To some, the rising sun brings the promise of all that is possible. It bathes the world in light, warmth and hope. Birds joyously sing in tribute to its wondrous quotidian arrival. Church bells peal in celebration of a new day being birthed. Cranberries pretty well don’t do anything at all – but they’re the exception.

By dawn’s early light, Tiberius was already decked out in full “Great One” regalia. The time and trouble required for the elaborate face decoration and eyebrow plucking alone would have reduced most manly men to weeping Wilmas, or even sobbing Sallys, but not his Tibsi-ness!

He perched resplendent and all-wise upon his twiggy throne as the tantalizingly topless twins decorated his sides, tickling their pink, pert nipples on his fluffy, multi-colored shoulder plumage. Velisurmaaja by Niekku plucked its way along on the mansion sound system.

The Great One held the official Cult Mansion Phone to his ear. It was the exact same one Alfred used to answer in the Wayne Manor study and purchased, along with Julie Newmar’s IUD, at a 20th Century Fox prop auction in the mid 1980s.

“Thank you for this troubling information,” he gravely spoke. “It is not something I had not, myself, anticipated.” Tiberius dramatically placed the crimson receiver back into the cradle and turned to his two tit ticklees. “Your friend from the north is in the hoosegow.”

Oh dear! Time to go find a T-Shirt!


At first, there was a fist. Then, there was a face. The former was a heck of a lot happier than the latter. And you didn’t have to be Richard Feynman to figure out which of the two aforementioned body parts belonged to Mister David Fairburn Sobanski.

POW! The rough and craggy knuckles of justice laid waste to nose and cheek of the suspect, crushing cartilage and bone alike. Spanky found himself flat on his back in the sparsely adorned interrogation room at the Malibu city jail. His head was ringing like the J. Arthur Rank gong. The back of his skull hit the concrete so hard, he could taste some spearmint gum imbedded in the unwashed cement. David was about to admit to the Lindbergh Baby kidnapping when Officer Sturch reached down and avulsed him from his resting place. Now, in a dizzyingly upright position, Spanky attempted, with trembling fingers, to feel what was left of his shockingly shattered schnoz.

“But, I’m innocent,” he squealed.

Sturch drew back his long arm of the law and hay-makered Dave’s sinuses up through the top of his cranium.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t quite hear that,” he apologized.

Thoughts of “Fnerk” and “Blozwald” raced through David’s battered mind as he once again laid his head to rest on the concrete floor at twenty miles an hour. Blood was now oozing from his pummeled proboscis and he was pretty sure that a blobfish was winking at him. “You’ve got the wrong fella,” he groggily protested. “I was a scout.”

The grim-faced, jack-booted member of the Thin Blue Line towered over this fallen former follower of Robert Baden Powell. Spanky’s neckerchief and three-fingered salute would afford him no safe harbor here. Protecting the God-given rights of the rich oft times called for measures that were not according to Hoyle and those of lofty finances had a steadfast guardian of their pricey accumulations in Officer Helmut Sturch. His liberal use of over-the-top violence and intimidation against the disenfranchised and downtrodden had made him a true hero amongst the hopelessly highfalutin’.

Sturch dramatically pulled a leather studded glove onto his favorite fist and ominously cracked his knuckles before David’s badly bludgeoned beak. “Looks like we’re going to have to do this the hard way.”

“Yer sayin’ this was the easy part??”

But the fates were partially on our bloodied-but-bowed Canadian’s side. Milliseconds before Sturch began to enthusiastically pound David’s skull into talcum powder, Officer McLaughlin popped his Aryan head into the room. “Sorry to disturb you while you’re working, but some important police business just came up.”

Rats! There was just something so special when Sturch broke a man’s jaw. The initial “crack,” followed by the garbled groans and unintelligible begging as the victim’s mangled mandible lolled around at the bottom of his fist-fractured face. Still – now he had something to look forward to upon his return.

“Hold that thought, fuckball. I’ll be right back,” Helmut kindly assured his prisoner as he crunched David’s severely smushed nose between his thumb and forefinger and twisted. Spanky shrieked and screamed like a Drekavac with an impacted molar.


Alison and Leslie glowed like incandescent angels as they halfheartedly inspected the uninspiring objet d’art strewn about Sturch’s unimpressive office. Alison picked up a picture of the volatile officer’s narrow-eyed saturnine family and shuddered. What unconscionable conjoining of sperm and ovum was responsible for this ghastly and unsightly brood?

“When I perspire, my skin tastes like apricot jam,” Leslie announced to no one in particular.

