Darrell Vickers – ‘Bu House Vol. Two – Return to Fantasy



A phone on an antique bedside table pealed out its demand for acknowledgement. A hand reluctantly reached over and raised the receiver from its cradle.

“Hello?” Dack unenthusiastically croaked.

It was Patti. She was still standing in the severely-mashie-niblicked Director’s office. He was still very dead and the former Ms. Doolittle was beginning to regret her hasty (though highly warranted) decision to turn his head into a chip-dip bowl.

“We have a situation,” she epically understated.

Dack rolled his chronically unemployed eyes. He really wasn’t in the mood for Patti’s diva drama. “Can this wait?”

“If I’m calling and there’s a situation, it obviously can’t fucking wait, now can it?” she barked. “I need you to find a van and round up the gang.”

Dack performed the international hand gesture for “what a fucking jerk-off” and disingenuously inquired, “Anything else, your majesty?”

Patti wanted to dot all of her stay-out-of-Valley-State-Prison I’s, so she pondered. “Oh yeah. And we might possibly need something big enough that we can hide a dead body in.”

“My, my. That does sound serious,” he commiserated. “What’s in it for me?”

“How about me?”


Patti transitioned her voice from snarky to flirtatious. “I know you always wanted me.”

“Well, I felt so left out.”

Patti transitioned back. “Ha ha. You do this for me and I’ll let you pump a load of Dack Jack into someone whose name isn’t your mother. Just meet me in an hour at the back of the theatre.” She slammed down the phone and moved her Adrianna Papell’s away from the expanding blood puddle.

“Who the fuck was that?” a frighteningly familiar voice inquired.

Dack rolled over to face his recently mentioned mater. She was as naked as Mike Pence at a choirboy picnic and spread out like a Sizzler Pasta Bar beside him. Her magnificently crafted breasts look like they’d been lopped of a 19 year-old and hot-glued to her tanning-boothed upper torso.

“Oh, just some important actor business.”

Dorothy whined as she lightly cupped her son’s ever-so-rosy nuts. “You don’t have to go just yet, do you? Mommy wants to be filled with your spill. Fuck me like your father never could! Pleeeeeease?”

Dack felt Dorothy’s nimble nails setting off a tingly brushfire all the way from his seldom-washed scrotum to his plugged up naval. “Okay, but I only have time for one more sweet slice of your bitch box and then I have to go,” he grudgingly agreed, while slipping his saliva-lubricated ring finger up into her turd trumpet.

“Well, my wet, warm bitch box is always open for your rock-hard man-cock.”

Dorothy rolled onto her back, brazenly exposing her bestial bounty to all those who would claim it. She gazed obscenely at her son’s loin larder as his massive mung-monster took flight. Untethered from shame or decency, driven mad by unhallowed aphrodisia, the once proud matriarch of the Hoffman clan was now reduced to pounding on her sweet meat like it was a piece of Walmart tenderloin.

Dack could see how ready she was. How much his mother wanted what only he could give her. He watched her frantically pummel her Puddin’ Pop as she waited for the filth-tastic moment of their ungodly union.

Finally, The Dackman decided to show some small mercy and placed his well-toned body on top of her heaving, wanting flesh. Dorothy’s anxious legs clamped themselves around the back of sonny boy’s thighs as he thrust his tongue between her welcoming lips. Momsy dug her fingernails deep into his muscular glutes and drew him forward ‘til the majestic head of his throbbing fuck-fist was impatiently banging on the door to her whore hotel.

And then the moans began. Quiet at first but building fast as he pumped inch after inch of his mammy whammer deep inside her. By the time he had smashed the hilt of his semen-sword into his mother’s pubic bone, she was screaming like he’d wiped a mouthful of toothpaste on her best Egyptian towels.

Dorothy began to buck and curse. She sank her perfectly-capped-and-filed teeth into Dack’s broad, manly shoulder as a massive tide of wanton, unholy lust engulfed her. She was his. She was all his. And now he would pay her back thrice-fold for every slight, every insult, every humiliation inflicted upon him as he brutally usurped her and filled her corroded cavernous cunty cunt with his insidious, incestuous inseminant.

At least, that is what was transpiring in Dack’s mind. Back in the real world, he was manually pleasuring himself into a Jon Renau wig he’d stolen from his mother’s closet. But he fiendishly intended to return her desecrated hairpiece to its head mannequin unwashed! Revenge!!


Apparently, even the most egregious acts of injurious treachery can be forgiven, if a writer needs someone to read his work to. Rita sat oddly, like a manatee wearing a muumuu, eating dry, uncooked Minute Rice as Amos regaled her with the unfathomable ecstasy of his morning’s toil.

