Darrell Vickers – The Last Three Chapters of ‘Bu House

Before we start the second volume of ‘Bu House next week, please enjoy the exciting last 3 episodes of Volume One. Darrell Vickers is the Master of Twisted Tales….

Chapter 11 – Is It True?

Villa Hoffman was abuzz (in more ways than one). Dack was hosting a gala gathering of motley hangers-on and wannabe freeloaders. Mr. Poor Little Rich Boy pompously held court while the gathered greedily helped themselves to various catered snacks and beverages off an ornate cocktail cart. The lavishly decorated hooch wagon was being manned by the ever-patient, tuxedoed family manservant.

Conrad Widish had been with the family for decades, but it felt like a lot longer. He’d earned every wrinkle on his well-lined face and more. Being in service to unspeakably privileged cunts certainly had its drawbacks but nevertheless, he was determined to stick it out. Widish had been secretly skimming a little off the top of the household expenses since the Kennedy administration. Just a couple more years and he’d have enough put aside to slit Dorothy’s throat and catch a flight to Tahiti. Even as he poured fruity concoctions for the dramaturgically deficient, he could already hear the soft, warm waves crashing outside his beach hut and the air escaping though the gurgling blood-filled hole in his mistress’s panicked trachea.


Big showbiz-type news was afoot. Enquiring minds were about to know. Patti, Rita and Switch had been summoned to Swank Town to hear Artie’s new and red-hot poop. Only Artie didn’t get to poop it.

“Arthur here, says that he delivered an envelope from The Stein/Kelner agency to ‘Bu House this morning,” Dack blurted out.

Artie nodded his head in hot-poop confirmation.

“Do you think it’s money?” Switch mumbled and winced. He was gingerly holding a bag of 7-11 ice against his brutally de-populated jawbone.

Even though he’d received a deluxe “in-depth” blowjob from Babs to say thank you for his participation in her son’s future, his mind was occupied elsewhere. Tragically, all of her awesome oral ministrations and scrotum massaging (usually a fifteen dollar premium, except on Half-and-Half Tuesdays) were drowned out by the deafening thought of “Please! Please! Somebody saw my fucking head off!!!”

Even though it felt like someone had hammered Pierre Burton’s Last Spike up through his coronal suture, it had been an eon since sweet Eros has smiled down upon him. So, he gratefully let her suck on his weenie for about a half hour until she had to leave to pee on Mr. Hale.

“Could be,” smirked Dack.

”I heard they’re playing Journey to Sand on HBO,” interjected Rita, before shoving a fistful of Bugles into her mouth.

“More Sangria, sir?” inquired Widish, proffering a large jug of fruity intoxicants.

“Christ, Widish. Fuck the hell off,” Dack thanked him, waving his glass about like he was trying to catch raindrops. “If the glass is empty, just fill it the fuck up. We’re talking about some very serious shit here.”

“My apologies, sir.”

“I seen a whole bunch of his stuff at Blockbuster the other day,” Switch mumbled.

“That’s mostly his lesser works, but it still adds up,” Dack sagely bullshitted.

Rita switched to the Fiddle Faddle. Artie was mixing the freeze dried bananas with M&Ms. No one was even touching the Welch’s Fruit Snacks.

Patti downed the remainder of her Peach Moon and threw her hat into the conversational ring. “Maybe we could ask that Swedish guy who’s staying with him.”

“I hear, through the Malibu grapevine, that he’s originally from of those new ‘Stans’ that used to be part of the Soviet Union. And supposedly he likes it a little rough in the boudoir.”

“Fuck-the-fuck off, Widish.” Dack nibbled the corner off a Welch’s Fruit Snack and threw the rest of it into the pool. “The only thing that’s important at this moment in time is: Valerie doesn’t find out.”


Valerie Zhang was Drawling’s wife No. 3 and youngest of the herd. She was nineteen on their blessed wedding day and Amos was deceased. Unfortunately for Val, the cardio paddles managed to bring him back around and then she discovered that her new husband was even poorer than his health.

After six months of spreadin’ ‘em for a diseased, balding Morlock, Valerie had had enough. There wasn’t a douche in the universe strong enough to scour his foul, fetid, caustic cum from the walls of her vaginal canal. And the bone-chilling tobacco-tinged moan at his carnal conclusion made her want to run her brain over a cheese grater till all sentient thought became a pizza topping. Two choices presented themselves. Rather than throw herself into the heart of the nearest raging tire fire, Valerie decided to file for divorce and sue her chubby hubby for everything he had. Alas, following an exhaustive review of his finances, all Amos “had” was a hacking cough and infrequent but bazooka-like bowel movements.

Since departing ‘Bu House for a split-level, not-nearly-to-code, sure-fire-death-trap-in-the-case-of-an-earthquake condo, her unsightly rashes were appreciably smaller and the “night screams” had slowed. Val had also found physical solace in a tennis instructor named Maury Morrison. He possessed a ten-inch penis and a four-inch brain. The perfect ratio for squirt inducing rumpy-pumpy without a neutrino’s worth of emotional attachment. Initially, Valerie was gifting him the use of her uterus for shits and giggles, but once Amos’s checks started to bounce, she had had to backdate her fun tunnel to settle the bill. Maury volunteered to help Val move into her new, very dodgy abode and then… he fucked her and he fucked her and he fucked her. Mr. Sports was completely – sometimes painfully – insatiable. But, dull-Minded Maury was also good at lifting heavy stuff and keeping Amos from sniffing about, so he was allowed to hang around until someone suitably rolling-in-it came along.

