Darrell Vickers – CHAPTER SEVEN BREAKFAST IS SERVED!

Horses and vegetables of infinite shapes and nutritional values intermingled with disembodied breasts and flaming Les Paul Guitars. The sun, the moon and various vivid paint colors swirled into Peter Maxian collages of hypnotic but amazingly affordable beauty. The inchoate universe was a big bubbly celestial puddle of primordial stars and galaxies and… a poke in the ribs.

Huh? Was this strange and inexplicable corporeal transpirance a once-in-an-eon astrophysical anomaly? Nope. Even more unfathomable rib poking from the far edges of creation ensued. The murky, crepuscular mists began to dissipate as the inter-dimensional jabbing became even more rapid and irritating.

And then…

Spanky bade farewell to Morpheus’ sweet kiss and pulled up the shades on his windows to the soul. The Amos Drawling was standing over him, thrusting the base of a black cherry walking stick into the meat of David’s torso.

“When are you ever going to do any fucking work around here?” he greeted him.

An additional few seconds of consciousness did nothing to salve Spanky’s confused and wounded psyche. Far from it. Our recently deflowered Don Juan discovered, in very short order, that he was worryingly bereft of attire, right on down to his missing extra-wooly Canadian hosiery!

“Was it all a dream?” he wondered. Let’s be real here. How likely was it that a guy like David would be taken to an ancient mansion to have unbridled sexual intercourse with a be-feathered high priest’s wife? On the other hand, the end of his johnson did feel like it had been in a bar fight with a ball-peen hammer. That had to count for something.

Amos prodded his unresponsive employee again with his copper-tipped can. “Does your ass feel funny?”

Come to think of it! His confused and wounded psyche had never been so unsalved. Ever ask a question you really don’t want to know the answer to?

“Yes, it does,” he bravely asserted. Now the hard part. “And I’m afraid I’m going to have to inquire as to how you’d be in a position to be aware of such information.”

“It’s my split of the take, you goat-headed moron. God, I hope they put it in a Baggie.” Amos briskly rubbed his liver-spotted hands together in atavistic anticipation.

Despite David’s understandable reticence, he gingerly reached back into a place that should never be used for entertainment. Fingers and thumb were slid in to a depth beyond that usually reserved for bowling balls. Amos bemusedly tapped his foot as his plodding pupil rummaged through his rump for unidentified foreign objects. After a few seconds – several years in fingers-stuffed-up-your-ass time – David painfully procured the much-anticipated roll of bendable spendables and held them aloft.

Amos gleefully accepted/snatched the clump of rectally transported cash and kissed it while looking up to the heavens. “Thank you Tiberius!” The jubilant director waved his wiffy wad under Spanky’s less-than-delighted nose. “Now, I can afford to be seen!” He dramatically spun away from David, losing his balance and almost doing a William Holden into the side table. “Get some damn clothes on. We’re going out for breakfast.” And then he was gone… but not like William Holden.

GRUNIONS:

Grunions By the Sea is the place to be seen eating a power breakfast in Malibu. Jutting out over the Pacific, the patio offers goodish food at horrible prices. Sort of the opposite of Norm’s Diner. The clientele is anyone and everyone who ever hung a sweater around their neck in 250-degree heat. Their teeth cost more than their cars and Frankenstein was held together with less stitching.

But among all these prettily posed people in designer everything sat a fat, feasting fart monster and his addled adjuvant. Amos was back and basking in his elitist element. He gorged himself on eggs Benedict, champagne, orange juice and obscene piles of bacon. He took massive drags off his cigarette after each Herculean swallow and small clouds of smoke drifted out from between his teeth as he chewed and talked.

David tried not to cough as he nibbled on his meager order of dry toast. He was waiting for anything to come out of his bilious boss’s mouth that wasn’t foodstuffs or inhalable carcinogens. His mighty pen was at the ready but, so far, scant wisdom or salient highlights from Amos’s storied career had been forthcoming.

Drawling waved his hand about imperiously. “Look around you, boy,” he gurgled like a backed-up drain.

David did his best to comply, but had no real idea what he was supposed to be looking at, other than a collection of hoity-toity assholes drinking Belizean rainwater collected from the flowers of orchids and strained through the kidneys of an albino cenobite.

