Once again, comfortably ensconced beneath a swayless palm, Tiberius continued to supervise the divinely dictated duck dig when lo! His singular and irrefutably great noggin received a cosmic command so powerful; it would have flambéed the occipital lobe of lesser prophets.

“We will need to excavate an extra deep trench in the center of our waterfowl sanctuary,” he heralded. “And the procurement of a cement mixer will also be necessary.”

This was not well received by his sun-poisoned, pick-axing peons. Tiberious waved about a voluminous vial of vacuumable Valhalla.

“For these additional labors, the purest strains of Bolivian bliss will be rendered unto you.”

This was received far more favorably.

Fawn dramatically blew a high C on the arrow-pierced bugle from the opening credits of F-Troop to give The Great One’s proclamation the “It Will Be So” seal of approval. All the needy noses began to dig, chop and haul with a noticeably increased urgency.


The snooty patrons, along with the profoundly stuck-up ocean, did their best to ignore David as he sank his hungry, under-brushed choppers into some actual food. Despite the discomfort of severely knuckle-dusted lips, Spanky ravenously scarfed his overpriced aliment and aired his well-founded grievances against L.A.’s grooviest hamlet.

“Now, I’m not sayin’ that the ‘Shwa is your paradisiacal Xanadu or nothin’, you understand. But since my arrival here, I’ve been taxied into penury, starved…” David waved a significantly scuffed finger to indicate his quickly disappearing meal, “and thanks for the much appreciated viandables, by your way.” Spanky downed a massive gulp of 25-dollar coffee and returned to the lengthy list of trespasses against him. “Falsely accused of burglarizin’ pricey silver and bein’ fiercely pummeled by the Gendarmerie.”

Leslie sensually stroked the side of his bruised face and sighed. “You sure make Oshawa sound like a wonderful place.”

Alison did not hesitate to jump onto the Motor City-adoring bandwagon. “We’d love to have you take us there sometime.”

“We sure would.” The bewildering excitement over R.S. McLaughlin’s hometown built to a fever pitch. Leslie tugged at her t-shirt to reveal a pair of breasts so beckoning they would have made Gig Young unshoot himself. “You could have sex with us in front of your old school chums!”

Alison nodded her head in cheery agreement. “Abso-fucking-lutely, you could! Bet that’d impress ‘em.”

“In front of Llew? No see, ‘cause he wouldn’t… well, maybe he might – but, no way. Not in front of Llew.”

Alison held a steaming carafe of the brewable bean under the remaining fragments of David’s nose. “More coffee, Mr. Stud Muffin?”

“Now, don’t get me wrong from a misunderstandinary point of your view or nothin’. Far from it.” The caffeinous fumes finally penetrated the mashed-up tissue and membranes of his olfactory chemoreceptors. “Well, maybe just a half cup more of the joe.”

Alison poured and David returned to the core of his disquietude. “You’d be more than welcome to come and have a VIP Oshawarinian visit. With the big time pomp of your circumstances and everything. Though, you might want to consider waitin’ until it warms up a bit.”


A pernicious and paralyzingly algid purga flagellated the despondent streets and heartsick houses. Vast sheets of white misery scoured the cowering neighborhoods in search of prey.

You could hear the air crying. Huddled inside oil-heated havens, the collective consciousness cantillated, “Only three-and-a-half more months till spring. Only three-and-a-half more months till spring!”

Deep inside his wretched windowless basement bedroom, wrapped in a blanket of the finest polyester blend, shivered Boden – famous blowjob receiver and emergency substitute curler. On a recent trip to the Rama Junk Store, he’d purchased the aforementioned itchy coverlet and a set of tapes confidently claiming to teach even the most wooden-tongued among us to speak fluent Spanish in 352 easy lessons.

“Why, this could come in real handy if I ever raise enough dough to vacation in Cuba,” thinks he. “Puedo lamer tu trufeo de falda,” he recited back to the Panasonic cassette machine through chattering teeth.


”So, there’s absolutely no way we can convince you to change your dreamboat mind and remain here with us, in our humble little village by the sea?” queried a hopeful Alison.

Both girls leaned in seductively (as only girls can), in a brazen boob-brushing attempt to sway his answer in their favor. Leslie’s finger slowly circled her favorite nipple (well, everybody’s favorite nipple), as she batted her eyes of unadulterated, glistening sex pudding. All but the stoutest of heart and purest of heart would surely have fallen before this ultimate alter of womanly boob-a-liscious bedevilment. The raging seas of semen pounded ceaselessly at the hull of his penile pinnace, but Spanky’s concupiscent keel did not crack. Our stalwart and incorruptible hero bravely held firm, though a small part of him did need to be readjusted.

“I’m sorry to say that the horn has already honked on that particular eventuality. And, as appealing and spookily friendly as you two girls are, I’m afraid I’m going to have to take a real hard line on this here stand I’m takin’.”

