Betty-Jo should have known better, but she couldn't resist one last dig. "Listen! I'm sure you've been told that you're not fit to sleep with pigs. But I'd stand up for you. 'Oh yes you are!'"
Foul Odor was still between her and the door, so she retreated to the balcony. She could feel her heart pounding as he closed on her. There was no escape, but she tried anyway. She climbed over the balcony railing, and started to shinny down the outside. Perhaps I can swing to the balcony below. It was a good idea—for Tarzan maybe, but it didn't work for her. She could hear the porker wheezing above her, and looked up; he was looming over her, his piggy eyes leering. Then he knelt down and tried to pry her fingers from the bars.
I don't believe it! This pig's trying to kill me!
When finger prying didn't work, he stood up and gave her fingers a vicious kick. She screamed, and let go of the bar with one hand.
Fear engulfed her. She looked down at the concrete, eight stories below, and fought to hold on with her other hand, but the pain in her fingers was excruciating—her grip was failing.
At least my panties are presentable, she thought—and then, I'm insane! Why am I worrying about my undies at a time like this?
Foul Odor drew back his foot for a final, lethal kick.
-6-
BETTY-JO CHANCE
The Mystery Hero
Fight it Tiger, Betty-Jo could hear her daddy [Victor] saying. No second chances this time. I have to be tough like my tiger Ben-Gal or I'm going to be dead like Hoffa, and if I'm dead like Hoffa, who'll take care of daddy and brother Eddie?
She screamed. Then she screamed again, and again, and again.
"Shud-up, yah bitch!" Foul Odor backed away from the balcony railing and the unwanted attention Betty-Jo was attracting.
* * *
When the hotel guests heard screams, they looked up and saw a garter-belted and nearly naked Betty-Jo clinging to a balcony railing with one hand. One longhaired guy, with the sun directly behind Betty-Jo, thought he saw an angel. He told an elderly woman to go for help and then raced into the hotel and up eight flights of stairs. On the eighth floor he kicked open the door to the room that the screams were coming from. Then he ran onto the balcony, leaned over the railing, grasped the angel's wrist, and started to lift her to safety.
"Don't worry, beautiful angel," he said. "I have you. You'll soon be safe." But as he eased Betty-Jo up the outside of the railing, Foul Odor attacked. The young man kicked backward, catching Foul Odor on the shin. That slowed him down, but only for a minute—he came at the guy again and hammered him.
* * *
The distraught matron hurried to Victor Chance's office and blurted out what was happening on The Princess's eighth-floor balcony. Victor grabbed his Louisville Slugger and charged up the stairs to room 808—there, on the balcony, a longhaired guy was struggling to hold onto Betty-Jo while a fat slob assaulted him.
The first swing of Victor's bat shattered the Foul Odor's jaw; the second crushed his kneecap.
* * *
Mercury—who until the first swing of the bat had been enjoying himself—couldn't handle the pain. He gave up possession of Foul Odor, and forgot about his fishing excursion to eliminate Brad—but he promised himself that Victor Chance would pay for the pain he had been in, and for his failure to kill The Princess.
* * *
Betty-Jo, sobbing and distraught, clung to her daddy as he wrapped a blanket around her. "Thank God you're okay," Victor said. Then he carried her to her room and held her.
After dinner he said, "Tiger, don't let one SOB make you fearful of men. There are many fine men out there, and you'll find one that's right for you."
"But how will I know when I've found a good one?"
Victor grinned and stroked her hair. "Check his teeth."
She smiled for the first time since the attack. "That works with horses, but you know it won't work with men."
"Trust me, you'll know the right guy when he comes along. Who knows, maybe the fellow who saved you is your kind of guy. He's strong enough, and he's a fearless fool. Too bad he has so much hair."
She was suddenly mad at herself. "I forgot about the fellow who saved me. I have to thank him!"
"I tried to find him, but he's disappeared. He isn't staying at The Princess, and nobody knows where he came from. He's a mystery hero."
"He's my mystery hero! If he'd arrived any later I would have fallen. I owe him my life.