“You are so fucking sexy,” Alison dripped. “If only you weren’t my sister.” She grabbed her bubbly, buoyant sibling and pulled her as close as the laws of physics permitted. Within a blink, their girlie mouths collided in a kiss for the ages. Tender, teasing tongues intimately entwined, afloat in the sybaritic, Sapphic syrup of incestual lust. Alison’s imprudent hand headed heavenward, breaching her twin’s hemline and wantonly trespassing upon the plump succulent fruit of her modesty. Limber and oh-so-lickable legs generously parted to welcome this unhallowed congress. Alison’s thumb alighted on the slippery tumescent flesh of Leslie’s inner sanctum and languorously journeyed the length of her sapid and savory lady-lips to the very epicenter of her womanhood. Yowsa! But, like in every really, wonderfully spicy dream you’ve ever had…


Officer Sturch strode into the room like Caesar returning from slaughtering the Gauls. Upon hearing the approaching scrunch of his maniacally polished boots, our bra-crossed lovers hurriedly broke free of their lesbo lip-lock and feminine fondling. Leslie smiled, and for a brief moment, all sorrow west of Winnemucca Nevada ceased. Alison pointedly tasted her glistening thumb in front of the strong-jawed lawman as she pulled an impressively sized Baggie of local-loco out of her backpack.

“I wasn’t expecting you ‘til tomorrow,” he sternly rebuked them – while avariciously eying the precious bag of chuckles and munchies.

Alison insouciantly tossed the plastic sack of giggle-goodies onto his desk and shrugged. “We were just in the neighborhood.”

“I just love neighborhoods, don’t you?” Leslie swooned and three men in a nearby office building experienced unexpected boners.

Officer Sturch pulled a big man-wallet out of his finely pressed uniform pocket and wrangled a small herd of Benjis.

“Getting to know someone?” Alison innocently inquired, eying the small splashes of blood on his shirt.

Sturch tossed Alison a wad of cash and smirked. “Some fucking foreigner robbed that drunken shitbag of a writer near the Malibu Inn last night.” He deposited his beloved illegals in the desk drawer and continued his Jack Webb-like summation of the case. “Probably pawned the stuff to buy drugs. I’ll beat it out of him… eventually.”

“Not that ordinary-looking Canadian boy?” our story’s most winsome cherub queried.

“We ran into him last night and invited him back to see The Great One.”

Sturch’s beady eyes darted off in the direction of the interrogation room and then back. “That weedy little fuck, who can hardly speak English?”

”Uh huh. The Mother was ‘as one’ with him,” Leslie further elucidated, as she rolled her heart-stopping peepers. “And you know The Mother… once she gets started being ‘as one’ with somebody.”

Alison stuffed the green and wrinkleds teasingly down her sister’s perfect-pink cleavage. “He was there all night, squealing like a stuck pig.”

Officer Sturch squeezed his unrequited knuckles till they popped.


A speeding squad car swerved suddenly off the badly maintained tarmac and ground to a halt in front of a bone-dry cliff face. The back door swung open and a decidedly roughed-up David, along with his battered beezer, were tossed onto the recently rearranged gravel. The cruiser then squealed away, leaving our poor Canuck choking on a lethal combination of highway-shoulder dust and fascist-bully-boy exhaust.

Spanky struggled to his feet and coughed heartily. He lugubriously swiveled his nicked-up neck-knob around in an effort to surveil the uninviting surroundings. What the heck – besides dying slowly of dehydration and being eaten by vultures – was he going to do now?

A few seconds passed and David’s dark future ominously failed to brighten. His lacerated limbs screamed out for a soothing poultice. His clothes were ripped and raggedy. An embedded piece of rock fell out of his knee-socket.

Finally, when all seemed lost – and we’re talking a good two to two-and-a-half minutes here – the McCarten jeep miraculously appeared – as the Angel Gabriel did before Zechariah – but with a slightly wobbly rear tire and an unlicensed driver. The passenger door of salvation opened up and a dented and dolorous David obligingly hobbled onto the torn velour upholstery. Several hungry coyotes howled in peckish disappointment.

Meanwhile, the very glum but uneaten Oshawarian, sporting a sickeningly splattered snoot and liberally bloodied shirt, sat in the rear as the girls zipped along the thin ocean thoroughfare. He carefully inspected his newly acquired road rash, finding it extremely sensitive to the touch.

“Why Spanky, fancy meeting you here!” Leslie declared in her faux-est astonishment.

“Were you out grabbing yourself a lungful of our brisk ocean air?” added Sister Dear as she swerved about the asphalt.

Their unbridled glee was not contagious. David’s pouty face would have put many a cartoon hound dog to shame. “I wanna go home,” he announced to the car full of pretty but crestfallen ears.

“No Spanky! You can’t leave us,” Leslie protested.

“We were just getting to know you,” Alison took her eyes off the oncoming traffic to opine.

“We sure were. Do you have a favorite movie or color?”


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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