“All of this is built on make believe,” Amos haughtily continued, taking another huge pull off his Pall Mall and coughing half a bagel onto the table cloth. His voice rose in volume as the great man of the silver screen approached the fruit-at-the-bottom of his pedagogic yogurt. “And we writers – we are the alchemists of the modern age. We sentinels at the gates of enlightenment are the fuel that drives this puffed-up, gewgaw-drenched, self-congratulatory puke-train.”

Amos drained his glass and sloppily refilled it with more champers.

David’s brow furrowed to the point that hillbilly women could have scrubbed their crick laundry on it. “I’m afraid you might have a kind of mixing up of your metaphoricals, there.”

Drawling could feel the oratory powers of Caesar and Disraeli welling up inside him. “You hear that, you unappreciative fuckers!! You’d all be living in driftwood huts and eating pelican shit for breakfast if it weren’t for ‘The Writer,'” he dismissively brayed at his fellow early-morning diners.

The clientele stared nonplussed over their mimosas for a breath of time and then resumed gobbling their gammon and granola. Amos shrugged and inhaled a fistful of bacon. Sinking his teeth into another creature’s shredded, flame broiled flesh seemed to smooth out some of his grumpy bumps and he returned to a long lost train of thought.

“So, you were asking me about my mother.” Chew. Chew. Chew. “She was a complete testicle-devouring gorgon.” Chew. Chew. “No wonder I don’t have any children… I think.”

Amos took a moment’s respite from his bloviations to gaze reflectively at David. Perhaps he was looking upon him as the son he’d never had? Perhaps he was seeing something in this innocent-eyed lad from the Great White North that he saw in himself at that inceptive age? Perhaps the magnanimous legend of film had just remembered he hadn’t reimbursed him for his penury-inducing travel expenses.

“Are you going to finish that toast?”

Nope.

“And keep that pen up. This next story will really put some hair on your nuts.”

David did his best to transcribe these invaluable insights onto a small spit-flecked pad of paper as Amos swiped his last half-slice of whole wheat.

MEANWHILE:

There was another side to Malibu. An “icky” side, not oft talked about. A place where “those other people” lived. The ordinary folk. Those not consumed in the bustling world of high commerce or producing shitty, shitty television shows concerning the folks that live next door to Urkel. They shared the very same weather and glorious scenery with their Italian-shoed betters, but very little else. These undesirable denizens were forced to drive their own children to school – and public ones! Ewww. The shame of that must have weighed upon their heads like Dom Deluise wearing a lead-lined lobster bib.

These unhappening inhabitants actually cooked their own meals and washed their own clothes. Where did they find the time? Alas, these DIY plague rats of the capitalist system were a necessary evil. Someone had to serve the entitled their drinks as they carelessly gazed out over the spume. Someone had to come and fix shit when it didn’t turn on or failed to crush the ice just the way they liked it. Someone had to suck on their pant pinkels when wifey was off getting legless with the girls over salad. So, you can see. Like it or not, they were stuck!

Two of the most incommodious self-cooking gastropods Mr. and Mrs. Snooterton were “stuck” with were Rita and Donnie Sturch. GOD! The last name alone. (Not even The Van Sturches!) You could certainly see why God had decided to take a big steaming dump on their pork chops.

Rita and Donnie Sturch

Rita was originally from New York – the town that murdered John Lennon. She carefully packed and shipped her patented NYC accent and ‘tude out with her when she decided to inflict herself upon The West. Sexy, but with a nasty streak you could land the space shuttle on. The perfect combination of seductress and shiv-sticker. She had unhesitatingly let gentlemen taste her egg cream for the slightest perceived advantage, but would gladly re-corn your colon if you pissed her off (not a particularly difficult feat to accomplish). Alas, things had been far from tulip bulbs and Tater Tots for her since alighting in the land of stain-resistant casting couches. Rita now found herself “with child” and “with husband.” Neither situation pleased her greatly.

Donald Sturch had grown up in the hot and horrible hinterlands. Winnetka. Since venturing to the other side of Topanga Canyon, the intrepid Valleyite had assiduously followed the Doobie Brothers’ time-honored recipe for rack and ruination. What were once habits were now vices. The minorest of men is the addict. No smile can cheer him. No arms can comfort him. And no love can save him. And Rita’s exceedingly conditional brand of love very rarely saved anyone.