As the evening wore on, and her shock and fear subsided, Victor became cheerier. "I expect the sight of your garter belt will ensure the return of the men who were lounging by the pool when you started to scream. Do that once a week we'll never have a vacancy problem. Problem is, you scared the hell out of me."
Her smile started and then hesitated. "I scared myself as well. I must have been quite a sight. I wish I'd worn pantyhose, although I'm really not a pantyhose kind of girl."
"Your mother didn't have much use for pantyhose either." He gave her a goodnight kiss on the forehead. "Love you, Tiger," he said.
* * *
Four hundred light years away, on Olympus, Venus had moved her hand under her silver lamé gown when Foul Odor's assault on Betty-Jo began. Then she watched gleefully as The Princess dangled from the balcony railing. But when it became apparent that Princess Betty-Jo was going to live, the love goddess grabbed Old Hairball by the scruff of the neck, and flung him at a marble statue.
"Damn it!" she snarled as she disconnected Mercury, "I almost pulled it off. Would have, if Mercury wasn't wedded to witless! How could he have botched such an easy assignment? Next time—if he wants to stay healthy—he'd better be rowing with both oars in the water."
She unsheathed her nail file. On second thought, maybe the idiot's incompetence is for the best. Now I'll have time to make Raiden fall for the wench. Then I can bask in his agony when she perishes.
-7-
BRAD RAIDEN
Something Bad
Brad's slap shot froze the goalie. Wish it were that easy to score with the honeys, he thought. Then he got real. Forget about scoring, my friend. Your life depends on just getting a date for the formal.
The nineteen-year-old Trojan star raised his arms in a celebration that was quickly curtailed by a late hit that slammed him into the boards.
"Bloody Neanderthals!"
The Empire Canada College Trojans, or 'Safe Sexers' as they'd been labeled by opponents, had advanced easily to the March '94 final of the All Ontario School Championship. They were once again playing Blessed Sepulcher, and once again they were suffering a humiliating defeat at the hands of a team that thought 'skill' was some kind of circular saw.
What can you do? Good thing Coach Wylie isn't at this game, or he'd be clawing back my scholarship. The $20,000 a year scholarship he'd been given to play hockey at Coastal Carolina University was crucial. A university degree would make his mother happy, and the hockey experience would move him one step closer to his dream of playing in the NHL.
A bursary had enabled him to attend Empire Canada College. His father, Rupert, was the Anglican Archbishop of Toronto, so his family didn't have the mega-bucks that his pal's families had. And while nobody lorded their money over him, like Avis, he tried harder, to the point of being almost fanatical about his hockey. But his real motivation to excel stemmed not from a lack of money, but from his adoption. It made no sense, but a part of him needed to prove that his birth mother had made a terrible mistake when she'd abandoned him.
"The lack of women in my life is pathetic," he told his cat, PussCat. "I've been spending too much time with my hockey, and too little time with the honeys. Good thing I'm not a rabbit—I'd be a disgrace to my warren. Hell, I don't even have a date for the formal. Time to make some changes in my life."
The graduation dinner and dance at the Royal York Hotel was the social highlight of the year, and he desperately needed a date for it. Fortunately, the Sheik—Brad's best friend and the Trojan goalie—had set him straight about his predicamen
t. "Have you just arrived on this planet," he wanted to know? "It's suicide to appear too eager with women. Like a deer can sense danger in the forest, women can sense desperation in men—and they don't like it. You can't act like you're afraid you're gonna miss the last bus."
So for two weeks, Chad went into a no-fear-of-missing-the-last-bus mode while he compiled a top-ten list of possibles.
Number one on his list was Sandra Manderville. Sandy was bewitching, but even better, she was probably bad. It was in the way she wagged her tail—definitely naughty, probably bad. In any event, she was something a guy could look forward to.
It was an apprehensive Chad who finally picked up the phone to call Sandy. And so he should have been, because Sandy was number-one on every guy's list. As Nike would say, 'Just Do It', he thought. Something bad, here I come.
"Hi, Sandy, Brad here."
"Brad?"