The 22-inch Zenith TV with digital tuning blared away in the sparsely decorated living room as the owner took a much-needed break from having her coochie stretched. Deciding she’d had enough of everyone’s most beloved, family man and funny man, O.J. Simpson, she clicked over to pirated HBO. A flashy graphic stopped her channel-flipping thumb in its tracks.

“The Works of Amos Drawling All This Week on HBO!”

Valerie put down her mega-gimlet and turned to her ultra-buff, big-balled beau.

“We need to get over to ‘Bu House immediately. Put your pants on and get the car out.”


Rita knocked on the weathered, wooden front door and hiked-up her surgically enhanced tits until it looked like she had a second set of cheeks. A few seconds later, David’s slowly healing face popped out of the overpriced cottage.

“Hey there. Is there somethin’ I can help you with?” he genially gestured.

“My car broke down on the PCH and I’m pregnant. She lifted her blouse, exposing her beach ball of a belly. “I fear that those with ill-intent will seek to touch me with ‘hands not of a gentleman.’”

“Gee. Those would sure be bad hands to be touched with, all right.” Dave gave a worried glance up and down the road for just such nefariously fingered individuals. All he could see were three seagulls pecking their way into a crumpled up Jack In The Box bag. “Would you like to come inside and perhaps use the phone?”

“You are a treasure from beyond the heavens.” Rita gave David a huge kiss, dragging her tongue across the roof of his mouth, as she walked on past him. “I only hope my water doesn’t break and you’re forced to deliver this piece of shit on your living room floor.”

David winced, post pucker, and checked to see if his swollen lips had started bleeding again.

Upon entry, Rita attempted to visually inspect her bubonic surroundings while also being the perfect combination of “with child” and coquettish. “My goodness,” she faux gushed, “I bet the man who lives in a house such as this must get an awful lot of mail.”


“Well, to live right here, on the very edge of an entire continent. He must be a pretty important person. And important people get a lot of mail.”

David scratched his ass to help him recollect. “Some days, I suppose. I haven’t been here for that many of his deliveries.”

“Perhaps even checks.”

Even our quick-blinking, slow-thinking Canadian found this to be an odd inquiry. “Checks? You’re askin’ if Amos gets checks?”

Time to change subject. “Not The Amos Drawling, the famous writer/director?!!”

“That’s the fella. I’m his official chronicler.” David’s pigeon chest inflated ever so slightly.

“Ooooo!” Rita re-gushed. “You are sooo lucky. I read about him. He’s represented by the Stein/Kelner Agency, isn’t he?”

“Wow! That’s, pretty well of your like, uncanny.”

Rita rubbed her bulbous tummy and grimaced. “God. I’m so fucking pregnant I could crap a blind pig. Can you get me a can of soda? Famous people usually keep them in the mini fridge behind the bar on the lower-level.”

“You know about his fridge?”

Uh oh! Too much said. The cobwebbed and corroded wheels began to turn in Spanky’s rusty skull. Emergency! Emergency!

Rita yanked her blouse open, exposing a nice pair of nature’s baby canteens. “Do my breasts look hideously swollen to you? They say if you have an orgasm, it relieves some of the stress and nipple fatigue.”

David’s cobwebbed and corroded wheels screeched to an abrupt halt.


The Cleveland night was as cold as Lee Van Cleef’s stare. Snow fluttered reluctantly to the ground, trying its best not to land on the grimy, unswept sidewalks. Bryan Adams warbled “(Everything I Do) I Do It For You” from the tinny car radio as Mike waited for his victim and fantasized about a big box of Tim Bits. It wasn’t until “Rush, Rush” by Paula Abdul pulsed out of the speakers that Mr. X showed his soon-to-be-dead head. Mike squinted at his quarry from across the way and reexamined the 8X10. You can’t be too careful about these things. Once the identity was confirmed, he tossed the pic aside and pulled into traffic. The hunt was on.


The sweltering winter sun was about to set below the sleepy, salty horizon. The ocean was as calm as a baby dining on breast milk and Quaaludes. Chinless toffs and their well-racked third wives were digging into sautéed fennel P.E.I. mussels and warm Spanish octopus at V’s Restaurant and Bar. The coke lines and good times were just beginning.

Back at the mansion, Dack, Patty, Switch and Artie passed around a joint while bopping to “Painkiller” by Judas Priest on a taped-together boom box. By this point, they were fucking motherless. Vast amounts of carbs and sodium had been consumed. Widish continued to drown the vastly untalented in premium brand mixers laced with high-quality distillates.

“So, how do ya suppose Rita is doing?” Switch mithered. “D’ya think she’s found out about the money yet?”

Dack sucked on a fat one and blathered amidst rib-cracking coughs. “Women like Rita have a special way of dealing with men. She’ll get it out of him.”


Rita was as naked as a cheerleader during Exam Week. Her fervid growler-grinding drove David’s startled genitalia deep within her cock-crushing cum cavern. His guileless glans, which, until this unexpected trip to Glitzville, had known only the loving, gentle touch of his own hand, had now been subjected to two wanton wang whippings of the most callous variety. Dave had been jumped, humped and pumped. He’d been sucked, fucked and thoroughly plucked. Back in Oshawa, Spanky couldn’t have gotten this kind of action if he’d poured Molson Ex on his dick in the middle of the Legion Hall.

As Rita feverishly rocked her hedonistic hips back and forth on top of his shooter, David dug his fingernails into the dirt-filled shag rug in search of merciful purchase. The long, ghastly-colored, poor-quality thread of the living room carpet tore at his back as he was driven further and further towards Japan by Rita’s punishing pelvic thrusts. Air was becoming harder to come by, buried under her dewy, pendulous preggo paunch. If she didn’t find unilateral empyreal release soon, he feared for the chromosomal integrity of his future progeny.