Donnie brushed his teeth over the makeup-blotched bathroom sink, frantically grinding the bristles into his bicuspids. He continually devoured sharp and sudden helpings of air up into his raw and ravaged sinus cavities.

His willful wife adjusted uncomfortably on their war-torn mattress in the next room.

“My back hurts,” she called out, more to complain than to elicit any kind of empathetic response from her permanently preoccupied partner.

“Don’t look to me for goddamn sympathy,” he commiserated.  “Go ask ‘The Fucking Great One’ to rub it for you.”

“Hey, you wanted the coke and didn’t have the money to pay for it.”

Donnie burst into the room, wild-eyed and frothing (literally), like he was hell-bent on duffing her up a treat. “Oh, like it’s my fault!”

Rita didn’t even blink at Don’s bellicose attempt at primal manliness. “Yes, Donnie, I think in this case, it’s incontrovertibly your fault.”

“Fuck you!” he begged to differ.

“With what? You haven’t had a boner in six months, you fucking fry-out.”

Donnie flicked the toothbrush at her, wishing it were a tarantula holding a switchblade, and then grabbed his jacket.

“And where the fuck are you going? It’s only ten o’clock in the goddamn morning.”

“Tiberius wants a fucking pond dug for some stupid fucking duck.”
“Does this job pay actual money?”

Donnie rolled his bloodshot eyes. What kind of fucking moron had he shackled himself to? He explained the Goddamn obvious to her. “Oh yeah! Like I’m gonna take money from some cocksucker who fucked my wife in front of me.”

With that, he swung around haughtily and stomped out of the room.

Rita claimed her customary last word. “Can’t argue with logic like that, Kierkegaard!”

She hoped he heard her over the multiple slams of the front door.

MEANWHILE:

Amos continued to enjoy/dismember his breakfast while pontificating at will. David strained to hear the sagacious words of the master over the stentorian gurgling of his own disgruntled digestive system.

“So, were you referentially referring back to your earliest days with your mother in Journey to Sand?” he bravely interjected.

Amos’s entire empurpled body began to vibrate uncontrollably. He appeared to be on the verge of exploding like a Spinal Tap drummer, but luckily, everyone present was spared being ripped in two by fist-sized pieces of geriatric blubber-shrapnel. After a soupcon or so of stupefying fury, Drawling purged his rage by projectile horking a pomelo-sized mouthful of half-chewed food at the feet of a Nasdaq Vice President.

“Refer to that grizzled, betitted Nazgul in my gorgeous, timeless masterpiece? Fuck her!” he announced to the clouds, while refilling his masticating maw with bagel, lox and bacon. “If I ever get hired to produce an Anusol commercial, I’ll be sure to throw her name in.”

A pantiless Patti Chapkinski (you never know when it might come in handy) espied the great director from her post, waitressing a consortium of slum landlords. She excused herself from the large-watched gentlemen and swung her un-cottoned hips Drawling-ward. “Hey Fuckface, remember me?” she inquired.

A big, worried smile metastasized across his kisser, exposing his nicotine-yellowed teeth to the California sunshine. “Patti! My sweet.”

His surprising bonhomie was not immediately returned. Upon reaching the table, Patti lunged for Drawling’s champagne glass’ but Amos beat her to it (he knew the drill all to well) and anchored it to the placemat. Patti also knew the drill. She plucked a Bloody Mary off the neighboring table and Mary-naded his nutsack with it.

“The next time you audition a girl on your couch…” She turned to David and held up two fingers. “Three callbacks!” Her attention quickly returned to the object of her acid-drenched ire. “Have a fucking movie to put her in!”

With that, she marched off, the lower-curves of her ass cheeks peeking out from beneath her sea-breeze-hoisted skirt. Amos calmly retrieved ice cubes and celery stalks from his Stoli-irrigated crotch and tossed them onto the table.

“Now, I don’t want you to think badly of her,” he cautioned his pupil.
Her?” his stunned intern incredulated. “For sure, not! She trusted you…” David leaned forward, as he put voice to words too scandalous to be uttered above a whisper. “To the point of intimate relations.” He leaned back and did something vaguely scowlish, in a failed attempt at Jello-spined rebuke. “And then you betrayed her.”

