DARRELL VICKERS – CHAPTER FIVE: AND WHEN I DIE

‘BU HOUSE:

Rita bravely reclined across the petri dish of a couch and puffed on a Virginia Slim, trying to mask the rampant odors caroming around room. A committedly intoxicated Amos staggered through her pother and made a shaky b-line to the beleaguered liquor cabinet. It took nary a horrified nanosecond for Rita to notice that her geriatric souse of a housemate was parading around her newly acquired living quarters without the benefit of leggings. And she thought morning sickness was unpleasant!

With her N.Y. ‘tude rising up through the smoke like Carrie’s fist out of a grave, she aimed a jaundiced eyeball at the famous director’s gray and saggy manhood. “Hey!” she remonstrated. “Don’t walk around the house with that disgusting piece of shit hanging out, old man! There’s a lady present.”

The precariously balanced Amos gave his cadaverous loin lizard a cursory inspection and then raised a haughty brow. “Need I remind you,” he counter-remonstrated, “that this is my abode and you are an uninvited and non-paying guest? Whether I choose to wander about au naturel or not is well outside of your succubusian purview. If my majestic mastodon offends your delicate feminine sensibilities, then you and your unborn friend are more than welcome to vacate these premises at any time.”

Her tone quickly turned to sweetness. “How about if I were paying rent?”

His tone quickly turned to avarice. “You have money?”

Rita batted her womanly peepers and broadcast a come-hither smile. “No, but I have a mouth.”

No man owning a penis doesn’t give this kind of minorly cabalistic offer a good deal of serious consideration. His wasn’t much to speak of, but Amos definitely owned one. It was practically the only thing of any value that he hadn’t had repossessed.

“A mouth?” he hopefully repeated.

Rita seductively licked her lips and nodded.

“Well, money isn’t everything.”

“So, why don’t you bring that righteous wad of yours over here and we’ll negotiate a price?”

Amos aimed his wizened weenie at her lipstick and tottered forth. It was a full nine-and-half feet (the distance, not his wizened weenie), so a couple of short pauses for recalibration were required, but he eventually arrived at her side.

Disappointingly, his lavish liquid intake precluded honoring her with an immediate stiffy. Thus, some intricate and stomach-turning procedures would probably need to take place to fully inflate his boy beast, but this wouldn’t be the first time he’d splashed out a load of lightly stewed egg-bashers. Amos dangled his milk-colored muffin-masher three centimeters from the tip of his uninvited guest’s nose. Rita stroked the underside of his sallow nutsack with her long fingernails as she took a hearty drag off her ciggy. The lit end glowed a bright 900-degrees-centigrade orange.

The resulting scream caused vehicles to break and swerve on the PCH and set off car alarms as far away as Escondido Falls.

MEANWHILE:

The Colony Drug Store parking lot stretched out before David like the killing Fields of Verdun. Only, instead of the dreaded, well-armed Hun, under the direction of General Erich Georg Anton von Falkenhayn, Spanky feared the dreaded, well-knuckled fist, under the direction of Officer Helmut Sturch.

He nervously scanned the badly parked foreign cars for signs of uniformed life. Gorgeous people, accompanied by their beautiful and fatuous children, wandered in and out of the pharmaceutical boutique while he pavidly prevaricated. Then… in a flash, he was gone, hidden within a support group of STD-infested realtors. A milli-moment later, his fright-stricken, post-strangled head popped up over the trunk of a tri-coated Alpha Romero. What to do? Where to go? How to stay alive? Was he going to have to buy shorter neckties?

Just as all seemed hopeless and lost – decapitated and fed to trout, ground up and carried to a pig farm in buckets – a familiar jeep pulled up in front of him and Alison’s beguiling smile radiated out of the driver’s window. “Why, Spanky! Fancy meeting you here,” she declared.

Leslie’s cherubic countenance joined her sister’s. “Are you siphoning off someone’s gas?”

David craned his head to the right and left, blew a small-but-deadly one out of his panic-stricken pooper and dove through the back window into the jeep.