"Right! Brad Raiden. You must be religious because your prayers have just been answered. I'm your date for the ECC formal."
"Everyone's a comedian today. An hour ago some guy called, and told me I'd just won a fabulous prize—him!"
"Not everyday you're twice blessed."
"And now that I've been blessed by you, Mr. Raiden, would you mind telling me something?"
"What?"
"Have we met?"
-8-
BRAD RAIDEN
A Barracuda for a Minnow?
Have we met? I'm dead meat. I'm toast. I'm dead meat on toast. Even Lucky Ducky can't save me now. "We met at the Regalford Girl's dance.... You, uh, danced with me.... Actually, we were on the dance floor chatting, and I told you that you were lookin' fine. Then some guy cut in."
"I remember the guy who cut in," Sandy said.
I don't believe this. "Listen, I'm tall, I have long, light-brown hair and..."
"'That don't impress me much'—especially the long hair bit—but the guy you were with was kind of cute."
"How can you remember the guy I was with, and not remember me?" It was beginning to dawn on Brad that Sandy was doing a number on him.
"Tell you what. I'll get back to you if I'm ever desperate—but Brad?"
His shoulders slumped. "Yeah?"
"Don't hold your breath."
He closed his eyes. I'm being mauled. "Sandy, you don't understand. This is a limited time offer."
"Well why didn't you say so?" His hopes picked up a little. "I'll bet most women go their whole lives without being asked out by Brad Raiden."
"Exactly!"
"And those would be the lucky ones?"
Why doesn't she just plunge a dagger into my heart? Get it over with. Christening vampires has to be easier than this. Time to salvage any pride that's still hanging from the bone. "Do you have long blond hair and green eyes?"
"You know my hair's short and black, and my eyes are..."
"Damn, this is my fault. I never forget a face, but with you I must have made an exception. Looks like I've gone and phoned the wrong mouse. But if you don't want to be a mouse you can be part of a horse."
"Waaat?"
"'I'll be the front end, and you can be yourself!'"
He low fived the phone, and whacked himself on the head. With his head hurting, he felt a little better, but to further ease the pain he threw in five Hail Marys.
Why don't Anglicans have Hail Marys? We should have something for times like this. Much more of that sort of humiliation and the Hara Krishna, the God-squad, or the Praying Mantises can take me away. There are worse things in life than looking too anxious—looking like a dweeb for instance.
Four more calls to women who already had dates left him feeling certifiably depressed. "This disaster's the Sheik's fault!" He grabbed the phone, and pounded out Greg Harvey's number.
"Yo, Grasshopper!" Greg said.
Brad banged his fist on the laminated-pine, coffee table. "You did this to me!"
"Let me guess, Sandy slam-dunked you?"
"Didn't even remember me."
"Then you've lucked out."
"How's that?"
"Cause memory failure is the second sign of senility."
"...I give up, what's the first?"
"I forget."
He grinned despite his attempt not to. "You won't remember what day it is if you don't get me out of this mess. When it comes to women, 'if it wasn't for bad luck, I'd have no luck at all.'"
"Maybe you peed on some dragon's shoe, but I suspect you didn't help your cause with Sandy when you told her that her boobs reminded you of Lethal Weapons One and Two."
Brad raised a hand to the heavens. "That was a complement!" he yelled into the phone.
"I know that. You know that. But women can garble even the simplest message."
"All I know is that a few more calls like that Sandy call, and I'll be curled up in the fetal position chanting mantras."
"What are mantras?"
"Mantras, my Sheikie friend, are sacred phrases chanted by Buddhist Monks, in their search for their inner self. Your mantra will be, 'Please don't kill me, Brad,' but you'll be using it for outer self protection."
"Hey! Relax mighty Grasshopper. You did your good deed for the day. 'Women often won't give you what you want, but [they're always] glad to have been asked.'"
"Glad to have been asked? My call was about as welcome as a cockroach at a Thanksgiving dinner. If that woman even thinks of me, she thinks of me as a worm she can use for squishing practice."
"Listen carefully, feeble-minded worm. 'No woman ever hates a man for being in love with her.'"