“As my gorgeous new scene opens,” he enthused, “Erebus is floundering about the desert. Lost. Betrayed. Desperate. Running out of time.”

“Where’s he gotta be?”

Drawling pretended not to be annoyed. “Soon, Helios will mount his accursed chariot and drag the blazing sun across his beloved blackened sky. But, just as all seemed forfeit, he happens upon some talking fruit.”

“Fruit that talks,” his skeptical audience deadpanned.

“He is starving. Ravenous,” he ignored her. “His insides are being torn apart by rabid unbearable hunger, and yet the fruit begs him not to eat them.”

“Is this an art movie or Sesame Street?”

“Quiet woman! It’s a metaphor, a conundrum and a moral interrogative rolled into one. Nietzsche would have eaten his own leg and spat out the toenails to have thought of something this deep and profound. It cuts to the very core of the human soul. What is the meaning of empathy? How do we measure compassion against need? Your life against another’s death?”

“To be honest with you, I’d probably eat the fruit just to shut them the fuck up.”

Amos stared at her in gobsmacked, penis-burnt, hair-singed astonishment. “You would be prepared to blithely commit the merciless slaughter of innocents, where even the gods have pause? What kind of person does that make you?”

Rita shrugged and reached for one of his cigarettes. “A New Yorker.”


Deep in the tomb-like bowels of the cult mansion’s sub-basement lurked a very special room. A place of hope and life in abeyance. About as creepy as shark-infested piss, it resembled something out of a cheapo 1950’s Sci-Fi movie. At the epicenter of this Dr. Phibesian rec room stood a gargantuan cobalt steel vault. James West and Artemus Gordon, on their best day, couldn’t have cracked open this imposing thief-thwarter. Beside the 400 tons of dusty metal and Lost In Space-type control panels stood a floor-to-ceiling stack of cardboard boxes marked “Empty Vials.”

Alison dialed the combination to the massive, impenetrable door as Leslie dutifully stood in wait wearing huge, padded laboratory gloves. In her fairytale-pretty hands of ultimate sanitation, she held aloft the carefully marked tube of Spanky-wank, clasped in a pair of long industrial tongs.

David looked on like a guy who’d just received a world-class hand job but was also about to die. It’s not an attitudinal combination that occurs too often in nature, but it was certainly an apt reflection of his present condition. “So, you have other fella’s naughty sauce in that there fridge?” he queried.

“The gentlemen in these vials have been unbelievably generous and giving, haven’t they Sis?” Leslie smiled.

“They have indeed.”

The last tumbler clicked into place and the door was swung open wide. Lined up inside, on the shivery shelves, were hundreds of other carefully marked vials. Wafts of spookily frigid vapor leaked out to form a big coldy-ghost as David gawked in amazement at the impressive collection.

“Wow! You girls sure have been busy.”

Leslie carefully placed David’s ample sample amongst the many, many, many cream cups of the worthy.

Alison further illuminated their most recent donator. “These lovingly extracted ‘droplets of life’ belong to only the best and brightest this world has to offer. It will be frozen at a brisk 195 degrees below zero until The Light of the First New Dawn touches the Firestone Fieldhouse at Pepperdine University.”

Spanky curiously read some worthy names. “David Hasselhoff???”

Leslie shrugged. “We went to a Baywatch season rap party last year. That stuff was pretty well everywhere you looked.”


Switch sat, crammed into Malibu General’s cheapest and most expendable wheelchair, awaiting his ride. Having discovered that his health insurance coverage amounted to some crumpled up Ralph’s coupons, the ailing big man was declared fit as a fiddle and released/ejected from this vaunted oasis of healing. A nurse of not inconsiderable buxomness attended to his last few minutes at the medical institution and quite possibly on Earth.

Margaritte Wilson was born in Topeka, Kansas. She was named after her mother’s drink of choice, “the margarine smoothie.” Orphaned by the age of twelve, Margaritte immediately enrolled in welding class, and with hard work and a heck of a lot of pluck, she was able to fashion under-linens and a brassiere out of old car parts before she was handed off to her first eager foster family. Things went as well as could be expected.

In tenth grade, Maggie was voted girl most likely to succeed (which was strange, because in Kansas, almost no one is allowed to vote). But then, on her 17th birthday, her government-designated father arrived home carrying a bottle of Gilbey’s Gin and the Jaws of Life. Margaritte instinctively realized that it was time to skip town and forge a new life for herself that didn’t include having to sleep with a shiv in her mouth.

Hollywood seemed like the logical place to go to escape all forms of unwanted sexual advances, so she and her Chevy Biscayne knickers headed west.

