A 1976 Jeep Laredo tore through the desiccated Malibu hills. Dirt and pebbles, abruptly torn from their slumbers, rose in umbrage in its wake. These uber-skinny, impossibly windy roads are L.A.’s great equalizer. No matter how rich and famous you are or how Versailles-like your digs, every time you pull your imported sports car out of the driveway, you risk receiving a mouthful of delivery truck. Or Jeep – because the girls were testing every known law of physics, especially centrifugal force, as they careened their way back to The Cult Mansion.

David’s un-blown-to-pieces head popped up from the backseat and looked around. “Where the heck are you taking me? I demand to be deported.”

“You’re on your way to meet The Great One.” Leslie smiled and a thousand babies ceased their tears.

“Don’t give away too much of the game, sister dear. We don’t want to tip the advantage to our wily opponent.”

“I’m not an opponent. I’m a kidnap victim. Against my will and all such stuff.”

“Relax Spanky,” Alison reassured her passenger as she whizzed within a hair of a palm tree and three enormous garbage cans. “You’re lucky I didn’t paint the fucking wall with your brain bits. The frigid steel of my rod hungered for your blood.”


Leslie giggled and a poor family in Garden Grove received free cable (including the premium channels). “It’s a cap gun. We don’t believe in violence. We’re practically hippies.” She leaned over her seat and gave the end of Dave’s nose a big lick.

“You may have fainted, but you didn’t shit your pants. I’ll give you that,” Alison commended, ripping an aluminum mailbox off its wooden stalk and sending it spinning down the hillside.

“Luckily, I’d just had a big one before you gals got there. Painful as all get out.”

“I watched a man poop, once,” Leslie helpfully added.

“I’ll wager you’ve watched a man do just about everything.”

Leslie stuck a playful tongue out at her sister. Alison quickly leaned over and sucked on the tip. A large prickly pear cactus bounced off the windscreen of the car like it was Stiv Bators. Alison violently swerved the jeep back onto the road, causing them all not to die.

“Am I in some sorta mortal peril, here?”

Leslie giggled. “Only until my sister stops driving.”


Llew was just finishing the end of a tightly rolled doob as the last track from side one of Mad Man Blues bounced the headphones off his temples. As Lee Brilleaux bashed and crashed his way through the remaining rockin’ grooves of “Tore Down,” Llewellyn cast his cannabis-comforted brain off to a mythical land of palm trees and movie stars.

He still couldn’t really get his head around the fact that plain old David Sobanski from plain old Nassau Street was actually there. Right now! And he was up to his big hairy cullions in mansions, babes and swimming pools. It was just like an episode of The Beverly Hillbillies come to life only the Jethro Bodine character was from Oshawa.

That night, Llew would dream of large sandwiches and his favorite Cheech and Chong routine. (It had something to do with, “And here’s the pepperoni!”) Upon the morrow, he would discover that he’d downed an entire six-pack of Wink in his sleep and hung a giant whiz in his mother’s cutlery drawer. Llew caught the early bus to The Center that morning.


The jeep had miraculously arrived at its destination with nary a drop of blood spilled. The cult’s spiritual headquarters was lurking at the end of a long, spooky driveway lined with gnarled and parched California oaks. The grounds surrounding the rundown gothic structure rivaled the fabled front yards of the Deep South for amassed eclectic clutter and junk. Appliances, car parts and metallic miscellanea were piled high into the cloudless sky. If you’ve ever had a hankering to slice open your forearm on a rusty piece of old iron or puncture your instep with a Korean Conflict mattress spring, then you might consider putting in an offer.

This imposing edifice of worship had seen way, way better days. You would not have been particularly surprised to espy Eddie Munster jogging out of the building to catch the morning school bus. A 10-foot grizzly bear, carved out of a tree truck stood guard over the holy entranceway. Closed and cracked shutters concealed the mega-sacred secret rituals and casual get-togethers over cocktails held inside. A mystery within an enigma within a really creepy looking house.

Alison and Leslie bounded jauntily out of the jeep and yanked a somewhat wary David from where he cowered in the backseat.

“Great criminy gumdusters, HELP!” he implored unseen saviors of the night. None rose to his aid, so into the house he was dragged.