“If this ain’t helpin’ with your upper privates’ discomfort?” he offered, “I got some generic aspirin in my portmanteau.”


The doobs had grown substantially in size and the intellectual level of conversation had devolved to a notch just above grunting. Artie was doing his best to look up Patti’s short skirt but focusing in on “the prize” was becoming more of a challenge by the minute.

Switch was so wasted he could almost chew without gigantic lightning bolts of pain setting his lower mandible alight. “It’s really hard being a real-life movie star for years only your movie ain’t come out yet,” he winced and frowned.

”Tell me about it,” Dack burbled as he threw an empty packet of Tostitos at Widish. “Go get me some more of these, you shit-eating shit-teeth.”

Widish calmly retrieved the rudely discarded bag and walked off as his master giggled and farted at his own wit.

“And hurry the fuck up!”

Switch continued to ramble. This time to Patti. “I knew from a very young age that I was destined for the silver screen. My delicate facial bone structure cries out for the lights of a soundstage.”

Artie just about had the perfect angle. A riveting sight that he would recount in his lonely mind’s eye at wank time (immediately following “Real Life with Jane Pauley” on Friday nights) for the next six months. She just needed to part her knees another inch or so…

“I once had to let a casting director ‘do it’ in my shoe to get a ‘five lines or less’ on The Torkelsons,” Patti divulged. She shuddered at the memory and took a behemoth hit off the joint. “I have more than paid my fucking dues. This is my time.”

Dack reacted as every performer worth his born-to-emote salt would. “That casting director… is he attracted to men’s shoes at all?”

The noble assemblage of thespians sub-par excellence took a quick gander at their own foot apparel and considered the career possibilities.


Tiberius – in the full splendor of his kabuki/owl makeup – was playing host in the mansion’s Great Room. He and Amos were seated on a small, eclectically decorated riser, sipping very expensive tequila and sharing a pipe of reality-shredding hash. Alison and Leslie sat cross-legged and topless before them. They smelled of sex, bald men and cigars you can only get in Russian airports. Traditional Laotian music played on the stereo.

”Not that I don’t appreciate the Clase Azul and the truly excellent Malana Cream but, is there a reason for this gracious and unexpected invitation?” Amos inquired, his head spinning like the dry cycle on a Whirlpool Top Loader.

“You are here because the Elders of Creation…”

“Blessed be the Elders,” chanted the heavenly chorus.

“… have decreed that someone must die tonight.”

Amos’s wizen mug betrayed a skosh of concern as the generously breasted Fawn poured another liberal splash of $7,000 tequila into his chalice.

“Please. Drink up,” Tiberus beamed, slapping his guest between the shoulder blades.

Amos’s expression now betrayed an entire Indian Tribe of concern as he stared into his refreshed 80 proof potation.


Things were far from the picture of domestic bliss oft painted by Rockwell and his ilk. There were no adorable kiddie-winkies purchasing Nutty Buddies off a rosy-cheeked non-pedophile Good Humor man here. No mixed-breed cutie canine stumping his pipe-smoking owner at chess. No bobby-socked ingénues wearing plain white panties you couldn’t penetrate with a pneumatic drill. There was only Donny maniacally yanking books and bric-a-brac off shelves and generally throwing an epic shit fit.

“Where the fuck is it?” he bellowed, shattering a Capo-Demonte shepherdess and her colorful crook against the apartment wall.

“You snorted it all days ago, you big stupid fuck,” his loving wife comforted him.

He brandished a threatening but shaky fist in her vague direction.

“Fuck you! You did it without me.”

Rita gave him the finger and then aimed it at her distended gravy boat. “Look at me, you jelly-brained sniff-pig. I haven’t done snow in seven-and-a-half goddamn months.”

“Then, where the fuck is it?!”

“Maybe I left it over at Amos’s house, when I was balling that Croatian kid.” She took a small beat to recall the startling finish to Spanky’s penile performance. “God, it shot out of him like his dick was a can of Reddi-whip.”

At first, Donnie turned the color of barbecued eggplant. You could have named a John Woo film after the jealous rage within him, but then a glimmer of hope softened his sulfuric demeanor. “Did you fuck him for coke?”

“No. I fucked him to get fucked. I fucked him because he could actually get a fucking hard on.”

The green-eyed monster reemerged faster than Derek Jeter’s herpes soars. “That goddamn son of a bitch. I’m going to stab that fucker’s ass all the way back to the Baltic.”

“Croatia is in the Balkans, you uneducated trilobite.”

This subtle but important geographical distinction was all but lost on Dandy Don. He grabbed his coat.

“And where the fuck are you going, as if I didn’t know?”

“We’re out of toothpaste!” screamed Donnie as he fisted the keys to the truck.

“Are you snorting Crest now?” she called after him, but he was gone with a wood-splintering slam of the door.

Rita allowed a few seconds to elapse before pulling the much disputed bag of numb fun out of her cleavage and kissing it.

“Just another dreary month, my love.”

She rubbed it gently against her cheek like it was Brett Kavanaugh’s cock at a frat party. Ring! The phone interrupted her moment of rhapsodic rhinocentric romance. She answered it, but continued to cuddle her baggie of ultimate jubilation.


Anxious ears awaited her news. Rita cruelly paused to build up the desperate, cloying suspense on the other end of the wire. “There is a check, and it’s big enough.”


Chapter Twelve – Toothpaste, Death and Pee Pee


David huffed and puffed like a janitorial wolf as he attempted to plunge whatever Amos had deposited in his unlucky toilet down to murky mucky depths of the septic tank. He wiped his tacky, grossed-out forehead with the back of his forearm and gingerly rearranged his oh-so-tender snapper slapper.

