David bumbled his way into the recently guest-violated bathroom carrying as many of Rita’s lady accessories as his thin, creamy arms would hold. Placing the vast agglomeration of tubs, scrubs and rubs into the sink and beside the sink and over by the toilet, he turned and pulled open the ultra-hideous seashell curtain. Behind it, and contrary to his expectations, stood an impressively beefy gentleman with his pants festooned about his ankles.

“Hi there.” The man nervously smiled. “I’m your neighbor from down the street? I think someone might have accidentally taken a really big shit in here.”

After a brief but meaningful pause to take this important information in, David turned to the door and yelled, “Would you be open to a soothing and palliative foot massage, at all?”


Tiberius was imperiously perched upon one of his many and varied elaborate seats of majesty. When one’s station in society is as impossibly high and mighty as The Great One’s, it’s always a good idea to have a substantial collection on hand. The über-coddled ducks merrily tomfooled before him as they breezily rummaged for bottom grubs, their feathery posteriors pointing heavenwards.

The surviving Sturch brother was far less free from disquiet. He loomed officiously beside the loftily seated soon-to-be leader of the New World Order, displaying his customary scowl. A young and nubile Du-par’s short order cook, in a white flowing georgette dress, knelt between The Great One’s legs, carefully pruning the frizzy fronds from his all-seeing nutsack with embroidery scissors.

“So, you haven’t seen Donny for a couple of days?” the neatly uniformed brute inquired.

Tiberius waved his hand in the pond’s general direction. “Not since he was kind enough to aid in the construction of this thrice-consecrated Anseriformes sanctuary.”

Sturch gazed out at the impressive water feature. “And how much coke did you have to pay him for that?”

The tantalizing twins bounded frothily forth from the mansion, Leslie sporting a bulging bag of chronic and a smile that could have charmed a Graboid.

A Graboid

“Let us just say that the Elders of Creation…”

“Blessed be the Elders,” chanted the guileless gals and the Church’s designated “curly” trimmer.

“Have gifted your brother with a regrettably hearty appetite.”

Leslie handed Sturch the generous assemblage of leafy intoxicant and a large box of Rainbow Nerds.

“Have you seen that cunt of a wife of his?” he gruffly inquired, stuffing the after-work goodies into his uniform.

The fraternal twins were identical in their concern over this line of inquiry.

“That unfortunate relationship has been cleaved,” Tiberius blithely tossed out. “She now belongs to that funny little fellow from Oshawa.”

It was going to take way more than a chicken-sized wad of primo dream-o to give Sturch the silly giggles after hearing that news. “She what?!” he rejoiced.

Alison jumped into immediate damage control. “Rita and Donny were a shit couple, anyway,” she critiqued. “The Van Bulows were more lovey-dovey.”

“And now Donny’s free to date all the other coke-whores in Malibu,” her delectable sister added.

“Talk about being spoiled for choice!”

“That motherfucker!” You could almost see the duck pond evaporating from the heat of his rage. Helmut snatched up the cruiser keys in his fist. He desperately needed to be in a place where he could wallop someone.

“Would you care to have the fruit of your loins denuded whilst you are here?” Tiberius generously offered. “It can create a surprisingly pleasing effect when combined with the breeze of the evening.”

Deaf to any such kindnesses, Officer Sturch stormed off unhinged and unshorn.

“Is that what your unimpeachable wisdom told you to do?” whinged a slightly piqued Alison.

“Surely, there were way better options to choose from than telling him the truth?” Leslie added.

“You try being ‘The Great One’ for five minutes,” Tiberius sighed. “It’s absolutely exhausting.”


“A dark, malevolent specter in atramentous and tattered robes towers emotionless at the epicenter of a foreboding, crumbling, crepuscular wasteland. His eyes glow a sickening red, corrupting and infecting anything they look upon. The corpses of tortured trees dot the dusty and dolorous landscape.

An inky fog drifts out from the bottom of his ragged vestments like steam escaping from the engine of a ghost train. Erebus is the primordial god of darkness and the husband of night. He is the father of the unknown and enabler of the unseen. The ice-cold blood of fear and loathing course through his cracked and brittle veins…”

“So why exactly is this creepy fuck wandering around in the desert?” a whiny voice interjected.


Amos Drawling and his life-raft-sized hemorrhoids were seated gingerly at his regular table, dining on his regular horse-choking breakfast and cheap champagne. He was trying his level best to be pleasant and patient, leaving him completely disoriented and slightly nauseas. Patti stood buoyantly by his side, holding a large tray containing the quickly cooling meals of other anxious customers.

“He is searching feverishly for his daughter, Hemera – that’s you,” he explained.

Patti just wasn’t gettin’ it. “Is she lost?”

Amos pounded his ashen fist upon the table to emphasize the import of his tutelage. “No! You are in hiding. If Erebus finds you, he will tear the very womb from your young and fertile body.”