“We understand, don’t we Sis?” Alison pouted.

”We sure do,” lamented Leslie, pushing a glass in front of David and re-blinking her sex-pudding eyes. Sigh. Had there ever been a bonnier lass, as innocent in intent as she? “Can you try this ice tea for me to see if it’s sweet enough?”

“Ah, fer sure.”

Sip. Boing!

The world turned as black as an evening at the Apollo. All sense of time and place – and even knowing where your nards were – vanished in a swirl of what-the-fuck-was-in-that-drink nothingness. The somnolent bells of midnight were ringing loudly in his parietal lobe. He was hopelessly trapped in the darkest room of existence, where God and The Devil fuck.

But slowly – glacially – the intermingling mists of Nyx began to lift. The world extant came back into focus. First, as a microscopic dot and then expanding to the whole megillah shebang, like an old Sony Trinitron. And that world before him was not a pretty picture.


Amos Drawling lumpily hovered over his drowsily drugged disciple, grinning like a rectally tickled snow monkey. It did not take David even one shake of a lamb’s tale to discover that he had awoken as naked as Sleeping Beauty at a dwarf orgy. Amos grasped the unintentional ecdysiast by the ears and planted a big, nicotine-flavored wet one on Spanky’s cheek.

“I must need my head examined, but I’m willing to give you a second chance and take you back,” he graciously announced.


“But, I’m the victim, here! I was pulverized.”

Amos rolled his hazy cadaver eyes. “You’re perfect for this business. You can’t think of a single goddamn thing but yourself.”

David managed to up at least a fraction of his dander. “That maybe is as like, but I’ve decided – after considerable deliberation – that I ain’t cut out for this super glamorous lifestyle of inestimable glitter. I wanna go back home and maybe work at the key kiosk with Llew.”

“Llew? Who the fuck is Llew?”

“He’s good people, is who the darn Llew is. A friend to anyone who has a door that needs lockin’. An honest tradesman who tirelessly toils so folks don’t have to sleep on top of their most stealable stuff.”

Drawling’s face turned the color of Ube Ice Cream. “Is that a fucking fact? Why, Aung San Suu Kyi is a cock-sucking whore compared to your pal. Is the Nobel Prize Committee out of their goddamn mind? Have you written to Woodward and Bernstein about this?”

Aung San Suu Kyi

David attempted to continue his thought. “So, I was hopin’ that it might be possible for me to borrow a portion of my owed salary in order to elicit my homeward return?”

“You can’t leave now, you inconsiderate fuck-wit,” protested Amos, grinning from heavily waxed ear to heavily waxed ear. “Don’t you see? You’re my muse.”

“Your what?” David looked suspiciously about his person. “And why am I naked again?”

The fiery auteur had no time to get bogged down in a lowly employee’s trivial concerns for his anal rectitude. There was important work to be done. “Follow me!” Amos hoarsely commanded as he seesawed out of the room.

David arose and vainly attempted to cover his very public privates with his hand as he Igor-ed behind Amos down the hallway.


Click. “Mi fabrica de esperma pinos por un beso de tu labios.”


Ancient erinaceous mold, general filth and the corpses of untold insects were sent flying about the room as Amos euphorically yanked at a ragged ancient tarp beneath his soiled and crusty mattress. David continued to conceal his lady pleaser (what Shakespeare so eloquently referred to as “The Big Nosed Smith Brother) and gazed upon a massive collection of old film canisters.

“Behold, a cinematic triumph for the ages! You may weep unashamedly if this moment is too overwhelming.”

“Is there some sort of movie in all of those?”

“Not some movie. THE movie! Thirty-eight-years-and-counting in the making. The genius of me, captured as never before. An orgasm for the eyes and a weekend in the Poconos with Heather Locklear for the soul.”

“That sure seems like a lot of cans. How long is it?”

“The length of a film is BULLSHIT!” he caterwauled. “1900 was five hours and twenty minutes, and that flabby celluloid also-ran is an inconsequential pipsqueak, compared to this visionary epic.”

“Well, it sure sounds long enough to be a real good movie, but how come nobody ain’t seen it yet?”

“Because it isn’t finished, you turd-humping paramecium.” The castigating director’s mood immediately brightened. “But now – thanks to you…” Amos grabbed David’s baffled head and kissed him heartily on the temple. “The end is nigh!”

“I’m still not gettin’ ya.”

“The unbearable, shameful fact is; I haven’t written or filmed a single solitary second of this incomparably majestic tour de force in three long fallow years. But then, you and your incomprehensible accent darken my door and…” Amos strode proudly over to his stupendously messy dresser and picked up a crinkled stack of paper and waved it triumphantly in the pewy air. “Bladau!”


“I magically and brilliantly penned twenty-seven brand spanking new pages of unspeakably divine glory while you were being beaten up in jail. And then! Just this very morning, a big beautiful check arrived in the mail. Don’t you see? You are my gift from the Gods!”