MALIBU PLAYHOUSE:

Those who cavil and whine that “life just isn’t fair” have obviously never spent the time it takes to lick a Frenchman in That Business We Call Show. It is a whirling, swirling, festering cesspool of desperation, caprice and injustice. If you are at all faint of heart, little girl, fly away home. For here, there be monsters.

Patti was just being apprised of that disheartening truth in director, William Irongate’s, austere office.

“What???” she inquired at the top of her well-padded lungs.

Irongate perched awkwardly in his chair – the result of his very recent and very literal supreme bollocking. His sperm count was either dead, wounded or in hiding. Unable to move about under his own power, he relied on an old-person’s walker that he swiped off Joe DeRita outside a Topanga Canyon All-You-Can-Eat Der Wienerschnitzel. He now possessed behemoth huevos that would persuade any sensible female ostrich to forgo motherhood, but still, he was duty bound to ensure the show go on. Balloon-balled Bill gently adjusted the icepack in his lap and continued to deliver the bad news.

“The last few days of Inquisition-like, spirit-shattering agony and doctor-ordered immobilization have given me much needed time to reflect. Upon your performance and upon my marriage.”

“You’re married???”

“It has made me realize that you cannot sing, you cannot act and the rest of the cast hates you.”

“They’re just jealous of what I have.”

Patti wandered behind the desk as Irongate gingerly perpended her pronouncement. “What you have… what you had, is gone. The fact is, since my indescribably debilitating injury, the incontinent libidinous mists have risen and I now see you for what you are.” He continued to look forward. The further his eyes strayed from her tremendulous pendulous breasts, the easier it would be for him to say, “You’re fired.”

Patti was not prepared to go gently into that Goodnight Folks. “This is all bullshit! I was born to play Eliza Doolittle.”

“I just want you to know that there are no small parts.”

Patti insouciantly flipped through his bag of golf clubs with her finely manicured fingers. “I don’t want a small part,” she shrewishly asserted.

“That’s perfect, because, as I just said, there aren’t any.”

The high-dudgeoned diva retrieved a Callaway Steelhead XR Combo – with the long head and relatively small offset – from the bag. “But I was an all-star on my high school softball team,” she announced, hefting the club.

“What’s that got to do…”

CRACK! His head was split open like a Barnsley Chop by a thunderous swing of his midsize, top-of-the-line hybrid – that delivered the distance of a high performance driver and the accuracy of a fairway wood. He flumped onto the desk and proceeded to bleed profusely out of his sun-roofed skull. It was a pretty one-sided conversation after that.

CULT MANSION:

A decidedly perturbed David looked like he’d just seen his own ghost. Our muliebrous muchacho had definitely seen better days, but not better companionship. Nor friendlier. The gorgeous and gam-laden gals gamely attempted to comfort their woebegone pal.

The scantily be-pantied, throughout the darkest of ages, have spun their Nightingalian web to cocoon and cradle the vexed and tormented soul of man. What masculine head among us has not found sweet solace and safe harbor from the sorrows of this wicked world upon the feminine breast? They easily best any western medicament or poultice with their skin as soft as French ripened cheeses, hands as gentle as the wings of fairies and arms as welcoming as a Holiday Inn Express (this is a paid product placement).

“You look like a man who could use a good, stiff drink, Spankers,” Alison mollifyingly observed.

“I’m not usually much of the imbiber-type, with the exception of yer Blue or the odd Ex” he fretted. “But circumstances beyond my control have arisen that have caused my customarily sober knees to knock.”

Alison began to undo David’s belt and zipper like she was adjusting his lapel.

“And we shall whip you up a head rockin’, nerve soothin’ Lady Cello, the second we’re finished,” Leslie added, grabbing a vial out of her pocket and dropping to her knees.

“You’re doin’ something that needs to be finished?”

The girls proceeded to pull his pants and underwear floor-wards.

