Meanwhile, Mike’s murder-for-hire-gone-awry was still a very long way from getting un-awryed. The expensive landscaping and whimsical topiary without gave no clue to the angst and agita swirling around within its mock-Tudor magnificence.


“How could you give me the wrong picture?” Michael quite reasonably screamed as he stood over a decorative pond of Donna’s exceedingly late husband’s blood.

The disgruntled dowager bleated her crushing retort while languorously brushing her long, lustrous curly locks. “Oh, and like you’re Mr. Perfect”

“I killed an innocent man because of you.”

“And how do you know my husband deserved to die?” Donna shot back. She was seriously considering switching to another conditioner. Perhaps one with a pro-moisture complex that went all the way to the cellular level to help restore shine and youthful smoothness.

“Because no one pays five thousand bucks to have their old man knocked-off on a whim.”

“Twenty five hundred,” she corrected him. “You’re not getting another nickel.”

“Hey. That is so not fair.”

“Fair? It’s gonna cost me a grand or more just to get the blood out of this goddamn carpet. And then there’s his fucking brains all over my walls.” She pointed to her exclusively mixed flat latex. “Do you have any idea how much a new paint job in here is gonna run?” When Mike failed to hazard a guess, she continued to educate. “That’s Spanish Sand. Two hundred and fifty bucks a can. I should be asking for a refund.”

“You gave me the wrong picture.”

“And you showed up at my house uninvited.”

Mike brandished his gun petulantly at her. It did not seem to impress.

“You know. I’m a professional killer. I could shoot you.”

“Oh. And that’s your answer to everything, isn’t it? I don’t want to go to school today, Daddy. Too bad, kid.” She pointed her finger like a pistol. “BLAM!”

Mike moped. “Now you’re just being rude.”


Switch had flabbily crawled his way back to the living and awoken in Intensive Care. Various ultra-expensive machines and contraptions of a medical nature were hooked to his limbs and torso. A hippyish, though deceivingly pricey, sawbones poured over an itemized treatment chart on his clipboard. He checked off as many high-ticket procedures as he thought Switch’s Medicaid would cover. Just behind him, a nurse fiddled about with prohibitively costly but ultimately inconsequential nursey activities.

A short stay at Malibu General was like getting a long, drawn-out high colonic if you kept your entire life savings stuffed up your ass. Let’s just say, you wouldn’t have to irrigate and vacuum long to remove the bankroll concealed in Switch’s lower intestine.

“Is it serious, Doc?” he quavered.

“It certainly could have been.” The doctor gave him a stern look. “I’ll be very frank with you, Mr. Siksay. A man of your considerable rotundity should not be snorting cocaine.”

Switch bowed his head in genuine contrition. “Guilty as charged, sir. But I only do it on very rare and special occasions.”

“Such as?”

“When it’s free.”


Alison lay splayed across the sultry satin sheets, as naked as Judy Garland at the head of a Munchkin daisy chain. Her eyes were aimed to the heavens, but her heart was adrift in more worldly waters.

Meanwhile, Leslie’s flawless mouth was applying various mind-blowing maneuvers to the sweet plumpness of her sister’s drizzly, syrupy nectaroon. Pricilla Perfect’s cheeks and nose sparkled with the dew of womanly acquiescence as her finger violated the rippley-fleshed entrance to her ravishing relative’s feminine propriety. Alison should have been bucking like that thing under Debra Winger in Urban Cowboy, but mysteriously was as still as an Irish dancer’s arms.

Quelle gives?

Leslie’s oral ministrations were said to be capable of procuring an orgasm from a frozen taco. The legendary Euryale-like climactic screams from her lingual victims (cunni and otherwise) were so intense, they once set fire to the feathers on her dream catcher.

And yet…

Alison seemed decidedly un-frenzied by her twin’s titanic tongue-washing. The pert and pink pimento olive of her lap martini remained mysteriously unstirred. Leslie momentarily surceased her sapphilicious attempt to lick her cuddly kin’s lithesome labia into a liquid. She perplexedly peeped up the length of her fraternal’s taut torso and gave her left nipple a tweak. “Hello? Penny for your thoughts?”

Alison gazed down between her oh-so-chewable thighs at the most beautiful girl she had ever espied and stroked her luminescent locks. “I don’t have any. I’m totally into this. Eat me some more. I’m getting really close.”

Leslie lifted the cutest chin in Christendom off her twin’s pelvic bone and sighed. “Really?”