As a youth, and even as a young man of two-and-a-half days previous, David had possessed various expectations and mental images of what the much heralded act of sexual conjointment would entail. How it would feel. The unappetizing things and people he would concentrate on to prevent any unwanted and untimely culmination of the prurient proceedings. How his post-coital smile of “I did it!!” would not fade, even if you drove a Catholic school bus over his foot.

Alas, an entire lifetime of transcendent imaginings and unappetizing thought preparation had availed him not. The end of his dinky felt like he had been deflowered by a Weedwacker.

The Visigoths had sacked Rome with more care and compassion than he’d experienced thus far on the mythical sheets of corporeal entwinement. Were all those “R” and “NC17” rated movies a lie? Were all those books featuring a shirtless Fabio on the cover brazen poppycock? Were all women rough, rude, relentless extractors of the masculine seed, damn the cost or hurt feelings? Is this what Boden had suffered at the hands of Marybeth’s mouth in Beano’s parking lot? No wonder his father looked like such a beaten man. The boys of tomorrow had to be warned!

Unfortunately, Spanky was an inoperable optimist. Purblind to the wicked ways of a wantonly wicked world. He was somehow convinced that the softer, gentler sex could not all instantly transmogrify into nut-knobbling banshees of the boudoir upon the removal of their feminine fineries. Brassieres were meant to cradle the orbs of heaven, not tie helpless hands to bedposts. Surely all testes, on the night of their scrumtilius premiere, were not thumped at the precise moment of spurtation to increase their soupy load. The Spankman laudably continued to believe that “sex” was the ultimate expression of love between a man and a woman – or perhaps a man and two women, when the man is dressed like an owl and his wife is down the hall stuffing a roll of twenties up a stranger’s unconscious rectum.

These “Male/Female” relationships were obviously far more complicated than they had appeared from afar – off in a dark, lonely corner, sipping on a can of Tab, while all the lucky people were slow dancing to Valdy in the school auditorium.

The phone rang in the next room and snapped him out of his romantic reverie. As invested as he was in doing battle with Satan’s waste products, David lay down his rubber-tipped sword and headed out to the living room to answer the clarion call. Seconds after his departure, someone three doors down flushed their toilet, causing a black gooey mass – not of a loving God’s devising – to bubble up out of the bowl and crawl across the floor in search of living flesh.

Unaware that the unchecked suppurating sludge dans la salle de bain had already claimed the life of the bidet rat, David picked up the phone and cheerily announced, “Amos Drawling’s residence.”

A familiar voice was on the other end.

“Well, hey!” His cheeriness morphed into mild confusion. “Toothpaste? At this time of night?” It morphed again into Bertie Wooster confronting one of his aunts. “No, I realize that havin’ a fresh and minty smile is sure important, but…” It further morphed into Burt Lahr trying to build up the courage to guard his musk. “Now, contumelious name-callin’ is no way to…” He paused once again, but didn’t have time to noticeably morph. “Is that even a possible thing?”


Mike continued to track his prey, patiently awaiting the perfect opportunity to fulfill his ignoble quest. The money spent on urban renewal in this embattled burg had been wasted. You polish a shithole and all you get is a shiny shithole. It’s the architectural equivalent of putting a tuxedo on Nick Nolte. It changes nothing. He’s still going to wipe his mouth on the cummerbund and piss in his rented pants before the evening is done.

But Mike didn’t see The Tears of Jesus, shuffling along with their shopping carts, making their way to nowhere in particular. He didn’t notice the boarded up buildings and the boarded up lives. All he saw was a well-dressed man on a cold snowy night, headed home to his wife. A man who would soon be dead.


The radio blasted “When I’m With You” by Sheriff as a corybantic Donnie tore down the PCH. He periodically pounded the steering wheel with his splenetic palm (always a cheap and easy way to pass the time in light traffic). The look in his eye wasn’t perhaps as evil as Ming the Merciless, but it was easily on a raving bad-guy par with Kang the Cruel. “Nose-feratu” was too angry and too wired to really concern himself with the niceties of proper driving etiquette. Signs and lines were taken more as suggestions than the rule of law. The lumbering four-wheel drive vehicle seamlessly transitioned from the North American side of the road to the European side and back again. Perhaps something was on his mind.

“That motherfucking motherfucker! That cock-sucking son-of-a-cock-sucking-bitch!” the truculent trucker screamed into the rear-view mirror.

A fellow motorist honked and swerved for his life.

“Shut the fuck off, you scag-whore of a cunt fuck!” Donnie suggested.

Multiple sets of headlights invaded his face. More honking. Neighborhood raccoons dining on trash-bin truffles covered their eyes. Scario Andretti reluctantly veered back into his own lane, avidly scanning the ocean-side cottages for Une Maison Appelé ‘Bu.

“Which one of these Richie Rich fuck-dumps belongs to Amos?”

As if in answer to his solemn prayer, David trotted out of Drawling’s infamous domicile and helped himself to a lungful of salty night air. He craned his neck right and then he craned his neck left in search of the nearest shop. There wasn’t one. There’s a reason nobody walks in L.A., and there’s an even bigger reason they don’t do it in Malibu.

Donnie’s truck shot straight across the highway, almost killing Lou Ferrigno, coming to a squealing, dust-filled stop about two-and-a-half inches from Spanky’s trembling shinbones.

“Say there, buddy,” Donnie grinned. “You look like you could use a lift somewhere.”

David did not immediately return this unexpected and almost fatal bonhomie, but eventually his Canadian niceness came to the fore. “Well, I’m headed for a substantial peregrination, if that’s what you’re so alluding to. But you’re goin’ in the opposite direction.”