David’s face brightened. “You have money?”

“Apparently, HBO is doing some sort of weeklong festival on troubled geniuses.” Amos haphazardly shrugged. “The point is: what was lost is now found. What was once shackled and caged can now take flight. What was…”

“Did I mention to ya that I have receipts?”

Amos gazed at his genital-gripping assistant with a dismissive sneer. ­“Put some goddamn clothes on. You have absolute scads of important work to do.”

Amos marched off in search of cigarettes and a whisky sour. David waddled after him in hopes of eventually bedecking his beef whistle.


A sadistic searing sun tortured the cracked and shriveled tarmac. The crisp dry air robbed babies of their tears. A toxic soup of industrial fumes and car exhaust had replaced the clouds of winter. The mournful groans of weary air conditioners filled the scorching, choking air. Street lamp poles envied the trees for their ability to die. It was too hot for the spotted towhee to sing. Roadkill squirrels were baked and ready to eat in less than ten minutes. Rugged-chinned lotharios where proposing to fat women just for the shade. Just another day in the Inland Empire.

Suddenly, screams of abject excruciation emanated from within one of the thousands of identical Spanish style houses.

Gray-the-bartender’s sister Barbara was a beautician by trade. She specialized in dying melanomas to match your skin color. Anything from the size of a sunflower seed up to a salad plate. Still fairly attractive at forty-five, Babs was augmenting the sex lives of several married neighbors in order to help pay for her son’s tuition to dentistry school. Usually it was the husband or the wife, but the Davenports of two doors down liked to spit-roast her while watching highlights of Connie Chung reading the news.

Barbara couldn’t even count the number of Rusty Trombones and Ass-To-Mouths she’d performed to purchase the antique dentist chair in her living room, but she was now so close to fulfilling her dream, she could taste it… so to speak.

Switch was occupying this ancient dispenser of oral agony while Bab’s young, gangly lad attempted to remove a well-anchored bicuspid from the hapless magician’s jaw. Kevin was not the brightest of bulbs. Heck, he wasn’t even the brightest of dentists! His fellow students had nicknamed him Quasimolar for his uncanny ability to inflict Inquisition-level pain on patients, no matter how high the dose of lidocaine. During his years at the school, he’d huffed so much laughing gas that people now got the giggles when he farted.

A hopeful mother bore witness to the proceedings as she sipped on a coke. She wasn’t especially thirsty – and certainly didn’t need the empty calories – but she was scheduled to piss on Mr. Harle as he ejaculated at four. It was all a matter of timing.

Junior leveraged himself against the side table as he twisted and twisted and pulled at the stubborn tooth in an effort to loose it from its mooring. Switch’s stentorian screams of incisor sufferage were so resounding, the American flag on the moon fluttered.

“We can’t thank you enough Mr. Siksay,” Barbara beamed. “If he fails the exam this time, he has to wait two more years to take it again.”

“AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!” he kindly replied.



The expensive ocean breeze that dutifully cools the beaches for the benefit of billionaires and their buxom second wives could not be bothered to mitigate the Bataan-Death-March conditions up at the dig site. It was like West Covina, but without the Taco Bells and Kentucky Fried Chickens. The road was long and with many a winding turn, but nobody had a brother and everything was heavy. The skin “of those who toiled” was crispy, brown and bumpy like a Thanksgiving turkey. The Earth was making them pay a heavy, heavy price for their wages of Wahoo.

“So, where’s that Canadian fag?” Donald, the magnificent, inquired.

“They’re called homosexuals, Donnie,” Alison corrected the spade-wielding prick. “And Spanky is definitely not of their persuasion.”

Leslie nodded in agreement. “He porked The Mother cross-eyed the other night. The Great One has declared him to be one of The Chosen.”

“What?” Donnie’s mood darkened like the clouds above a Presbyterian picnic. “That fucking queer only showed up here three seconds ago. I’ve put years into this! I should be one of The Chosen. I have served Him well.”

“You’ve served your nose well,” Alison continued to correct.

Leslie expertly plunged her hand down the front of Donnie’s sweaty sweats and jiggled his stewy, muculent equipment. “Sigh. It just doesn’t work anymore, Donnie.”

“And if you can’t whip up a woody with Leslie fingering your joint, then your whoopee-wand is well and truly dead.”

“You’re just no use to The Mother or The Sons and Daughters of the New World Order in your present pensile condition.”

Alison pulled out a small bag of cocaine from her buttery cleavage and waved it in front of his pissed-off proboscis. “Of course, you could always forswear this Peruvian pick-me-up and get your nuts back in working order…”

Donnie deliberated imperceptibly before bitterly snatching the bag.

“I didn’t think so. Enjoy your lunch.”

The ever-so-doable duo turned away to attend to the nasal needs of the other laborers.


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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