Patti tried to take this in. She wasn’t the shiniest piece of caramel corn in the Cracker Jack box, but she wasn’t Louie Gohmert, either. “Soooo, are we talking about some sort of Ancient Greek cesarean section…”

Amos took a gigantic swig of champers and shook his head. “Not cinematically inventive enough.” The colorful and tipsy director thrust his arm up into the air. “He will plunge his feculent, fleshless hand deep inside her and…”

“He wants to fist his own daughter’s cootch??” she loudly inquired, in search of her motivation.

A few of the snackin’ snooties on the patio paused mid-chew before returning to their Quinoa Fruit Salads. Amos courageously jumped to the defense of his primeval protagonist.

“What choice does poor Erebus have? Every morning, she disperses his caliginosity and allows the harsh and blinding day to exist.”

“So, get a pair of fucking sunglasses! Jesus Christ, I’ve heard some twisted, perv-o fucking excuses in my time, but this takes the steaming butt-cake.”

The semi-pie-eyed producer waved his arms about in exasperated pissed-offedness as he attempted to convey the artistically obvious. Food and champagne flew skyward like Jayne Mansfield’s head. “He’s trying to perpetuate a world of eternal darkness. Don’t you see?”

“Jayne’s Head is Around Here Somewhere …”

“Oh, I see plenty, Otto Preminger.”

Amos continued to share his epic vision with the startlingly resistant actress. “With Hemera laid barren and spent, she can no longer thwart his tenebrosity and the Earth will forever cower under his Cimmerian Shade.”

The end of Patti’s accusatory finger boldly circled around Amos’s pockmarked proboscis. “I don’t know what the fuck all those fancy fucking words mean, but I do know an ewwy pile of sick shit when I hear it. You… you degenerate, vomitous gargoyle.”

Drawling lit a cigarette off the one he’d just smoked within an inch of its life and sighed. “If you’re so morally outraged, I guess I could give the part to Rita.”

“Give my part to that shit-ugly pregnant skank? I took it up the ass for this role… literally!”

Other diners reacted quite unfavorably to Patti’s stentorophonic declaration.

Amos shrugged sheepishly as he addressed the grossed out at Grunions. “My aim – it just ain’t what it used to be.”


David was on his hands and knees with many an extra-strength cleaning solvent by his side. Although he’d already expended an entire Sudbury Big Nickel’s worth of elbow grease in vigorous scrubbing, he’d only made a few half-inch potholes in the tub-crust grime. Spanky was just considering whether using a rough-grain belt-sander might quicken his colossal task when Rita appeared and shoved an ominous list in front of his perspiration-dappled face.

“I need you to go to the store and get some things,” she proclaimed, as only the mother of your child can.

David took a much-needed breather from his arduous scouring to examine the intimidating piece of paper. His face betrayed a goodly amount of confused concern.

“And these here items are things that I would be able to purchase at a store?”

Rita rolled her long-suffering eyes. “Yes. They’re lady’s things. I need them because I’m a fucking lady.”

David was still a little dubious about his chances of successful procurement. “And, if I were to ask someone at this certain store, they’d be able to provide me with this equipment and such-what?”

WTF? “Don’t they have any women in Canada?”

“Oh, fer sure. They’re practically everywhere you look. Though, in the ‘Shwa, they don’t really shave or depilatate a whole bunch until at least the middle of May.”


Big shapeless lumps of down-filled clothing that might have been members of the fairer sex gloomily trudged the treacherous, slippery sidewalk of the murderously frigid road. The cruel and icy breath of Boreas tore through their thick, puffy coats – with detachable wooly hoods – and sunk its evil teeth deep into their very marrow.


The sun-drenched beach stretched on forever in both directions, much like Rush Limbaugh. Alison cuddled and snuggled her oh-so-incestible sister as they bore witness to the Pacific waves playfully paddling on to shore. The taste of Leslie’s skin and the heft of her faultless breasts were an Elvis Costello album (with bonus tracks!) in a world of Hot Tuna songs. Leslie was Alison’s “sky full of stars on a warm summer’s night.” Her “fireside buttered-rum during a howling winter storm.” Her “Deluxe Fat Burger Combo with a Cookies and Ice Cream Shake after a 60 Day Juice Fast.” But all was not balloon rides and Ping-Pong paddles in the most perfect town on Earth.

Leslie frowned and Global Warming began its irreversible mission to destroy the planet. “Is Officer Sturch going to kill Spanky?” she fretted.

“Not if we can help it, sweetie,” Alison reassured her somber sibling.

“Surely, testicles as wonderfully rich with reproductive provender as his should not be allowed to perish before their time,” she reasoned, opening her legs to the west and giving hope and comfort to all those lost or stranded on a becalmed sea.

“The Great One has a plan and I’m sure we will see its inarguable wisdom in the coming days.”

“Do you think maybe we should gather some more of his amazingly potent squigglers, just in case?”