Mike had his “Murderin’ Clothes” all set out on the bed for tomorrow’s fatal festivities. Everything had to be just right. The ritual never varied and every assignment had gone off like killing clockwork. He’d had his clothes dry-cleaned and pressed by Armenians. His shoes were polished to a fine shine. His gun had been taken apart and put back together three times. The Kung Pao Ming Har and Chili Wontons had been ordered and the blue ceramic chopsticks he’d purloined from an Oakville restaurant were washed and at the ready.

There was a knock at the hotel door. Three long and two short, just as he’d instructed. Mike opened up, his neck-slicing hunting knife concealed up his left sleeve – just in case. Fortunately, for everyone involved, it was just the delivery boy with a peanuty bag of Szechuan goodness in hand. To show his appreciation, Mike gave him a seventeen-and-a-half percent tip (very generous by Canadian standards) and didn’t stab the kid in the Adam’s apple and pull the blade all the way up through his brainstem.

After the delivery lad was safely back in his jalopy, Mike took three small sips from his Fanta Root Beer and popped opened the plain white box. YIKES! Right there among the deep-fried and diced shrimp was one solitary piece of chicken.


He needed to give this some very deep and very serious thought before proceeding. All the ingredients were there, right? It just had this one little extra “thing.” On the other hand, chicken was Kung Pao Chi Ting and not Kung Pao Ming Har – even though, admittedly there was only one tiny, almost unnoticeable – although he did notice it – piece of Chi Ting. Should he reorder from another restaurant where they were more careful with their ingredients?

Well… he’d never placed a second order before. That would be changing his routine. And – again – all the ingredients were there. It was just this one miniscule extra piece of chicken. He pulled a spoon out of his suitcase and removed the offending fried fowl and everything it was touching from within the box and tossed the lot off the balcony. Now, all he had left was pure, unadulterated Kung Pao Ming Har. No two ways about it. Surely that wouldn’t contravene any of his well-established protocols.

He picked up his chopsticks and optimistically dug in. It tasted exactly the same! He’d solved it. Phew! Nothing was fucked here. It was just an ordinary night, eatin’ his favorite Chinese dish, like he always did. Everything was going to be just fine… right?


The Cult Mansion living room resembled Big Daddy’s basement in Cat on a Hot Tin Roof – if he’d had a second basement full of useless shit and dumped it on top of the first one. It functioned as a loving, nurturing retirement home for all of the world’s unwanted garish crap. Dead center in this junk-store-turned-residence stood a bizarre throne, constructed from driftwood and twigs by a mental patient. Occupying this uncomfortable, arboreal seat of honor was a longhaired, middle-aged gentleman wearing kabuki makeup and a headless owl costume.

Tiberius (AKA: The Great One) was reluctantly birthed into the infamous McCarten dynasty in 1947. His family had amassed an obscene fortune performing medical experiments on people against their will. Tiberius seemed destined for a comfy seat at the Bohemian Club Annual Dinner and “Guess Who” Skinny Dip, but an actual functioning conscience and the consumption of entire pickle barrels of hospital-grade mescaline had magically transformed him from an uptight, laser-focused business magnate into a dribble-mouthed fucking nutcase.


To Tibby’s right stood Fawn – and boy could she stand! The cult’s fearless and kookily omniscient leader’s Number Two was as topless as a Jimi Hendrix album cover. But, “The Mother” was not just some ordinary California babe, bereft of blouse, with her meat puppets a-swingin’ in the breeze. Fawn’s breasts filled any room with light. They lovingly caressed the eyes and warmed the darkest soul. Her nipples were so perky, you could hang pre-Raphaelite works of art from them. They were a permanent spring day on a sundrenched meadow in the morning of your life. The soft downy curves of her majestic Mammalia offered comfort to the afflicted, hope to the wretched, joy to the heavyhearted, and lotion to the merely itchy. That’s an awful lot to have stapled onto your chest, but Fawn dangled them well.

David was dragged unceremoniously before this odd creature/man and his well-cleavaged high priestess. As soon as Alison and Leslie were in the most propitious position for womanly worship, the two comely converts cast their cutie covers to the ground, exposing their own sweet and tender sweater snacks to the world. There seemed to be a developing theme here. David’s flight-or-flight instinct was momentarily placed in abeyance as he found himself totally surrounded by top-drawer and unadorned boingage. There are times when a man stiffens his resolve… and other parts. David leaned slightly forward and bravely stood his ground.

The Great One slammed a large driftwood staff into the floorboards with an alarming boom and announced, “We have ducks!”