“And you don’t think that I haven’t betrayed my own trust?” Amos blustered. He momentarily interrupted his earsplitting lesson in ethics to take a huge glug of Domaine Chandon. “Every time I take a drink, I break a solemn oath I swore unto God himself!” He slammed his fist onto the table for emphasis, then quickly calmed down and shrugged. “The promise I made to her is peanuts compared to that.”

He slurped the remainder of his flute down to the last bubble and yelled to no one in particular. “I want a different waitress to bring me another bottle of this shitty champagne.”

ACROSS TOWN:

Exquisitely posed between the Pacific Coast Highway and the old windy Malibu Road sat an Italian Renaissance stunner. Offering almost a third of an acre of imported marble, illegally harvested oak and pant-wetting ostentation, Villa Hoffman is where Jesus would have lived if he’d been a Republican instead of a Democrat.

Behind the imposing/threatening front gates of Casa de Cash was an entire hectare of green-drenched beatitude in requiescence. And oh, how blissful and serene it was when the lawn mowers, leaf blowers and electric hedge-cutters (and sometimes helicopters) weren’t drowning out the timeless dulcet song of the sea. That was every other weekend and Christmas Day (provided there wasn’t a murder nearby).

On top of the 20-car subterranean garage sat a kitchen the size of most people’s houses. The vast outcroppings of copper, granite and 17th century brick – swiped from a Nationally Registered Mission – made any food you cooked in it look absolutely shabby in comparison.

Standing amidst the industrial-only-much-prettier wares of this culinary cathedral was Dorothy Hoffman herself. “Dot” was in her early ’70s, but had been dyed, flattened, lifted and tucked back into her late fifties. Her husband had made a fortune importing young Filipino maids into Saudi Arabia and then forgetting about them. Thirty years ago, he passed away quite suddenly when he was shot from a speeding car. The police suspected irate hospital workers but nothing could ever be proven.

Dot, now a 36-year-old single mother with no job skills, sold her husband’s business to Koch Industries and headed west with nothing more than the shirt on her back… and millions and millions of dollars. Things were very rough at first, and she and her teenage son occasionally knew hunger (room service at the Bel-Air Hotel is notoriously slow). But Dot persevered and built a life for herself on the West Coast, and a 13,000 square foot mansion to put that life in. Hey, when you’re a mom, you make do.

Our determined dowager grumpily stirred a Mauviel M’heritage saucepan full of organic oatmeal to a consumable consistency for her ne’er-do-well son, Dashiel. Or, as he is known to people who pretend to be his friends, Dack.

“When the fuck are you gonna get a job?” she suggested.
“Moooom! I have a job,” he heehawed, and then summoned up all the dignity he could emote. “I am an actor.”

You are a douchebag. Sometimes, they’re a different things.”

Dack was sloppily draped in an Egyptian cotton bathrobe. His hair was uncombed and he was sporting three days of stubbly yuck on his feeble chin. “Besides, we’re rich,” he shrugged.

I’m rich. You’re a douchebag. And I’m leaving all my money to The Beagle Foundation. So, as soon as I’m dead, you’re flat fucking broke,” she assured him, flopping a big blobby clump of oatmeal into his bowl.

“The movie is going to start up again. Any day now!” he sulked and sprinkled three packets of Equal onto his high fiber breakfast.

“Savor that, jerk-off. Because if I drop dead watching Regis and Kathie, it’s the last meal you’ll ever eat that you didn’t have to suck a cock for.”

“Well, anytime you want me to give yours a little love, just let me know.”

Dorothy reared back in a Lefty Grove windup and kerranged her wooden oatmeal spoon off the side of his unemployed bonce. You could hear it crack against his skull all the way to the Colony.
“Mooooom!!!” His head was ringing like his phone never would.

MEANWHILE:

After successfully insulting everyone at Grunions and not-so-successfully taking a secret whiz in his champagne bucket, Amos and his Golden Horseshoe hireling were making their way back to ‘Bu House. Well, David was pretty well making the way back for both of them as Mr. Drawling was mimosa-ed right up to his cloudy septic eyeballs.
“I have a very – no vital – vital assignment for you, my lad,” he almost pronounced. “As soon as we alight upon my perron. To tarry would be the height of unwisedry.”

“Will I need my pen?” David hopefully asked.

“Only if you’re still badly constipated.”

=DV=

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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