Donnie jammed on the gas and skidded over to the other side of the road, almost killing Fab Five Freddy. “Not anymore.”

The Spankman hated to quibble but, “Plus, I hadn’t even proffered my thumb.”

“You don’t need to. That’s how we folks roll here in Malibu.”

Why, these locals were just about as nice as people from Port Credit – and that was really saying something! With all his thoroughly understandable suspicions and well-founded fears totally assuaged, David crossed the road, almost getting run over by Anthony Michael Hall. “Well, I gotta say that this is sure mighty neighborly of ya. Do you know where a fella might purchase a family-sized tube of Ultrabrite?”

“Oh, I know exactly where to go to get you what you need,” Donnie sneered.

David placed his unsuspecting foot onto the passenger door platform and the truck blistered down the highway before he’d even gotten his ass in the cab.

WOW! If Donnie was this reckless in the pursuit of toothpaste, imagine what he’d be like if he was out of toilet paper!


An old and dented Mercedes sedan was parked in front of the old and dented bungalow.

Inside, Valerie and Maury were attempting to not be overwhelmed by the astounding mess. It wasn’t easy. Val picked up an empty pill bottle off the side table and read the label. How was this dissolute motherfucker still alive?

“I smell money,” she announced, dropping the plastic container into a pile of pistachio husks.

Maury sniffed the aromatic air. “It smells more like refried shit to me.”

There was an unidentified viscid outcropping on the couch leather. “Go get the disinfected blankets out of the trunk. We’re going hang around for awhile.”


Mike enjoyed a few puffs on his Export “A”, while listening to a cassette of Fever in Rio by Ray Materick. He was parked outside a trendy gastro-pub on Saint Clair Avenue. The fancy-pants punters waddling out of the hipster hostelry pissed him off so much he wanted to shoot them all. But… he was a professional. His opportunity to homicidally vent would come.

Sure enough, seconds after “Just a Heartbeat” concluded, his quarry alighted onto the chilly sidewalk. Mike took one last look at the picture to confirm his target and rolled down the window.

“Excuse me. Sir?” he called to his snazzily dressed mark. The obliging man bent down to see if he could be of any assistance. “I think you dropped this,” Mike concluded, brandishing the gun he bought at a 7-11, along with a couple of Slim Jims and some floss. Before his victim could react, Mike fired. The first bullet guaranteed death. The second bullet returned a little symmetry to his face. Poor Mr. Statistic dropped to the concrete, just in time for The News at 11, as Michael slammed the car in gear and sped off into the night.

A concerned citizen/witness immediately rushed to the stricken man’s side. But this was Cleveland, after all. The kindly Samaritan quickly removed anything of value he could find that wasn’t covered in blood and headed into the gastro-pub for a well-deserved crantini.


The highway ahead looked as black as Dick Cheney’s wedding dress. All the stars in the night sky were still waiting to be seated at Spago – even though their reservation was clearly for seven o’clock. When the lights from the last visible house became a memory, Donny pulled over to the side of the road. Now, when a stranger drives you out into the wilderness, in the middle of the night, and unexpectedly parks the car? There are any number of things that can happen to you next – but most of them usually end in “urdered” or “ecapitated” or both. Our terminally trusting Canadian had yet to make that connection.

Spanky peered into the invisible depths of nothingness for signs of retail. “I’m sure not seein’ any kind of store out there. Do you think they might’ve moved locations?”

“I thought I’d get you something to eat first,” Don helpfully explained.

“Eat? What are we going to eat out here, for criminy’s sake?”

Donald reared back his impressive fist. Unlike his piteous pant python, non-stop cocaine use had done nothing to diminish the size and hardness of his knuckles.


Before David could react, his horror-stricken visage was made concave by the devastating crunch of Donnie’s meaty wrist-lump…


Valerie and Maury sat stiffly on a blanket spread across Amos’s couch of mysterious and disturbing stains. An odiferous stew rose up from within its cracked leathery integument and swirled around them like an invidious, malevolent stink-ghost. Oh, if only that syphilitic sofa could talk, it would probably scream, “KILL MEEEEE!” But I digress.

Val gazed impatiently at her very sparkly watch and tried not to breath through her nose.

Maury eyeballed her alluring knees. A familiar rush of blood flowed to his netherly parts. Primeval needs that only a man can truly understand set his every nerve ending alight. Commands emanating from the very epicenter of creation reverberated throughout his being. A feral bestial Balrog rose up from within his darkest depths, blinding his reason, obliterating his humanity and tightening his Dockers. There could be no end to his ungirded, testosteronic suffering until poor woman was rent asunder by the vile, consumptive tsunami of his ungodly spray.

He lowered a cautious, exploratory palm onto her closest patella.


Maury quickly apologized for his amorous intrusion and then excused himself to go masturbate into the bathroom sink. There was more than one way to foreskin a cat!


The heady combination of prime Maui Wowie and insalubrious cocktails had rendered our celebratory band of thespians stuporously catatonic. They lay about the pool like the French Aristocracy after the Battle of Agincourt.

A deliriously unconscious Dack, lit spliff in hand, smiled up to the stars like a zookeeper-blown baboon. Widish bent over his fatuous fallen master and plucked the hefty wubanger from his unconscious fingers. Bogarting the smoky treat, the dashingly dressed manservant unzipped his tuxedo fly and proceeded to micturate upon his abominable boss with abandon.

“Will that be all for this even, sir?” he inquired as he shook the last few droplets of excreta from his willy.