“Let it be, Oh Great One!” his fabulously fun-bagged disciples chanted in unison.

“Ducks?” David curiously queried.

After a brief “Who the fuck is this?” pause, Tiberius dipped a decorative but diminutive silver spoon into a heaping pile of finely chopped white powder. He scooped up a daunting helping and nasally hoovered it off the grape-pattern cutlery.

His head rocked violently backwards from the devastating (but not unpleasant) synaptic impact. “A glimmering holy pool must be dug for its goslings,” he continued.

“Let it be, Oh Great One!” the goose-bumped girls doxologized.

“Aren’t baby ducks ducklings?”

Alison slapped him in the back of the head. “Do not correct The Great One.”

Tiberius snapped his fingers and the room filled with unlistenable Norwegian folk music.

Unlistenable Norwegian Folk Music

The twins proceeded to take part in a vigorous form of dance usually reserved for the incurably insane (or shirtless Santa Monica Pier performers). At designated intervals, they would raise their jubilant, worshiping hands towards their bug-eyed, all-seeing leader. The jolly jug jiggling that ensued would have caused most men’s amorous apparatae to involuntarily loose their reproductive inventory. Dave was only spared suffering his own embarrassing spontaneous “release” by focusing his mind (such as it was) on haiku poetry concerning penniless bridge dwellers begging for rice.

Abruptly, the music surceased, bringing an unwelcome end to their wondrous womanly wobbles. David’s suddenly unshackled mind quickly returned to life-preserving escape mode as the girls capered up to their master minister and lovingly preened his plumage. Tiberius casually toyed with their nascent nipples while aiming an appraising eye at his unexpected guest. “SPEAK!!” he quietly bellowed.

David searched his questionable brain matter for the perfect opening gambit. It had to be a hair-raisingly forceful declaration but not too confrontational. He must be unequivocal – if he actually knew what that meant – but leave himself ample room to maneuver. Tiberius continued to wait impatiently for an answer to his bellow. Finally, all his agonizing cerebral toil and tactical tinkering seemed to be paying off. The answer he sought was rapidly building up inside him like a cheese fart at a church social. It quickly reached that point where choice was no longer a factor. All he could do now was smile like a douche and let ‘er rip. “Do you have some sort of phone I could use?”

“I will take him,” The Mother dramatically – not to mention surprisingly – proclaimed.

“The Mother will take him,” the twins chanted in agreement.

Tiberius vacuumed up another colossal toot of heaven-powder and pondered. As the pondering moments ponderously passed, he turned alarmingly crimson underneath his kabuki-makeuped face, before slamming his staff into the floorboards once more. “Let it be so!”

The voices of the deliciously devout rang out in joyous affirmation. “The Great One says ‘Let it be so!’”

“I’d be willing to reverse any and all charges.”


Deep in the bowels of any city, you will come upon that one saloon of fallen men. Dim and dun, the patrons of these low-rent drinkeries are not habitués for the decor or the feel-good-vibe. They drink to remember. They drink to forget. But mostly, they drink to drink.

The barkeep sported scars aplenty from furniture-aided altercations bought on by his liberal dispensing of intoxicants to the staggeringly intemperate. If you possessed the cash, then by God, Graham (Gray to those who mistakenly believed that they are his friends) would gladly sell you an additional glass of whatever you’d already had way, way too much of.

Our pier-weary practitioner of thaumaturgy was among their uninspiring and sorrowful lot. It had been a long sweltering day on a long stretch of wood surrounded by dispiritingly tight-fisted tourists. Switch licked his anhydrous lips in euphoric anticipation of sudsy goodness as Gray pulled him a pint of the thriftiest brew in the house. Beside him sat Gus – a man of unslakable liquid appetites and very limited conversation.

Gray placed Switch’s foamy potation onto the stained and pockmarked bar, but pulled it back just before the big fella could grab hold of the frugal but frosty answer to all his woes. The po-faced purveyor of prestidigitation looked towards the publican in search of the reason for this alcoholic outrage.

“Are you gonna pay for that Bud Light?” queried the penurious proprietor.

Switch shrugged apologetically. “The pier was a little slow today.”

“Mr. Music was in here drinkin’ Heinekens this afternoon,” Gus interjected unhelpfully.

“Well, isn’t that just soooo special,” Switch pouted out loud.

“That Japanese girl with the pink hair, in the spacesuit? She takes a cab to the pier,” added Gray, salting Switch’s wound like it was a margarita.

