The Chief's office was rather plush. No shag carpet or anything, but everything was obviously rather expensive. Facing the door was a large wooden desk, behind which sat a large man, face red as the two men sitting in front of the desk propped their feet up on the desk. Their rather large and conspicuous guns hung proudly from shoulder holsters, vests with sleeves tossed aside. Their rather flippant attitude towards authority sort of blended over towards their respect for the Chief. Or lack thereof.
"I swear ta God," the Chief fumed, hands planted palms-down as he leveraged himself upward to loom menacingly, "if you too dun shape up, it's the boot!"
"Relax, old-timer," replied the blond man with shaggy hair. "We get the job done, eh?" Suave voice, suave style. David Starsky.
"Yeah, lay back man," replied the other man with the small, black afro. "What do you want from us?" Smooth as hell. Ken Hutchinson.
"WHAT I WANT," he roared, "IS FOR YOU TWO TO SHAPE UP! NOW GIT OUTTA MA OFFICE!"
As they walked out together, Starsky said to Hutch with only the slightest attempt to lower his voice, "He needs to lighten up."
So what if they had blown up five transports in the cross-fire? They got the bad guy!