A highly exclusive brand of eventide that you just can’t get in Bellflower or Willowbrook had fallen upon the land and sea. The beaming moon stood guard over the Earth’s most cherished children as they slumbered in their king-sized feather-mattressed beds. Hills full of wildflowers graciously wafted their delicate scents through the mild evening air. Little fuzzy bunnies hopped to and fro in gardens of purple kohlrabi, prickly caterpillar bean, white tomesol, black krim tomatoes and rainbow carrots. Shit nobody has ever heard of and even fewer people eat. Little did the local lagomorphs and ruminants suspect that the tubers and legumes they were blithely nibbling on would cost them upwards of a year’s salary if they were to purchase them at a Gelson’s or Mrs. Gooch’s.

But there was one poor woebegone waif in Malibu on this particular eve that had no feather bed. The only scents to reach his beleaguered olfactory apparatus were those of stale booze and discount tobacco. Food? What was that? The gaseous gurgling of his empty stomach drowned out the mellifluous ocean waves. A coat for a blanket and a couch cushion for a pillow were the sole creature comforts afforded this conked-out visitor from the North. David’s meager belongings (and that’s being insanely generous) were piled next to him on the appalling rug where his former-suitcase would have been. The floor was as cold and hard as Ann Coulter’s tits. He shivered, moaned and curled up in a tight ball, as so many men have done upon removing her brassiere.

Three long days and nights without a single wink had made David impervious to the traditional nocturnal sounds of imminent danger; including – but not limited to – rapid, maniacal rage-stabbing, surgically precise throat cutting and torso dismemberment using power tools.


When the still of the night was violated by the unmistakable tinkly-tink of breaking glass, he stirred not. Neither did he jump into vital life-preserving action when whispers could be heard in the next room and ominous flashlight beams sliced into the darkness.

The living room lights were flicked on. This is almost always a can’t-miss sign that you’re not alone. Although, if you had to be “not alone’” the two young women who stood beside the light switch would certainly lessen that sting.

Alison and Leslie Bouchard – both nineteen – were two of the fairest flowers in Christendom’s much-celebrated bouquet. Mother Nature had bestowed upon them a comeliness that would cause Mermen to gladly give up the sea. Their peerless pulchritude bedeviled the living and drove the dead to self-abuse in their graves. Runaways at the girly, guileless age of sixteen, these tantalizingly toothsome twins filched, fucked and flim-flammed their way from Gooseneck Maine to the Paradise Cove Café. From there, it was either learn how to bamboozle fish or join a cult. Luckily, in Malibu, they were spoiled for choice.

The Paradise Cove Beach Café

At the present mo, they were on a fundraising mission. Whatever they came upon that wasn’t nailed down was a gratefully accepted donation to their church. A quick scan of ‘Bu House however, revealed very little in the way of pawnable pillage. Leslie was the first to verbalize her assessment of the legendary abode’s pilfering potential.

“What a fucking dump.”

She was not wrong. Unless the price had suddenly exploded on the remains of seven-month-old Arby’s roast-beef sandwiches, then the pickin’s appeared to be on the markedly slim side. Her partner in ecclesiastical crime preferred to dwell on the positive. Yes, they were standing in the middle of a smell-ridden shithole but…

“Even the most ramshackle of establishments can provide us with much needed provender, my pet.” Alison leaned over and gave her ravishing sister a big smoochie soul kiss. She let her tongue slide languorously across Leslie’s lower lip as she reluctantly removed it from her sibling’s perfectly shaped mouth. “Who can tell what treasures lay beneath all this trash and moldy…”

A small piggy snore from the far corner of the room cut short their canoodley conversation.

“What the fuck is that?”

Two beautiful heads swiveled in the direction of their unexpected guest.

“Is it a beach fairy?”

“Why don’t we go and ask him?”

Alison marched over to the sacked-out Ontarian and delivered a substantial kick to his Durham Region. This more than did the trick. David’s peepers shot open like Anita Bryant’s legs at an orange juice convention.

While most Americans have been shot at least once by the time they reach pre-school, staring down the business end of a roscoe can be quite an alarming experience for a Canadian. David may have involuntarily piddled once more as Alison waved the muzzle of her polymer-framed piece provocatively around the tip of his trembling nose. Time to speak up.