“That’s fine for her, she just stands around, but a magician’s got to stay in shape.”

“You could lose a few pounds by not drinking this beer.”

Switch’s mouth felt like a torrid sandy desert and the cool, refreshing oasis in the glass before him was looking more and more like a mirage. He searched his battle-scarred brain for a solution to this parched puzzler.

“You do me a favor and I might see my way clear to making that beer on the house,” Gray casually tossed out. Way too casually.

Switch was immediately and wisely suspicious, but he was also destitute and sober. It was an unsustainable state of affairs. The alarm bells going off in his head were deafening, but still he continued to move toward the Bud Lite. “No problem there, Gray. Heck, we’re buddies. I’d do you a favor, even if there weren’t a beer in it for me,” he brazenly lied.

“I need you to help out my sister’s boy in West Covina. He’s got his final coming up.”

“West Covina!? That’s a two hour drive.”

“The drive is the least of your worries,” added Gus, continuing on with his campaign of unhelpfulness.

“Or… would you rather have water?” Gray suggested, dragging the illusive elixir an inch or two further from his penniless customer’s grasp.

“Oh, all right.” Switch sulked as he resignedly scooped up his 4.2 percent quarry.

Gray looked around the dimly lit hovel for other unconscionably desperate volunteers. “How about it boys? Anyone else want to drink for free tonight?”

A flurry of dead presidents were immediately slapped down to settle any and all debts incurred. This did not ease Switch’s racked and worried mind. Perhaps another beer would? It was certainly worth a try. He began to raise a finger and a Heineken was instantly place before him. Oh deary dear. What had he gotten himself into?


David, flat on his back and pinned to the mattress, looked for all the world like an old NASA monkey during takeoff. Losing one’s virginity had seldom been so unexpectedly terrifying. Fawn was riding his loins with all the power of a Churchward Steam Engine. Her heavily kegeled vaginal canal had a grip on Spanky’s love shaft that threatened to peel his petrified penis open like an overripe plantain. His battered foreskin was flapping around inside her like a shredded flag in a hurricane. Fawn, in the throes of concupiscent madness, had placed David’s trembling hands upon her undulating lick-sticks. He had often dreamt of that magical moment when a young lady would allow him the honor of holding and lovingly caressing her heavenly bust. Alas, that tender right of heavy-petting passage had been denied him. Spanky was forced to clutch onto her bouncy Bristols like they were the handrails on a Six Flags Magic Mountain ride. Life and limb were at stake. One slip of his white-knuckled grip and he could easily be sent hurtling into the bedside lava lamp.


The Great One’s place of divine dormancy mirrored the opulence of Popes and Kings, providing those palatial inner chambers were furnished with discarded movie props. This room was the junction where the tributaries of “Gaudy,” “Godly” and “Ghastly” flowed together to form the raging river of “What The Fuck?”

Tiberius sprawled luxuriously across a four-poster, gold-plated bed. A prophet in repose. His ceremonial feathers were but a hot and itchy memory. His “Tin Man” face makeup remained. Alison and Leslie, as naked as if they were auditioning for a part on The Cosby Show, nuzzled against his regal ribs. The soft, supple siblings playfully stroked The Great One’s fuzzy nards like they were the cheeks of a cuddly drunken hamster, stuffed to bursting with yummy winter hazelnuts. But, before Tibby could even consider letting his righteous rodent run up their tunnels, there was something weighing heavily on his titanic temporal lobe.

“So… who is this schmuck that’s fucking my wife?” he tossed out to the room.

Alison shrugged. “Beats me. He was at Drawling’s house when we got there.”

“He’s sort of cute in a not-very-handsome sort of way,” sighed the most perfectly naked girl on Earth as she let her velvet tongue glide down the length of his prodigious party favor to the very nub of his fortitude.

Alison placed a silver rococo mustard spoon under The Great One’s already-numb nares and he took a snort that practically sucked the flocking off the wallpaper. His cranial capillaries began to explode like popcorn in a pizza oven.

“Where’s he from, Latvia?”

Alison slipped a slim and dainty cocaine-covered index finger up her lap-happy leader’s sphincter. His asshole suddenly felt like Pee-wee Herman eating banana pudding on a warm Summer’s Night.

“Some town in Canada called Oshawa,” she informed him, removing her drug-drenched digit and dipping it into a jar of that blue stuff you see in barbershops.