"That one has." He sat down, his head in his hands.
"I tried to warn you about Sandy. She can give a guy heartburn, the kind that even Extra Strength Tums can't cure."
"She seemed friendly enough when I met her."
"She's friendly alright. Friendly like a stealth bomber," Greg retorted.
"Blew me away."
"Grasshopper! Grasshopper! Grasshopper! What am I gonna do with you. You gotta understand—women aren't rabbits. You want one, you can't just hide behind a bush and make a carrot sound."
He refused to laugh. "If they were more like squirrels I could sneak up on one disguised as a nut."
"You wouldn't need a disguise to do that."
"Ha, ha. So now what do I do?"
"Now you cheer up! Even a blind pig finds an acorn every once in a while."
"Oh groan."
"Enough of your sniveling," Greg said. "Listening to you would make a rock sad. The near impossible task of finding you a honey now rests with me, but you don't hear me crying."
Half a grin escaped Brad. "That's because you're too busy calculating your fee for services rendered."
"Now that you mention it, for a small token of your appreciation, I think I can save you."
"How small?"
"All you gotta do is stand up in the dressing room and yell, 'Magnificent Sheik, please find me a honey!'"
"In your dreams!"
"So much pride, so few women. But there may be an alternative."
"Like?"
"You buy the champagne for the limo."
That I can handle! "How do I know I'll have something to celebrate?"
"So now you're questioning my specialty?"
"Women?"
"Of course. And if you want one, you gotta drop the attitude."
Brad cheered up a little. If anyone could get him a date, the Sheik could. "Now I know why they say you meet your friends for life at college."
"Your attitude isn't improving fast enough for a guy who's facing cell phone annihilation, or a date with his mother."
He knows he has me by the... "Okay, okay! But have mercy. Don't land me a sturgeon."
"If you're not urgin' for a sturgeon, you've lucked out. I'm thinking barracuda, the kind that eats minnows like you for brunch."
"Could be fun."
"You'll never know what hit you with this honey. She'll have you sliced and diced quicker than a Ginsu."
-9-
BETTY-JO CHANCE & RICHARD WHITTLE
Beware The Dung Beetle
A senior at Grand Strand High in '94, Betty-Jo attracted the guys at her school, or any other place on the Grand Strand where they happened upon her. She so captivated them that they ignored even attractive women who were with her. That was probably why female friends were difficult for her to come by—the slighted women were reluctant to become her friend.
Betty-Jo's one close friend was Susan Foxwell, but everyone called her 'the Fox' because she didn't act like a Susan. Earlier that year, old man Ducksworthy had given the Fox and her a detention for talking. Their tack on the chair retaliation—the Fox had provided the tack, and she the placement—had succeeded in giving Ducksworthy a pain in the butt, and in cementing the conspirator's friendship.
It also helped that the Fox was the swamp variety. When it came to men, the auburn-haired, blue-eyed fox could almost hold her own with Betty-Jo. Granted, she couldn't offer what Betty-Jo had to offer, but what she had, she offered.
"My attitude toward men," the Fox said, "is 'treat 'em mean, and keep 'em keen.'"
"Who am I to argue?" Betty-Jo replied. "It seems to work for you."
* * *
Betty-Jo was partial to male company; she found the guy's efforts to move on her amusing. Like well-endowed women everywhere, she had learned how to fend off the unwanted advances of the over exuberant variety of male. The one unfortunate exception was Richard Whittle—the unwanted son of Rebecca Whittle, Waldo Whittle, and Mercury. Richard was a loud and abusive bully, with the IQ of a doily. And he was repulsive looking, 'like ugly on a vulture.' Below a brush-cut his acne-laden forehead sloped outward to protruding eye sockets that housed cold, black, lifeless eyes. The Fox's take on him, was spot on. "'I thought you needed a license to look that ugly.'"
Richard lived with his mother in Myrtle Beach, but he summered with his taxicab, empire-owning father in New York. He boasted a world-class, tennis ability, but if he were any kind of tennis player, then so was Kermit the Frog.
The American Princess - Best Love Story Ever Page 4