Her conspicuous cleavage landed her the role of “Customer No. 3” on an episode of Berrenger’s (only aired in the U.K. and Australia). Alas, before too long, the only parts being offered to her were hanging out of unzipped trousers.

Consequently, Maggie decided to give up showbiz and go into nursing, because she had become so used to seeing people at their absolute lowest ebb.

Her assignment, at this specific instant, was to guide Switch safely out to his ride and make sure he didn’t try and sneak back in, should he suffer a life-threatening relapse.

Presently, an ancient steam-cleaning van chugged its way up to the entrance. Dack stuck his impatient head out the window and growled, “We’re in a bit of a hurry here, asshole. If you could get a little bit of a move on…”

Switch gingerly rose from his charity chair on trembly knees. His criminally maladministered heart beat like the floor drum on a Pantera song as he staggered towards the rusty deathtrap.

“Now remember, Mr. Siksay – do not overexert yourself,” the kindly, not to mention generously knockered, nurse reminded him as he attempted to hoist his paunchy frame into the back of the mechanically dodgy vehicle.

Switch turned and gave a small affirmative wave with his index finger. “I surely won’t. And thank you so much for that ointment. My cardiac-paddle burns aren’t nearly as sting-y, now.”

Into the Sir Steam Van he hopped/fell and off they shot, driving fast and wild into the blistering noonday sun.

Joining him in the rear of this hell-bound train were Rita, Patti and Artie – all being bounced and jounced around on the hard metal floor like gold nuggets in a prospectors swill pan.

The jarring jalopy was also host to a rolled-up, 8-foot Persian carpet. It was the only soft thing in the back of the van but for some reason, no one was sitting on it.

“Hey, ain’t that your mother’s rug from the foyer?” the very observant Switch called up to the driver.

“We’re hiding a dead body in it.” Rita casually informed him.

“Huh. Anyone I know?”

“The director of My Fair Lady at the Swindheim,” Dack called back.

Artie filled in the vital missing piece to the legally precarious puzzle. “Patti accidentally whacked him with a golf club.”

“Oh,” Switch sighed. “I’d heard good things about that production.”


The passing hours had shone no light. Foul chance had come up snake eyes and Mike’s remaining chips were few. Our good-hearted assassin was on the hook for double murder (even in Cleveland, this was still against the law). And if that weren’t perilous enough, the victim’s not-so-good-hearted widow was still pretty miffed about the blood and brain matter all over her thick-ply carpet and walls.

“So, what do we do now?” he perplexedly enquired.

Luckily, Donna had meticulously fashioned a rip-roaring scheme. “We need to get all his clothes off,” she declared, pulling her Carine Gilson nightdress up over her head and revealing the expensive jiggly goodies beneath.

“I don’t get it. Why are we taking his clothes off… and why are you taking your clothes off?”

“Because, duh, all that blood?”

Michael remained a few horse-lengths back in the race for ultimate enlightenment. The infinitely more worldly, sudden bachelorette rolled her easily pissed off eyes. “It’s all part of the cover story, you big fucking moron.” She now got down to the exciting, inarguable details of her wondrous master plan. “We’re taking off his clothes, so this whole thing will look like a gay sex party gone wrong.”

“A WHAT???”

“This is simple. Even for you. My husband hired you as a Rent Boy…”

“I’m a married man!”

“And what is he, a bucket of shit?”

“And I’m not a homosexual.”

“Neither was Kenn, but I don’t think he’ll complain too much. Do you?”

“You’re insane.”

“Listen dipshit.” What had she done to deserve this cretin? “Kenn hires you to dine on his dong, but you’re terrible at it. He doesn’t want to pay for a lousy slobber jobber, things get ugly and you shoot him.”

“I am not sticking a man’s peepee in my mouth.”

“And you think I enjoy it? What, just because I have a pair of tits, I relish having something that looks like the creature from Alien shoved down the back of my throat?”

Michael looked sadly down at a man he might have called “friend,” if he hadn’t shot him in the face. “What ever possessed this poor jasper to marry a woman like you?”

“How hard is this? It’s a corpse for Christ’s sake. Just roll his pecker around on your tongue for a couple of minutes and we’re home free. I’ll turn my head, if you’re embarrassed.”

Michael crossed his arms and tightened his jaw like a four year-old refusing to eat asparagus.

“Canadians! You ask them to suck one dead guy’s cock!” She shook her head in disbelief. “I should have hired someone from New York. Now, those guys know what killing people is all about.” Donna was on a self-chastising roll and she let herself have it with both barrels. “But I saw how good the dollar exchange was and I just couldn’t resist. This is what I get for going cheap.”


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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