“Do they have schools in this Oshawa place?”

“Perhaps not, but a formal education is not an essential requirement to bring forth The Sons and Daughters of The New World Order,” suggested the deepest and possibly only thinker in the cult.

The Great One lay his sensationally filled head back onto a large, fluffy emu-down pillow and contemplated the counsel of his sightly suck servants as they took turns deep-throating his throb-goblin and giggling.


David’s ferocious and unrelenting initiation into the halls of true manhood continued on. Fawn was veritably grinding down David’s once proud nethers into paste. The fact that her newfound, cherry-popped lover was whining like a shot dog beneath her gyrating jism gym appeared to carry no sway. Spanky’s tumescent testes were all atwitter. Anxious spermatozoa basted themselves in seminal fluid as they waited like Seal Team paratroopers for their call to action. After literally thousands of dry runs and late night rehearsals, this was their first real opportunity to charge out there and do something. Yep, that poor unsuspecting ovum was in for a whole lot of rowdy company.


Things had progressed. Alison’s legs were spread open like an overpriced coffee table book as Tiberius rapturously slid his Mungo in and out of her Jerry. Time and tide were of no consequence for his humping highness. Her young and pliant body was a piled-high buffet of succulent sensual pleasures. Her face. Her breasts. Her plump and pliant pudenda. (And if you flipped her over, there was even more fun to be had!) It felt as if his penis had penetrated the very gates of Elysium as he thrashed and bashed his way towards satyric satiation like a mentally deranged bonobo. The need to flood her acquiescent womb with his writhing rampaging seed became paramount. It was precisely as he was revving up a fierce and frothy batch of baby butter that he detected a faint female voice rising up from beneath him. Shit! She wanted to talk.

He graciously downgraded the rate of his genital jousting, in order to hear her out.

“So, what’s the real reason for building that duck pond?” she inquired, still welcoming his pelvic thrusts like they were free designer shoes.

While sympathetic to his disciple’s desire for true cosmic understanding, rules were rules. His hands were tied. (Oh, if only hers were!) “For the moment, that will have to be between myself and the Elders of Creation.”

“Blessed be the Elders,” she cheerily chanted.

He latched onto her tits like they were crimps on an indoor climbing wall and scraped his teeth across her scrumptiously engorged nipples. “Now, where were we?

Alison reached down between his over-tanned legs and smiled. “Mmm. Your nutsack is all nice and sweaty.”

“And your fingers are as gentle as an angel’s kiss.”

“Thank you for picking me, instead of Leslie,” she purred.

“I love all my flock equally,” he affirmed, driving his manly moan-monster up into her cervix.

An extra dreamy dollop of girlie drizzle trickled down from her uterus and coated his already glistening glans with her nummy nymph nectar.

”That’s why you’re The Great One,” she exalted.

“Was there ever a moment of doubt?”


Great! Now that “Question Time” was over, Tiberious quadrupled his copulatory clip. His pant pistol had been drawn and soon her parts-most-feminine would feel the devastating impact of his squidgy bullets.


David’s beastly, bestial, boner-chilling coition was finally at an end. Virginity may have been a lonely and dispiriting existence, but sexual congress on such an uncompromisingly epic scale had shaken our Loblaws-shopping hero to his very marrow. A lifetime of expecting the sexually soothing and romantic strains of Air Supply and eventually experiencing Finlandian Death Metal left him confused, disoriented and reluctant to take a pee. He lay all floppity and spent at his flinty lover’s side. Fawn stroked Spanky’s tousled locks as his enthusiastic army of squigglers attempted to navigate the reproductive highways and byways within her.

“You have done well. The Mother is pleased with your performance,” she announced, as if there were dozens of people in the room.

“Well, a big likewise and more so on your own connubial involvement, there. Brav-the-heck-o.” David grimaced and delicately adjusted his thoroughly plundered and pounded prepuce. “Would you happen to have any soothing ointment or some sort of other palliative agent about the place?” he wincingly inquired.

Fawn yawned and reached over to her faux Queen Anne side table. Retrieving a small vial, she shoved it under her involuntary inseminator’s nostrils. “Here, sniff this,” she commanded.

David good-naturedly complied with her request.

The world went black. Blacker than the inside of a Fabreze can. As black as the crow’s asshole during a power outage. Really fucking dark.

This Many Dark


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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