“Just a small procedure, old man. Nothing to concern yourself with,” Alison informed him, joining her sister on the cherry-stained hardwood.

“Now, there’s no way I want to be a stick in your butt, here, but…”

“You’re a stick in the mud. You’re a pain in the butt,” Alison kindly corrected.

“That may be aphoristically so, but I’m thinkin’ that we should all perhaps be holdin’ the dig-darn phone here.”

Alison nodded. “Absolutely. Hold the phone. Oh look, the receiver!” She took hold of David’s Damsel Drubber, like most men can only dream of, and spoke into the business end. “Hello? Is anybody there?” she asked as it solidified in her paradisiacal palm.

“I have a pretty good idea what’s on the other end of that line,” Leslie slyly smiled.

“I’m just sayin’ that there are some pretty strict rules about debagging a fella when his future is all fraught with his potential death and such.”

Alison began to slowly stroke his hangin’ wangin’ like a caring vet trying to revive an unconscious squirrel. At this juncture, David’s brain went from nonplussed to non-functioning. Gigantic waves of erogenous joy were pulsating up his torso and exploding in his head like Mexican Castillos.

“And that is precisely why you need to temporarily free your mind from this ‘sea of troubles.’”

“Is your mind becoming temporarily free of troubles, Mr. Spanky?” Leslie queried.

“Well, I got to admit, I’m feeling a little bit less… but… Nya-a-a.” David totally lost his train of thought, along with his eyesight and sense of smell to the rhythms of manual love.

Leslie plucked the stopper from her vial and prepared for the sticky inevitable, while her sultry sister began to knead his nubby nards with her free hand. As life experiences go, this was better than Cracker Barrel’s molasses and biscuits. Even better than getting off a camel after a long hard ride. Even even better than having a really painful shit and finding your missing watch. Needless to say, all men would envy his bounty.

At the other end of the testicular telescope, Alison was becoming completely besotted by his floppy foreskin, as she fapped his woody with a hoodie about like a weatherworn windsock.

And just to add a dash of mustard to his concupiscent corndog…

“Imagine that I’m Marybeth Clemshoe,” she proffered, “and we’re in that parking lot at Beano’s Pizza. Her perfect perm bobbing up and down as she consumes your legume. Can you feel Marybeth’s plump, red lips as she sucks your Canuck?”

Alison quickened the pistoning of his pant-puppy to accompany her north-side-of-Nonquon narrative. David’s eyes rolled back into his hardly-starved-for-space noggin as his pelvis involuntarily worked the twerk. His lower jaw dropped open like the Death Star landing-dock door. His tongue hung out like the lobby carpet at the Dorchester. All those present strapped themselves down and began to prepare for Coitus Eruptus.

“I have an inkling that we’re in for a sprinkling,” Leslie playfully observed.

Truer words! David let out a big growly groin grunt and the copulatory order to “EVACUATE!” came down from on low. Ginormous glistening gobs of gluey goo shot forth from the empurpled barrel of his lactating Lap Lugar. Leslie took hold of his hemorrhaging head and expertly guided the billowing baby jam into her jism jar. Both girls were mucho impressed by the way he was streamin’ his semen. Filled to the brim in seconds, Leslie quickly popped the cap back on the viscous vial and allowed the remainder of his spurting spunk to find purchase on her cheek and upper garmentry.

“Well done, sir!” Alison approbated.

“What a gusher!” Leslie marveled.

David struggled to catch his breath as his penis continued to high-five him for the next minute or so. “Phooo! Believe you me, there’s plenty of plaudits for the whole dig-darn lot of us.” He gazed down at the product of Alison’s handiwork. “Do ya have some sort of plan in mind for my unspeakables?”

The designated and comely cum catcher swirled his precious emanation gently around in the tube as her sister licked a big puddle of excess joy jam off Leslie’s dimpled cheek.

“Hey, this tastes pretty good.”

“I probably have the fine folks at Del Monte to thank for that. Downed a whole tin of their pineapple chunks before headin’ over here.”

