscled thighs.

Butch knew he was in trouble if only one of them was dead. He knew he had to kill them both, or he would be dead himself. Butch felt along the dirty wet pavement for his rifle.

Apparently, Hutchinson had had the same thought, and got up to walk over and kick the rifle out of the way.

"Bitch," hissed Hutch.

Hutch went back to his other.

"Hutch?" Starsky gasped.

"Right here, buddy of mine." Hutch knelt down besides him. "I think you've been shot."

"Where?" Starsky looked up at Hutch, with large, wide eyes.

"Here in the alley. We were ambushed."

"Yeah?" Starsky asked innocently. "Am I hurt bad?"

Hutch couldn't lie to those deep blue, cerulean, sapphire eyes. But he did anyway. "It's just a flesh wound." He put his hand on Starsky's thigh. His left thigh.

Starsky moaned.

"Let me put pressure on that for you." Hutch pressed firmly on Starsky's left thigh, over and over.

Starsky moaned. "I feel funny," Starsky admitted. "My stomach is in knots from all the excitement."

Hutch slid his hand higher and pressed some more, desperately offering comfort to his desperately wounded partner.

Starsky groaned, shifting restlessly. "Is that where I was hit?"

Hutch nodded. It wasn't, but he knew the pressure from his ministrations would take Starsky's mind off the real injury. Wherever that was.

Butch rolled painfully over. He looked at the two detectives. Blood poured from his mouth and ears. He rolled back. A hand reached out and felt for the kicked shotgun.

Bingo! He felt the cold metal against his fingertips.

But once again, Hutch suddenly appeared and kicked it even further away.

"Turkey," Hutch spat.

"Huuuutch," Starsky cried out.

Hutch was instantly there.

"I'm here, baby blue," Hutch comforted.

"When's the ambulance going to get here?" Starsky sighed.

"Soon, babe, soon." But Hutch knew soon would never be soon enough if it didn't get there in the next five minutes. He held him harder, unable to let go of the thing that had filled his life for almost all his life.

Suddenly, Detective Sally Jo Jensen drove up into the alley, her headlights big and filling the alley.

"Thank goodness," Hutch prayed silently.

Sally Jo unholstered her weapon and snuck up on Butch.

"This is the perp?" Sally's eyes narrowed suspiciously.

Butch looked up at her with menace.

Sally Jo kicked him with her platforms.

It was too much for Butch. He reached out and grabbed Hutch's ankle, hanging on like a Florida tourist would clutch a palm tree in a hurricane.

Sally unloaded her gun into Butch.

"Thanks, Sally Jo." Hutch relieved himself.

"My pleasure." Sally Jo stepped over Butch's writhing body and moved to Hutch.

"Let's get this guy to the hospital and get you home," Sally Jo breathed. She heaved, with Hutch's help, Starsky got to a standing position and lugged him into her hatchback. They got in the car and Sally Jo backed out.

Suddenly, in the light from the dimly-lit streetlight, Hutch noticed that Starsky wasn't really wounded. "Hey," he said, surprised. "You aren't really wounded."

Starsky grinned at him like a turtle at Christmas. "I know," he chuckled gaily. "But the comfort was so good I didn't wanna interrupt you."

Butch watched them speed to safety.