Chapter Thirteen – Pond Scum

The darkest cellar in the darkest house on an unlit street was nothing compared to this. The space between a Spaniard’s hair and his red-fringed Toreador hat would have felt like a blinding blast from a movie usher’s flashlight in comparison. Finding your comb if you dropped it in this inky soup would be nigh on impossible. You’d be wasting your time. All that was real, all that could be perceived, was the understated flavor of highly fractured shale and sandstone. Oh, there was also the sound of a rumbly engine. Sort of like a cement mixer. In fact, exactly like a cement mixer.

As the thick fizzy clouds of being-punched-insensate gradually began to clear, David realized that he was in a hole. Not one of those artsy-fartsy metaphorical ones – a very real and very literal one. Major shit was hitting the fan (okay, this is a bit artsy-fartsy and metaphorical). The cement mixer was definitely real. Perhaps too real.

The world slowly came back into focus. That’s not always a good thing. Sometimes, it reveals that you’ve spent the naughty-naked night with someone you wouldn’t even want delivering your mail. Sometimes, it reveals that you’re at the bottom of a pit chiseled into the middle of a dry duck pond with a demonic, backlit, cocaine-fueled madman looming over you. Okay, admittedly that second example isn’t nearly as common as the first, but for our poor dear Spanky, it was spot-fucking-on.

“You know what I found out tonight, buddy?” Donnie’s demonic, backlit, cocaine-fueled figure called down to him.

Canadians are known for their unwavering politeness and jaw-dropping donut consumption, but there is one line you do not cross. Donnie had unknowingly stepped onto that formidable metaphorical landmine and it was just about to go off, BIG TIME!

“Now, I’m not usually the kind of fella that’s a big ol’ complain-ie bird, but I may be due some sort of apology, here.”

Donnie managed to somehow survive this skin-ripping blast of Canuckian ire that he had unsuspectingly unleashed and continued on with his initial thought. “Some asshole from… Where the fuck are you from, again?”

“Some little shit-stick from…” Donnie screwed up his face like a slaughterhouse chicken’s neck and whined in high-pitched mocking tones. “Oshawa…” Then, his menacingly risible demeanor turned considerably more serious. “… fucked my wife tonight.”

Spanky quickly put two and two together and came up with “dead.” It was definitely time to recalibrate his impassioned caustic attitude. “But I’m also the kind of person that recognizes that there may be two sides to every mirror…” It was time to speak now or forever rest in peace. “Say! How ’bout you let me buy you a beer. My treat, even! Do you know any bars that’d take a Canadian Tire card?”

Donnie was remarkably un-assuaged by David’s offer of a complimentary beverage procured on iffy financing. “The only thing you’re going to be drinking tonight, dickwad, is cement.”
“Please. No! TWO drinks!”

“So long, scumbag. I hope you’re thirsty.”

He reached over to empty the mixer’s unbreathable contents hole-ward but a dull “thud” broke the monotonous whir of the gas powered motor. Time had stopped like a Walmart watch. The vengeful cuckold’s eyes rolled back in his vengeful head. Strange guggy noises spilled out of his mouth. David wasn’t sure how to react at first – but as soon as Donnie’s dead body fell into the hole on top of him with a huge arrow stuck in its back, inspiration sprang forth. He screamed like a girl in the midst of a pussy fire.

One hundred and twenty feet away, Tiberius lowered his big, ornate longbow. “The deed is now done,” he darkly declared, but you could hardly hear him over Spanky’s continued and unbridled shrieks of horrordom.

Amos, who was standing beside the archaically armed Great One, wisely consumed a fifteen-hundred-dollar gulp of his tequila.

“Go and rescue your friend,” the benevolent cult leader instructed his sumptuous servants.

Alison and Leslie ran towards Spanky’s piteous pit of poop-inducing panic.

“He shall stay with me, so that I may comfort him tonight,” Fawn declared.

Tiberius slammed the end of his longbow into the ground. “Let it be so!”

Amos sniffed the air. “You might want to give the girls time to clean him up a little, first.”

Meanwhile, the gulls nestled high in the timeworn cliffs harked the mellifluous ocean waves and dreamed of fish in the morning.


Night was asleep upon the water and Valerie was asleep upon Amos’s couch. Night was very wise. On the water, you can only drown or get eaten by sharks. On that couch… anything was possible.

Maury had committed self-love in the bathroom three more times but eventually tripped off to Snoozeland with his well-utilized hand up Val’s skirt.

A seriously unpicky cockroach was dining upon a pool of Mr. Fit’s cock candy trapped in the sink’s u-valve. Blattodea Disgustica tasted the syrupy salmagundi of soap, semen and mouthwash and shrugged. He’d eaten worse things at ‘Bu House.

Amos tiptoed into the room like a mischievous wood sprite with deviltry on his mind. In an impish flash, he had scurried over to Valerie’s Saint-Laurent-knockoff purse and quietly pried open its leathery lips. Bingo! A wallet. Bingo Bingo! Money in the wallet. Amos removed the precious papery contents and covetously licked Andrew Jackson’s face.

“Breakfast!” he exultantly whispered.


A genuinely sad Leslie pulled the lever on the spinning cement mixer and its gooey contents slopped down into the duck pond hole.
“So long Donnie. Perhaps there’s cocaine in heaven,” Alison comforted him as his bodily remains disappeared below the milky glop. His eternity had begun.


A post-coital David rested his fucked-within-an-inch-of-its-life head on Fawn’s shapely shoulder. She had ridden him hard, demanding long periods of oral pleasuring. But the moist, velvety touch of her warm and welcoming labia on his cheeks and chin had not ameliorated his mood. Having his tongue forcibly shoved up into her fallopian tubes had not revived his spirits. Even having his ultra-functioning gonads repeatedly drained until only DNA dust remained had only brought him an elevated case of testicular trauma.

Fawn was quite understandably confused. “You have pleased The Mother once again, and yet you seem distressed?”

