The noonday sun was not so much a “red and ruby chalice” as a “brain-cell deep fat fryer.” While the weather where the ocean meets the land is as cool and refreshing as a mermaid’s breath, the temperature rises one degree for every foot you step eastward from the PCH. By the time you reached the Cult Mansion, you could smelt base metals in your hat. It was so hot, people were envying Jeffrey Dahmer’s fridge victims. It was positively molten.

Happily, the Great One found himself the victim of no such heat-related distress. His Tibbiness was enthroned quite comfortably in the shadow of a Livistona palm, being rhythmically fanned by two topless and comely first year Chemistry students from Pepperdine.

Six months previous, the exceedingly nubile Terri and Georgia were going door-to-door selling attractively priced periodicals. Within half an hour of ringing Tiberius’ bell, he’d converted them, fucked them and received lifetime subscriptions to Omni and Marie Claire Magazine.

The Great One languidly gazed out from his self-consecrated perch upon six worker drones sweating out their body weights as they hacked and chopped their way through the crusty, bone-dry California soil. Beside him, in addition to his jiggle-breasted air-circulation system, was Mama Duck. Royally ensconced within a silk-lined papaya crate, she patiently supervised the pond construction while safeguarding her beloved clutch. At carefully coordinated intervals, slices of cucumber and oat pellets were served her from the stomach of a naked assistant pharmacist.

Yes, Mama was one lucky ducky. Now, if she could just find the son-of-a-bitch drake who did this to her!

Out in the full day sun, on the pancake griddle of a yard, David and Donnie took turns trying to crack the clay-turned-to-kiln-fired-pottery surface. Hours of backbreaking toil and still the dirt was as hard and dry as a Walmart birthday cake.

Donnie took a momentary break from his pickaxe swinging to wipe his sopping brow. “So, you here for the coke?” he asked his fellow chain-ganger.

“Well, no, but I could sure use one. I’m as hot as a bear in a sauna out here.”

Donnie rolled his mydriasised eyes. Where did The Great One find all these Slovenian simpletons? “I mean cocaine, dipshit. What’s Tiberius paying you with?”

“Oh. Something called Tuinals?  My employer, that I’m the official chronicler of, says the medical community has despotically conspired to deny him critical relief from his perpetual state of anxiety.”

As raging rivulets of dust-infused sweat flowed down David’s legs into his filth-ridden socks, Amos was passed out on his couch with a big pile of anxiety-free vomit decorating his unlaundered shirt – an empty prescription bottle clutched in his worryingly mellow palm.

Brian Eno’s Another Green World drifted ironically out of boom box speakers as Alison and Leslie high-heeled their way towards the woozy workers with pails of cool water and those prison metal-cup-on-a-handle things. It was so arid and toasty; women were dating Vic Tayback just for his sweat patches.

Tiberius allowed his minions to bake and marinate in their own juices for a few more seconds while he gently stroked Mrs. Duck’s downy pate. The extra wait would build the anticipation – nay the desperation – and make the water taste all the sweeter. It would make his eventual generosity all the more godlike. He could practically hear their collective cutis splitting open like the mud cracks of the Atacama Desert as he subtly nodded his blessing and the girls proceeded to dampen the sun-bleached whistles of those in attendance. This liquidy largesse was received with mucho alacrity by all concerned. Between big, wet, wonderful swigs of cloud juice, David decided to proffer an inquiry.

“Just on the off chance…” Glug. Glug. “Is there any sort of a luncheon served on the premises?” Glug. Cough. Glug. “’Cause, all I’ve had to eat, the entire darn of your day, is one and a half slices of woefully unfillin’ whole wheat.”

“My pee is always crystal clear. It is never yellow,” Leslie cryptically answered with a smile.

David peered thoughtfully down into his cup. “Well, a real big congratulations on that, I guess, but is there any chance of a sandwich, also?”


The sleepy sun was just closing its reddening eye as Switch Sicksay packed up his mystical appurtenances and pocketed the scant dollars and change from his fishbowl tip jar. Arnold, the one-armed juggler waved on his way past. Rebecca, a 21-year-old Vietnamese singer who specialized in Janis Joplin tunes, trotted by, looking forward to a nice cold Buck Fizz and a long, machine-aided masturbation session in front of her pet malamute.

Switch tucked his secondhand foldable performance table up under his arm and awkwardly made his way toward the parking lot. A pigeon took a shit. Then, two seagulls took a shit. A crow dined on a mound of candy floss puke. Sparrows fucked on a rooftop, like most humans would do in a second if they didn’t have so many damn hang-ups… or fear of heights.

Ravi pulled up beside his deceivingly dexterous comrade as he struggled mightily with his cumbersome accoutrements. “Would you like a ride, Mr. Switch?” asked the pop-song sitar player, in his thick Calcutta accent.

