Destiny’s Chastity

Chapter IX

Knight in a Shiny Pickup

Destiny Bettencourt couldn’t believe her luck. After three days in the women’s lockup--jeez, it never looked this bad in her old boyfriends’ skin flicks--she was finally going to be rescued. And by the most valiant knight in the legal industry, a man bigger than murder itself, a man who had just appeared outside her cell introducing himself as “Mister Johnny.”

Under the stenciled number 90210, her heart fluttered. Mister Johnny would set her free. Mister Johnny would successfully convince a jury she had not meant to put a bullet in the belly of coffee baron Sir Oliver Sneddley during their scuffle in the desert.

She looked up at Mister Johnny, the piercing eyes, the neatly coiffed latte-free mustache, the shiny can in his left hand. . . . Goodness, was that a soda? She hadn’t had a shot of caffeine in three days.

Destiny grabbed for the can, raised it high to her mouth, felt the warm splash . . . warm? She doubled over in anguish, spitting the grimy liquid onto the shiny prison floor. She looked up at Mister Johnny, her lips no longer pouty, her breasts no longer heaving.

“Tobacco juice,” he said. “That’s my spit cup. I’m Johnny de la Bumpkin. Used to play major league baseball. Made me such a jerk, I became a lawyer. I was sent by a very special person to handle your case.”

“Oh, my. I thought you were . . .”

“Robert Shapiro? That’s what everyone says. Don’t worry, Mister Johnny will save the game. Now let’s round the bases and get out of here.”

Leaving her cell behind them as they drove away in De la Bumpkin’s shiny pickup, Destiny asked, “Just who is this special person who sent you?”

“Arggghh,” he responded. “Grglgrgl. Hflflflflf,” he said, a fresh wad of Red Man neatly wrapped around ABC gum tucked into his cheek.

Turning her weary face to the window, Destiny noticed a large, firm cactus standing tall amid a thick patch of desert brush.

“Oh, my gosh, Hunter!” she exclaimed.

“Catfish Hunter?” De la Bumpkin asked, sending a long brown stream into a weathered can of Tab. “Hall of Fame pitcher? What about him?”

“No, no, I was just reminded of my Hunter,” Destiny said and told him about how she and Hunter had met in a pet store, fallen in love, played miniature golf, been drugged and kidnapped on the castle hole by evil Sir Sneddley and taken to the desert. Told him about how she had awakened during the kidnapping and pulled out a gun and Hunter had reached for the gun and. . . .

Thank goodness Hunter had escaped after the shooting. But where was he now?

As Destiny emptied her soul, De la Bumpkin looked at her knowingly, longingly, with kindness and understanding radiating from those dark and mysterious eyes. Then he scratched his crotch.

“I don’t believe it,” he said. “You also play miniature golf?”

Destiny sighed deeply and dropped her head into her hands when suddenly her senses were overcome with the wonderful smells of fresh popcorn and stale beer. She looked up and realized the truck was pulling into Dodger Stadium for the Dodgers’ 126th game of the year, 25th of the month, third of the week, and 15th against a team with a left-handed starter whose last name begins with “M,” or so Ross Porter was saying on the radio.

“Come inside, there’s somebody here you have to see,” said De la Bumpkin, grabbing her arm, taking her inside past wide-eyed ushers who were stunned at her beauty and that large brown ball dripping from De la Bumpkin’s mouth.

“We’ll find a seat in the owner’s box,” De la Bumpkin said. “There’s been nobody there all season.”

They found their chairs just as the Dodger manager was on the mound changing pitchers. Destiny looked onto the field and gasped.

She stared closely at the manager’s face, then absently felt her neck for a locket that was not there. She stared again. It was him. No, it wasn’t him. Was him. Wasn’t him. Was. Wasn’t. Am not. Am too. Takes one to know one. Nah-nah-nah-nah-nah.

She shook herself and loudly announced, “Yes, that’s him, that’s, that’s, Chad!” before promptly fainting.

Destiny slept for nine entire innings--much like the Dodger lineup--before awakening downstairs on a couch in the manager’s office, with a familiar face peering into hers.

“Sis?” he said.

“Oh, my, Chad,” she said, looking at a brother she had not seen in seven years, the one who left home at 18 after being publicly humiliated while shopping with their mother at the local Ralphs. She had insisted on purchasing an entire cart full of generic and store brands, even cereal and beer, sending him storming off across the parking lot toward a Coco’s, never to be seen again.

Until now, when this man whose picture she had long carried in her locket was softly rubbing her shoulders.

“This is amazing. What are you doing here?” she asked.

“Oh, this? Since Fox bought the team, they go through a manager a week,” Chad said. “I took a break from my telemarketing gig for this. My shift ends in two games.”

“What are you going to do after that?” she asked.

“Oh, no, sis, the question is, what are we going to do after that,” said Chad, smiling behind an expression that she recalled seeing recently on a miniature golf course. “That’s why I bailed you out. A buddy of mine told me you’ve been hanging out with a guy named Hunter.”

Destiny glimpsed a bat leaning against the corner, a marvelously thick, yet tapered, 38-ouncer.

“Oh, my gosh, Hunter!” she exclaimed.

“Yeah, well, honey, I have something to tell you,” said Chad, lowering his voice. “You know how I was adopted? Well, my real mother is also the mother of Hunter French Roast Simone. I’m Hunter’s half-brother. Half of everything he owns is mine. Or, soon, ours.”

“Ours?” she asked.

“Yes,” said Chad. “You are going to work with me to overcome Hunter and recapture my rightful spot atop Cuppa Joe’s . . . then we’ll merge with Java Universe to form the largest coffee store in the world. Imagine the beans! Imagine the biscotti! Imagine the attitude.”

“But Chad, I think I might love Hunter,” Destiny said, shouting now. “And I certainly hate Sneddley. I mean, duh, I just shot him.”

Chad shrugged. “Destiny, my dear, you won’t love Hunter so much when you know more about him. And Sneddley, well. . . .”

The office door opened and in rolled a snarling man with a bandaged abdomen.

“Destiny,” said Chad, “say hello again to your Uncle Oliver.”

* Meanwhile, somewhere in Chapter X:

Just then, Sir Sneddley grabbed Destiny, he could no longer contain himself from her ravishing reddish locks, those heaving breasts, those long legs. . . .

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