“Is there a problem?”

“Duh! I’d have a better reaction jacking off a Cigar Store Indian.” Leslie sprang forth and straddled her mattress mate, dragging her prize-winning vulva across Alison’s tender tummy. “Tell sis what’s wrong,” she implored, kissing her like Bogie kissed Ingrid Bergman that very last time at Rick’s Place.

It was evident that Alison’s big bodacious brain was having the darndest time processing something. She caressed Leslie’s seraphic cheek gently with her fingertips. “I find myself strangely unmoored. A confused passenger on an unfamiliar boat.”

“Meaning, oh cryptic one?”

Her cranial machinations were almost too hard to give voice to. Alison was still trying to take it all in. Make sense of this madness unrestrained. “I think I… I sort of like…”

Leslie reached back and swatted Alison lightly on the twat, like she was riding a contending gelding in the Preakness. “Will you spit it out?”

“Spanky, all right? I think I like Spanky.”

Leslie’s face exploded in a smile and Robert Plant regained a full fourteen percent of his long lost singing voice. “Well, so do I!”

“But you like everybody. This is a totally new and creepy feeling for me.”

“You’re sad and confused. Now let’s see… What can sis do to cheer you up?” She reached down and slid her deft digits back into her proscribed paramour’s convulsion emulsion. Slippery fingers stroked and teased. Caressed and pleased. Tickled and squeezed. Sex on this scale should have been hotter than eating Kimchi-jjigae on Mercury without a hat. (I know this is splitting the infinitive, but you try it!)

Incomprehensively, Leslie’s burnishing of feminine furnishings failed to steer Alison’s chasm to a spasm. Her flabber still remained very much gasted.

“Spanky is the first decent person we’ve met since we robbed that Mormon couple,” Alison half-whined.

Leslie gave up on rubbin’ her nubbin’ and just put a sympathetic arm around her sister’s waist. “But they didn’t need that money. They weren’t allowed to spend it on anything fun, anyway.”

The mortifying truth began to leak out. “Did we really need to lumber him with that bitchy pregnant skank?”

A grin the size of Manukan Island burst forth. “You’re actually falling for our little Schnook of the North!”

“Fuck off. I am not.” Alison rolled onto her side and soul kissed her closely related other. “You’re the only person I love.”

“I’m not jealous. I think it’s great.”

Alison shook her head in dismay and disbelief, which is super tough to do when you’re nipple to nipple with a really sexy pipple. “I can’t ‘like’ him. He’s a complete idiot.”

“Fer sure, eh?” Leslie cutely mimicked.

“He’s not good-looking.”

“You won’t get into any knife fights over that observation.”

“Besides, I mostly like girls. What is wrong with me?”

“We could go ask The Great One what he thinks?”

Alison shrugged. “He’d just fuck the both of us and then tell us to go steal stuff.”

“I’m game if you are.”

Alison didn’t really have anything better to do. “Sure. Why not?”

The girls, now in giddy agreement, bounded out of bed and rushed off in search of penis and pillage.


David looked on in supreme forlornness as Rita unpacked her motley belongings and deposited them in the highly distressed 1950’s armoire. Practically all the cash she and Donny had managed to acquire during the course of their stormy union had been shrewdly invested in Bolivian brain bombs, so this wasn’t going to take very long.

“Of course, there are pleasures beyond the dreams of Bacchus awaiting you, once I finish putting all this shit away,” she dryly informed the fungible father of her child as she tossed shoplifted underwear into a drawer.

“Fer sure. And those’d be real good pleasures to have, all right,” he half-heartedly agreed. “But, just so’s to be clear, there’s no expectation, on my part, of intimate acts of conjugality as a quid of your pro quo.”

Rita placed a disapproving hand on her well-used hip and stared Macbethian daggers at him. “You’re not another soft-cocked, coke-headed zombie like my goddamn late husband, are you?”

“No. Not! I’m just respecting the heck out of your personal space is all. But also, I would like to pass along my utmost condolences for your betrothed’s untimely death on top of me.”

“Whatever. You’re the undisputed love of my life and master, now.” She scratched under her swollen left breast and looked around at her surroundings. “Go draw me a bath. Just being in this room makes me feel filthy.”