Growing up desperately and despicably poor, Ravi had come to the States in the worst way possible… on Delta Airlines. He had dreamed of making it in Hollywood just like Ben Kingsley. Alas, his career peaked at “Taxi Driver #2” in an episode of Hardcastle and McCormick, after orally satisfying Brian Keith in the back of a doublewide Star Waggon.

Mr. Keith’s Star Waggon

Alas, his post-acting boutique on Melrose, Gandhi Candy, was even less successful than the legendarily disastrous New Delhi Deli down the street. Unfortunately, failure for the weary West Bengali was not an option. Ravi still had three child brides to support back home. With no other alternative, he switched to the surefire moneymaking strategy of preying on the outmoded stereotypes and small mindedness of the American public to bring home the bacon. So, Ravi tripled his accent, donned a pair of dhoti and a cotton kurta, and bought a sitar.

Now, to play traditional Indian music proficiently on an instrument that monumentally ugly and impractical, you need to practice ten hours a day for at least seven years. To learn the entire catalogue of Journey, Men at Work and Pablo Cruise, it took him a long weekend, allowing ample time for a big bowl of yellow rice and a couple of Kalyani Black Labels during Vasant Panchami.

Switch sooo wanted to cadge a ride from his sub-continental associate but he was sick right up to his big fat teeth of being the failure of the pier buskers. Even though he was wearing road-found underwear and magazine-sample deodorant, he still had an itsy bitsy nanoparticle of pride left, dammit!

Switch Sicksay Esquire summoned all the swagger he could muster and gave his dusky buddy an insouciant wave. “No thanks there, pal. I have my own set of wheels now.”

“Very well, my big and burly friend. Then, I shall see you on the morrow.”

Switch leaned on the driver’s door of a Subaru BRAT, as Ravi toodled up the bridge to Ocean Avenue. At just the right distance, Monsieur Magic darted over to a rickety wooden building. Behind that dodgily constructed edifice was a sawn-through bicycle lock hanging from a sea-rusted pole. Not at all what he we was expecting. Switch’s face turned as white as a Republican outreach conference. He quickly whipped his creaky hips around and hightailed it back to the parking lot.

“Ah fuck,” he sadly intoned, for Ravi and his feet-saving vehicle were but a sitar-carting dot in the distance. With toes as purple as the pig-nosed frog of the Western Ghats, Switch grabbed hold of his folding table and weapons of wizardry and began the long, long walk to his shitty, shitty apartment.


Amos was a complete wreck. His hands shook like Carol Doda’s tits at the Condor Club. The glass he was holding hurled mini-tsunamis of water onto the disgusting floor. Mummified Cheese Puffs began to rehydrate. The three-time Palm d’Or runner-up reached over and snatched the purloined prescription pills out of his employee’s outstretched fist.

“It’s about fucking time. My nerves were on the verge of bursting open like a Walmart snow tire,” he barked.

“Well, I didn’t even finish diggin’ ‘til just the other minute. And I gotta tell ya, all that talk you heard, about them servin’ up a generous noontime spread, were highly on the exaggerated side.”

Amos hungrily downed an apocalyptic dose of brain-deadening capsules and then turned to his pharmaceutical savior. “In my day, young people didn’t complain. They were grateful for what they did have.”

“A sound and commendable philosophical stance, fer sure, but all I got myself, at the moment, is a five alarm sun burn and…” David held up his raw and ravaged hands. “Spade blisters the size of my grandma’s old snow globe collection.”

Amos couldn’t wait for the Tuies to kick in and rid him of this tiresome conversation. “Then buy some goddamn work gloves, you antediluvian canker-sore.”

“Well, I’m appreciatin’ your stolid counsel. And to that point of me procurin’ much needed protective workin’ apparel. I was wonderin’ if you’d had an opportunity, at your leisure, to review my collated receipts? Possibly, within a mind to a promised timely reimbursal?”

There was a forceful knock at the door.

“That’s probably the police. They want to question you in relation to my missing silverware.”

“Me?! The police?” David’s terrified posterior tooted unashamedly.

Amos lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply as the first few calming molecules of secobarbital and amobarbital sodium began to caress the outer reaches of his central nervous system. “Now, there can be no question that a man of my talent should end up in jail, so if the evidence presented should start to turn in my direction, you must instantly confess to everything. Chances are, they’ll just give you a world class shellacking and deport you back to Mexico.”

“But I’m from Oshawa.”

The second knock at Chez ‘Bu was even louder and more officious than the first. Followed by, “Police!” That’s never good.

David swerved his head towards the door at the speed of panic. One could almost hear the plaintive theme music from The Good, The Bad and the Ugly yodel through the air as his eyes anxiously darted about. The Trix Rabbit of life’s little pleasures was about to be thwarted and punished anew.


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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