“Don’t fire! I’m a rare blood type!”

“Shut the fuck up! Do you own this puke-tank?”


“I said, ‘Shut the fuck up,’ asshole!”

“I’m fuck-shutted, I am!” David placed his hand between his oh-so-shootable forehead and the pistol’s fiery payload.

“Ask him where he keeps his air freshener. This place smells really pewey.” Leslie wrinkled her nose like a Disney woodland creature.

“Have you got an Air Wick Solid or a can of Glade around?”

“Where you do keep your potpourri?”

“Poe who?”

Alison surveyed the wasteland of domestic chaos that surrounded her. “I’m assuming that there is no ‘Mrs. Asshole.'”

“The presently unmarried person who caused most of these odors is a little out of sorts, at present. Is there somethin’ I could help you two ladies with?”

Alison re-brandished her gat menacingly about his facial region. “You can say your fucking prayers, mung-eater. You just walked in on the wrong robbery.”

“Walked? No. You got me all wrong. I was sleepin’. I’m not even a – what have you – citizen, so I couldn’t legally testify.”

Leslie’s agonizingly cute countenance crinkled in curiosity. “Where are you from, New Zealand?”


“Canada. I’m not getting’ why you people aren’t locatin’ the accent. We’re your closest neighbors.”

“Hell is about to become your closest neighbor, turd-wad. What are you doing here?”

“I’m workin’. Fulfillin’ my jobular obligations, so to speak. I’m his chronicler.”

David swung his hand towards the couch-full of drunken lard in a flourish like he was showcasing a grand prize on The Price is Right.

Leslie giggled and an angel in heaven was born. “Chronicler? Is that a fancy way of saying cornhole?”

“Or cocksucker?” Alison helpfully added.

“No! This is in no way a homo-erotical situation, here. That sort’a activity just don’t transpire east of Pickering. I’m the chronicler of his life and times, full of your-dig-darn stop.”
Alison attempted to steer this wayward conversation back to comity and sanity. “Name?”

“Amos Drawling. He’s practically famous.”

Of course, a girl can only take so much provocation. The irritable twin proceeded to floss his teeth with the barrel of her widow-maker. “Your fucking name.”

“Now, I know you’re an American an’ all, but there’s just no need to be as rude as all bejesus with your pistol at me. The name is David Sobanski.”

At least one of the sisters found his inane ramblings somewhat charming. “He’s kinda cute in a sort of unattractive way. Why don’t we take him home with us?”

Alison so hated to disagree with her cuter half but she shook her head in the negative. “Nah. Be simpler just to kill ‘im.”

She roughly jammed the cold hard muzzle against David’s timorous temple and pulled the trigger of death. The unmistakable crack of a 9-millimeter killing machine going about its business echoed through the star-drenched night.

Things went black. Blacker than Al Jolson’s face-makeup tin. A tad shadier than the inside of Darth Vader’s wallet. Slappy White would actually look white compared to how black this was.


The entire book can be purchased at https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07J3XNJSW/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1538935214&sr=8-1&keywords=darrell+vickers for a pittance.

Also available in paperback. https://www.amazon.ca/Bu-House-Here-Comes-Sun-ebook/dp/B07J3XNJSW/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1540156904&sr=8-1&keywords=darrell+vickers

Darrell Vickers, ‘Bu House, novel, vol. one, Here Comes the Sun, Amazon,

Please scroll down to leave Your Comments, Kudos, and Complaints

DBAWIS_ButtonDarrell Vickers started out as one half of Toronto area band, Nobby Clegg.  CFNY fans may remember the cheery song “Me Dad” which still gets airplay.  From there, he valiantly ventured to L.A. and eventually became head writer for The Tonight Show with Johnny Carson.  Since then, he’s created numerous sitcoms and animation shows in Canada and the U.S.  He still writes music and has an internet band called Death of the Author Brigade (members in Croatia, Canada and the U.S.)   Mr. Vickers also had a private music mailing-list where he features new and pre-loved music.  Anyone who would like to be added to his daily mailing list, just write him at Radiovickers1@gmail.com 

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