Switch’s chubby and anemic vitals continued to be closely monitored by a cacophonous congregation of cardiac instrumentation at his bedside. Tubes and wires glued or stuck to a majority of his chest and extremities reported and recorded the smallest of his bodily functions down to the tiniest of increments. Manifold bleeps and bloops emanated from these minutiae monitors but were loudly drowned out by the omnipresent din of CACHINGGGGG!!!!

Nothing was free. The stone-cold meatloaf and canned vegetables he ate for dinner cost more than the Lobster Thermidor at Spago. The bills were piling up faster than Kelsey Grammer’s DUIs. But not everything at Malibu General cost an IV’d arm and a leg.

Visitors were almost free of charge – though a wig made out of woven Panda tonsils was cheaper than what it cost to park.

Luckily, Gus, dogged habitué of Switch’s favorite cut-rate drink shack, refused to own a car on bedrock principle; i.e., you had to be somewhat sober to legally drive one. For this taster of all things liquid, there were some lines that you just did not cross – alas, the one in the middle of the highway was not among them.

He unsteadily navigated his way into the room behind an exceedingly humble nosegay of thriftily priced geraniums. “Hey there,” Gus woozily greeted the portly patient. “So, how’s hospital life been treatin’ ya?”

Switch shrugged. “It’s a bit tough to get used to. I can’t get out of bed, so’s I got to pee into this juggy thing.”

Gus didn’t much care for the sound of that. “How about goin’ No. 2?”

“Fortunately, I’ve got another week or so before I have to even think about that.”

Gus cared for the sound of that even less. Time to change the subject. “The boys at the bar wanted me to give you these,” he awkwardly mumbled as he proffered the posies.

“Gee, that’s pretty swell of ‘em. Did they send any beer?”

“Yeah they did, but I drank it.”


“So, how ya feelin’ there, buddy?”

Switch stuffed his penis into the juice jug and whizzed away under the sheets as he talked. “The Doc said I had a pretty massive heart attack.” The fetid fluid flagon began to fill rapidly. “He said it was completely due to excessive partying.”

“Well, that’s probably true. You really tied one on the other night.”

Malibu General’s third sickest patient felt warm waves of wee-wee lapping up on the end of his knob. He began to wonder how much more he had left in the tank. “I’ve really learned my lesson, though. No two ways about it.”

Switch’s lady pleaser was now totally submerged and the renal receptacle’s rim commenced to runneth over. He eyed the garbage can, but it was just out of reach.

“Are you okay?”

“Oh yeah. Just a little tired,” he leaked and lied.

Gus’s head swiveled about the place like a cartoon fox just about to do some hen tastin’. Seeing the coast was clear, this stalwart swigger of swill reached into his pocket and produced a small mirror.

“Here,” he half-whispered, pouring a substantial hillock of numb fun onto the shiny glass surface. “This should improve your mood a bit.”

Switch’s eyes lit up like it was a woman made out of Dippin’ Dots (They freeze to please the flavors you savor!). What urine cascading over his blood-starved balls and soaking his inner thighs? This heaping pile of euphoria restoria was far more important than a little flagon flood. “Thanks a heap there, good buddy.”

The recently resuscitated intensive care patient eagerly snatched the straw from Gus’s fingers and took a massive toot. The brain-ripping rapturous effects were almost immediate. Switch grinned like be-gerbiled actor’s anus. Happy days were here… nope.

The soon-to-be-late Mr. Siksay, abruptly discontinued his jacked-up jubilance and began making sounds like a Maytag washing machine full of sea lions. He then proceeded to claw and hammer at his pain-racked chest in the vain hope that it would enable blessed oxygen to once again find purchase within his alveoli. No such luck.

So, with all other options exhausted, he wisely lost consciousness and died. As the cardiac monitors went as flat as Milli Vanilli’s record sales, multiple alarms blared and shrieked out their desperate and deafening calls for succor. Doctors, nurses and accountants exploded into the room. With nowhere to go, a craven Gus pulled the window-curtain in front of him and cowered like a lit match in a fart storm while the medical staff attempted to pound Switch’s terminated ticker back to life.

“Stay with me Mr. Siksay!” the doctor bellowed. “Clear!” He slammed the cardiac paddles down on Switch’s chest. Huge electrical sparks shot up into the air and scorched the ceiling. Everyone touching the bed was immediately blown back by the massive electrical blast and the mattress started to smoke. “Where the fuck did all this water come from???”


Get the entire epic tale here from a very thrifty price!


Now available in paperback!


But best read Vol. One first.


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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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