“Don’t get me wrong, your High Priestessness, I’m appreciatin’ the heck out of the inestimable sensual delights of the flesh and all to no end. No dig darn doubt about the excruciatingly pleasurous nature your feminine wiles. It’s your basic case closed on that particular front. But, almost bein’ buried alive and then havin’ a fella archered to death in front of me… stuff like that just never happened in Oshawa.”

She patted his worried head. “Believe me, it is coming, little man. The Great One has seen it.”

“The Great One has seen the ‘Shwa?”

“He knows and sees all. He has seen ‘The Fire.'”

“Fire? It wasn’t at the Civic was it? ‘Cause Scott Hollis is havin’ himself a whale of a season.”

“For verily, it shall rain down upon the vile and the unholy.”
David took this devastating news in. “Jeepers. That sure is a lot of people to rain down on, all right. But how?”

“Only Malibu will be spared from The Wrath of the Flame.”

At the precise unveiling of this startling and ominous portent, Tiberius popped up out of nowhere at the foot of the bed and maniacally boomed, “It Shall Be So!”

If David hadn’t just shit his pants mightily in the duck pond, he sure would have done it now.

The Great One, a flashlight shining up under his chin like he was The Amazing Criswell, continued, “Our blessed beach community will be all that remains of this struggling ball of woe we call ‘The Earth.'”

This unassailable revelation of an impending worldwide cataclysm due to a brutally harrowing end-of-days, eyeball-boiling inferno was in no way taken lightly. But, David had other pressing issues on his mind.

“Now, there’s a perfectly good explanation as to why I’m layin’ in bed with your unclothed wife.”

Tiberius smiled warmly, as though penniless punks just off the bus from Oshawa barebacked his wife in front of him every day. “Fear not, young Master Spanky. For you are of The Chosen.”

Upon the announcement of this mysterious, but apparently life-saving designation, Alison and Leslie’s beaming faces sprang up over Tiberius’ shoulders.

“Isn’t that just too, too wonderful?” gushed Leslie.

“Now girls, you really shouldn’t be in here to see The Mother and me, naked in our all-togethers.”

David attempted to pull the bed sheet up over Fawn’s exposed breasts but his hand got caught under the left one making it bob up and down like a nodding red-nosed puppet head.

Alison made an effort to lighten his worried load. “Don’t you get it, you lucky stiff? Thanks to our great leader here, you will not perish in the inarguably prophesized conflagration – PLUS – you get to help seed the New Tribe of Tiberius.”

“The Tribe of Tiberius?”

The Great One bashfully shrugged and rolled his eyes. “I wanted to call it something more generic, but the girls insisted.”

“Seeding? Can you grow crops in Malibu?”

“Crops of humans, you incurable doofus.” Alison held up a vial of white viscose liquid and gave it a little shake. “The tests came back from the lab. Your remarkably voluminous splooge is both high in spermatozoa and motility.”

David squinted at his exemplary tube of goo. “Is that me in there? Boy, talk about your embarrassing.”

Leslie hopped up and down with upmost jocundity. “Once the old world is nothing but a fading flame-y ball of smoke, and the last piercing screams of the unenlightened go silent, our fertile wombs will be at your total disposal.”

“Night and day,” Alison added, pointing down at her womanly point of entry.

Fawn gently stroked Spanky’s aching nards and confided, “I am at this very moment ripe and hope to be already blessed with your scion.”

David’s head spun around so fast it practically fell off his neck. “Ripe with my what???”


The morning sky was as gray as an elephant’s doowanger. A subtle southerly breeze swept up Linda-Ellerbee-sized clumps of snow and spun them into albino tornadoes. It was the kind of day that indoors was invented for.

Boden and Llew sat on the back steps of M.C.V.I. and looked out over the frozen football field as they downed a couple of pre-work brewskies. Llew lifted the brown snub-nosed bottle through a cloud of breath steam to his bluing lips.

“You goin’ to the game tonight?” Boden asked his Ski-doo suited chum.

“Oh, fer sure. That Scott Hollis is havin’ a gold-plated fridge of a year, eh?”

“Oh, fer sure. He’s scorin’ like his shit don’t stink.” Boden took a big gulp of his Carling Red Cap and his mind drifted southward (geographically, not anatomically). “So, how do you suppose Spanky is doin’, down in that there Malibu eh? With all them bikinied girls and stuff? Suppose he’s got himself laid yet?”

Llew took a long, very philosophical swig of his brew and resignedly pondered the question. “Probably not. If he couldn’t sway the ladies here in plain old ordinary Oshawa, there’s no way he’s gonna get to sink the pink in a super glitzy place like Malibu.” He allowed for a small moment of reflection between guzzles. “He sure was bummed about Marybeth, though.”

“I take no pride in it. I would’ve fer sure waited, if I’d’a known of his intentions.”

“Oh, I told him as such. But what with Beeno’s two-fer-one soda night, eh?”

Boden nodded sagely. “Moth to the proverbial flame.”

“Oh, fer sure. And the pie’s real good there too.”

The boys took belch-inducing glugs from their bottles and thought of Marybeth and that dress she wore on the last day of school.

“Sus tetas son como las colinas de mi tierra natal,” Boden sighed.



Mr. Weatherman had gifted Cleveland with slightly more propitious prevailing conditions than its northerly car-producing neighbor. And what more deserving place in Ohio was there than Gates Mills for a brief respite from winter’s iniquitous gelid fist? Massive faux Tudor homes luxuriously lounged along the tree-filled lanes. Their “Welcome” mats were spelled correctly. Garbage men performed their duties unarmed. They hadn’t had a garden gnome stabbed in over a month. That’s about as tony as a suburb in Cleveland can get!