Alison was wise to the prize. “You mean manually extract his voluminous and prodigious seminal fluid and freeze it for future world-repopulating procedures?”

Leslie shrugged, “We haven’t had a fella object to our methodology yet.”

Alison considered her sister’s wise counsel. “That we have not. You hold the vial this time and I’ll do the grunt work.”

Out of the hundreds of “extractions” performed, this was a unique and thought-provoking submission. Leslie smiled and a plane full of trophy hunters slammed into a Herbalife convention and exploded. “My, oh my, we do like the boy.”


David was smack dab in the middle of every man’s worst nightmare (besides being naked and locked in a closet with the ghost of Billy DeWolfe). Spanks timidly navigated his way through the “Women’s Aisle” and prayed that God would “call him home” before he reached the checkout counter. Bottles, jars, tubes and funnels of infinite and emasculating variety threatened to shrink his appendage a goodly percentage. He stared blankly at the list in his hand like it was written in Swahili. If only he’d have paid more attention to his mother when she was a woman.

A card-carrying member of the oh-so-mysterious, product-needing sex sidled up next to him and examined a box containing a “microneedling regeneration lip tool” like she actually knew what it was and its function! Spanky enviously gaped at her. Finally, true desperation took hold and David cast aside everything he knew about being a man and asked for advice.

“Excuse me, Miss. Would that be somethin’ that you’d find yourself in need of, if you were a gal of some kind?”

The female shopper quickly shot him that “don’t fuck with me, I’ve got mace” look and hurried on down the aisle without comment. David eyed the woman’s hasty exit with deep regret. Fortunately, there was very little time for sulking. As Spanky turned back to the harrowing shelves of ultimate bafflement, he found himself pressed up against the robust ribcage of Officer Sturch.

David forced a wan smile onto his lugubrious mug and genially greeted his number one tormentor. “Well, hey there, Officer. Are you out buyin’ stuff for the Missus, too?”

Sturch was not really in the mood for meaningless chitchat and empty pleasantries. He grabbed David roughly by the shirt collar and pulled upward until gravity held no sway. “I don’t like the cut of your jib, son.”

“Actually, I’m not, what you’d call, circumcised. Could you be thinkin’ of a different fella?”

“You think you’re so fucking smart, don’t you?”

“No, I don’t. Nobody does. Just ask ‘em.”

“Maybe I should ask my brother’s fucking wife.” Sturch could hardly contain his asshole/dirtbag-stranglin’ fingers. David’s neck just screamed out for a throat-ectomy. He could pop this punchable punk’s head like an overripe zit. If only there weren’t so many damn shoppers/witnesses walking around. Shit!

“I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure,” David gasped.

“Oh, you’ve had the fucking pleasure all right. Her name is Rita.”

David let out a tiny, terrified toot and then continued, “Now, I gotta say, I had no choice in this here regrettable situation. I’ve been the victim of an ethereally orchestrated, and not of my wanting, spermacidal switcheroo.” He took a small wince-laden pause as the whiff from his gaseous excreta reached his nasal passages. “Super nice lady, though she be.”

“The fact that my brother has gone missing and his wife is suddenly shacked up with a turkey-headed foreigner makes my bullets verrry itchy.”

“Well, there’d probably be a cream for that, right here in… d-did you say bullets?” A slightly larger toot was loosed from his lower portal.

Growing tired of not killing him, the cyclopean officer slammed Spanky up against the shelving unit with a resounding crash. Various items fell to the floor. David thought one of them might have been his left ear.

“Now listen, fuckwad.”

“I can fully assure you, apart from a therapeutic and totally innocent foot massage and helping her into a recently de-pooped bathtub, there has been nothing going on of the untoward,” David gallantly and truthfully offered.

Officer Sturch reached beside his affrighted interviewee and pulled a box of tampons off a shelf.

“Oh dear. Your mouth is bleeding,” Sturch worried.

Although the back of his head felt like it had just been kicked through the uprights at Lambeau Field, he was unaware of any lip leakage. He squeezed his hand past Sturch’s brawny forearm to feel for blood. “Perhaps I…”

The concerned officer violently smashed the Tampax carton into David’s face an unnecessary number of times in rapid succession. Sure enough, Sturch was right. Spanky’s mouth was bleeding.

“Here, let me help you dab that up with something,” he offered, stuffing a handful of cottony cave-dwellers into David’s wounded maw. Needless to say, his potential perp was positively petrified. Sturch attempted to keep Spanky’s worried mind focused by squeezing on his windpipe till a mentholated cough drop leaked out his nose. “Watch yourself, asshole. ‘Cause I’m going to be watching you. My gun’s going to be watching you. And before you know it, God is going to be watching you.”

“Floo Foo Fa Floo Foo Foo,” Spanky thanked him.

“Give my regards to Rita.” Sturch smashed David’s skull shelf-ward one last time and marched away. Spanky watched him go, looking like some kind of purple-necked albino walrus.


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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