“We just have to give this wonderfully squidgy splooge about a half hour at room temperature to get it all nice and runny.”

David shakily reclaimed his slacks and intimate apparel. “Kind of the opposite of your syrups and yogurt.”

Alison shared the amazing strategy behind their decision to yank his plank to redeem his cream. “Now, despite the fact that you may be savagely beaten and murdered on some blackened night – possibly even tomorrow – you will breathe your last with the inspirative knowledge that your myriad in vitro kiddy-winkies will look up to the sky and call you Daddy.”

“You’re going to make such great late-father,” Leslie nodded.

This did not seem to inspiratively comfort David.

“Of course we’ll do everything in our power to prevent that from happening,” Alison assured him.

“We sure will.”

“But we’re not miracle workers.”

“We sure aren’t. But, either way…” Leslie waved the brimming contribution to David’s future descendants in front of his soon-to-be-diseased nose.

‘BU HOUSE:

Amos tippy-tapped like a fat, smelly madman and cackled crazily as he slapped the return lever on his Underwood Black Steel Standard. The smoky remainder of a Pall Mall 100 dangled from his dribbly lips. A family-sized bottle of bourbon and some ice shards were parked by his side. He was blissfully afloat in the warm, reassuring womb of the written word. And being half shit-faced while he was thusly engaged – that certainly didn’t hurt. His cigarette-stained fingers struggled to keep up with the genius flowing from mind to paper. He was truly in his element.

A far less warm and comforting womb appeared in his open doorway. Rita scratched at her crotch through her sweats as she wobbled into the room. A bored, itchy pregnant woman can only mean trouble.

“Have you heard from that Canadian asshole, yet?” she crabbed.

Amos did not look up. “Leave me. The muse has struck. I must answer its clarion call forthwith or my peerless words will be lost to the wind.”

“Speaking of wind – have you thought of opening a fucking window in here. Jesus Christ, I’ve smelt Ukrainian weddings that…”

“Quiet! Can’t you see that every second I delay denies the world my untold genius?”

Rita scratched herself again. “I think I got a rash from using that fucked-up bathtub of yours. Do you have anything that removes irritation?”

“You’re still here, so apparently not.”

“Oh, hardy-fucking-har.”

Amos continued to type furiously between sloppy sips of Brown-Forman and did his best to ignore her. “I cannot be bothered with trivial mortal matters. My thoughts must remain with the Gods.”

Rita halfheartedly inspected a couple of pages off the crumpled stack and gave it a very cursory look-see. “Is this that movie script you’ve been promising us?”

“No, it’s a fuck the hell off.”

“There’s no need to be so fucking crabby.”

“Tell that to my branded penis.”

“I’m sorry about your cock, okay! I’m pregnant. I get moody.”

“Well, it still hurts.”

Rita looked more like Boz Scaggs than repentant, but she attempted to make nice the only way she knew how. “Do you wanna see my tits?”

“No. I’d rather see your ass, because that would mean you were leaving.”

“Suit yourself,” Rita shrugged, picking up Amos’s lighter and setting fire to his shirt-collar.

Amos screamed like a Pontiac-winning pickle on Let’s Make a Deal as he desperately tamped down the flames consuming the back of his neck. He knew that if it spread to his hair grease, the whole house would go up.

“I’ll keep my WonderBra in the drawer, just in case you change your mind,” she kindly offered from the hallway.

=DV=

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

https://www.amazon.com/Bu-House-Sowing-Seeds-Love-ebook/dp/B07M941ZGN/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1548716090&sr=8-2&keywords=darrell+vickers

Now available in paperback!

https://www.amazon.com/Bu-House-Sowing-Seeds-Love/dp/1791898882/ref=sr_1_3_twi_pap_2?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1549307271&sr=1-3&keywords=darrell+vickers

But best read Vol. One first.

https://www.amazon.com/Bu-House-Here-Comes-Sun/dp/1726811751/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1548716258&sr=8-1&keywords=darrell+vickers

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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