Inside the cavernous and tasteful master suite at 95 Foxboro Road, an exceedingly alluring blonde opened her peepers, woken by the cheery sunlight streaming in through her stained-glass window. Donna stretched her slim, well-toned limbs and sat up and bed. Then, she screamed and wet the mattress.

Usually, she just hopped up and turned on the coffee machine, but usually she didn’t wake to find a hired killer sitting in a chair and staring at her.

“Who the hell are you?” she inquired as her fright-urine soaked down into the memory foam.

“I’m your ‘handyman,’” Mike calmly replied.

Oooh! This was exciting news. Her demeanor turned to that of a child being handed a Christmas present. “So, it’s done?”

Mike coolly shrugged his hired assassin shoulders. “I don’t see him layin’ beside you. Do you?”

Donna coolly shrugged back. “He sometimes stays in town.”

“You weren’t worried when he didn’t call?”

She rolled her eyes. “If he ever called, would I be hiring a professional hit man to whack him?”

“So, about that money you owe me…”

Donna looked towards her side table. “As soon as this phone rings and the police tell me he’s dead, it is all yours, baby.”

As with most best laid plans, the phone did not ring. Instead, the bedroom door opened and a well-dressed man waltzed into the room and said, “Sorry I didn’t call honey…” That’s when he noticed Mike with his feet up on the bed. “Who the fuck is…”

And that was as much as Kenn managed to get out before Mike drew his gun and shot a brand new asshole into the suspicious fellow’s forehead. Thereupon, Kenn died and Donna screamed anew and further dampened the mattress.

“Who that fuck is that?” Mike excitedly queried.

“That’s my fucking husband, you goddamn imbecile!”

Mike irately pulled the envelope from his overcoat pocket and shoved the photo under her nose. “Then, who the fuck is this?”

Donna gave it a quick perusal and had a little laugh at her own expense. “Oh. Did I give you that picture?”



The Epilogue – The End of the Beginning

Amazingly, the morning weather in Malibu was even more propitious than in Gates Mills. Tiberius and his clan, plus David and the newly-widowed Rita, looked out over the filled-in pond. A very happy Mama Duck was leading her little hatchlings on a tour around the recently planted lily pads.

The Great One took a big deep breath of sea-freshened air and asked, “Is the world not a magical place, Master Spanky?”

David stared blankly at the watery grave of his assailant. He was wearing one of Tibbie’s kimonos because his own bloodstained garb was shoved into the cult furnace while Spanky was finishing up a third helping of The Great One’s wife. “Well, I’ve always been kinda fond of ducks,” he gloomily replied.

Leslie, as always, chose to see the brighter side of the situation. “Sigh. What a beautiful place to spend the rest of forever. He is so lucky.”

“Be not sad, fertile one,” Fawn comforted him. “Your would-be murderer would never have risen to be of The Chosen. This way, he has been mercifully spared the all-searing fires of recalibration.”
Alison nodded and recited from the carefully memorized foretellings. “The flesh of man will melt from his bones like a Creamsicle from its stick.”

“Creamsicle? A stick?”

“I told them The Prophesy as we were having dessert,” Tiberius shrugged. “It seemed like an apt analogy at the time.”

David continued to look upon the splashy festivities, uncheered by his own survival prospects. The winsome waterfowl frolicked unabated.

But, as two lives were violently returned to dust, others were about to be freed from their anonymous crypts of obscurity.


Amos didn’t waste much time burning through Val’s purloined pile of 20s. He was seated at his regular table with a bummed Virginia Slim in one hand and a messy mound of vitiated chow and a half-empty bottle of Andre Brut in front of him.

“Dack, you talentless fuck,” he drunkenly guffawed into the restaurant phone. “How would you like to spend a couple of weeks tromping around the Mojave Desert?” He let out a massive gurgly cough that shot lox and bacon shards across the room.

Patti recognized that food-filled hork, all the way from the restaurant’s utility closet. She instantly removed a casting-director’s chick chopper from her colon and stormed out onto the patio.

Unaware of the clear and approaching danger, Amos continued to casually kibitz. “I thought as much.”

On her way by, Patti snatched a Michelada from the adjoining table. “Gee, I must have tripped, asshole,” she shrewed, tossing the entire morning cocktail into his lap.

Amos didn’t even blink. He just smiled and dropped the Buck Bomb. “That’s such a shame, because I’ve got the money and a script. We start pre-production almost immediately.”

This little tidbit of news made her reassess the stridency of her recent actions. Patti knew full well which side of her career she was buttered on. (Ms. Chapkinsky was one of the only actresses in Hollywood who willingly slept with Harvey Weinstein.) It was time for a total one-eighty attitudinal pivot. The excitable actress apologized unreservedly as she expertly dropped down to her knees and began to burrow in between Amos’s heavily varicosed legs. “Dear. Dear. Let me clean that up for you.”

The pasty hobgoblin continued his conversation with Dack as Patti seductively dabbed at the Mexican beer and lime juice theoretically deposited up inside his shorts.

And all continued on as it had in the off-kilter, higgledy-piggledy world of 1992. The California sun still sprinkled its tender mercies upon the mostly undeserving. The cool ocean spray still ruined the hairdos of the mostly undeserving. Tina Turner continued to have legs that went right up to her chin. And most sane, discriminating people would rather chop off their tongue and mail it to a Chinese herb shop than read “The Rainbow Fish” to their child a second time… or maybe that’s just me.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, wonderfully concludes the premier ‘Bu House novelette. An epic tale within an epic tale. Please pre-order the next 2,004 installments of sex, drugs, death, new life, a movie in the desert and the end of the world.  Thank you.

Darrell Vickers 


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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