Crap. It’s everywhere. The entire continent is sinking under the overwhelming avoirdupois of magna excreta. It’s the one thing that the ever-diverging peoples of North America have in common. Way, way too much crap. We maniacally amass it until our houses are positively bursting with unwanted junk of the junkiest variety. And just to prove how unwanted that junk really is – when there’s no more room for it in our home sweet homes (Throw it away? Are you mad?!), we put it in rented concrete boxes across town. Then, the only time we see this collection of depressing domestic detritus is when we’re dropping off more unwanted depressing domestic detritus to add to the unwanted crap we already have in there. It’s basically what all of us will do with our elderly relatives when we want to sell their houses so we can go on vacation.

But storage lockers aren’t exclusively for penguin-shaped garbage cans, unused Abdominizers, Uncle Frank’s old wooden leg and high school essays on the pros and cons of the Lansing-Ishii Agreement; a common misconception. They can also be used to house excess stock by stores or invaluable movie props by alcoholic directors who spend years between shoots. We now return you to 1992.



Locker 8503 on the north side of Jefferson West was just such a depository for superfluous extraneosities.

Sir Steamy was cooling its steamy heels in front of the pulled-up metal door. Within, piled high and in no particular order, was array upon assortment of freakish furniture, silverfish-infested costumes and obscene objets d’art. There was also a soupcon of hobo urine and a half eaten jar of filberts.

Dack and the gang shared a “fat one” while Mr. Magic struggled mightily, trying to maneuver the bulky floor covering and its weighty occupant out of the van.

“My chest hurts, Dack,” Switch grossly understated.

The irritated ringleader took the spliff out of his be-spittled lips, mid-puff. “Will you just fucking hurry up?”

“I’ve already been legally dead two times this week on account of my heart. I probably shouldn’t be doing this.”

Rita was sick right up to her pregnant teeth, having to listen to Switch’s absolutely legitimate concerns. “If I tried to pick that thing up…” She slapped her distended midsection. “This fucker’d pop like a midget fired out of a cannon. Is that what you want?”

The casual conversation continued betwixt the conspiratorial cadaver couriers as their enervated strongman turned the color of kyanite, his heart ready to burst open like a Walmart condom.

“What exactly is our plan here?” Patti caviled. “‘Cause I need to grab a nap before my shift at Grunions.” She also owed the paperboy a blowjob for the last two weeks of deliveries. And, if the landlord spotted her, she was going to need to pick up some aspirin. Time was of the essence.

“Well, Nancy Lopez,” Dack explained through a cloud of illegal smoke. “When we go out on location with the movie – this carpet will go with us. Then, we bury it in the desert while Amos is trying to figure out which goddamn lens to use. Bingo! We’re home free.”

“Brilliant!” Artie piped in.

“Ahhhh!” suggested Switch, grabbing at his chest and lowing like a cow.

Suddenly, Dack went as white as Johnny Winter’s cum. “What did you do with the murder weapon?”

Patti fuffed. “It’s here. I stuffed the driver up his ass.”

“But you could only comfortably insert about eight to ten inches of that handle into his colon.” This authoritative statement on the subject turned a few heads. “So I’ve heard!”

“Fortunately, when they’re dead or unconscious, and you really put your back into it… you can jam that sucker way, way up there. Even so, I was sweating like a pig by the time I’d finished and you can still see a little bit of the hand grip poking out.”

The assembled were agog and aghast.

“If I had to do it again, though, I think I’d use a seven iron.”

Alas, this nostalgic trip down Murderer’s Lane was cut short by Switch. Someone was going to have to pound on his chest immediately, or they were going to need another carpet.


Two middle-aged gentlemen in threadbare suits warily stood before the gigantic oaken door. After discovering that the doorbell was merely for decoration, the bolder of the two rapped on the well-worn wood with his proselytizing knuckles.

A full three minutes passed before anything stirred inside, but luckily, the yard provided a farrago of oddments to gawk at in the interim. Just as patience and courage were wearing thin, a fully plumed Tiberius appeared in the entranceway.

“May I help you?” he thundered.

Jehovah had never born such a witness. The men were momentarily bereft of words. Finally, the bolder missionary found voice. “Good afternoon. We’d like to speak to you about God,” he smiled.

Tiberius looked confused. “What about me?”


“Valerie. A Delilah nonpareil for a new cynical age. The sultry, hypnotic eyes. The plump and dewy lips. The pert and peerless breasts that promised to salve a thousand wounds. All were lures. Enticements. Irresistible inveiglements to convince the wariest of males – namely me – to offer up his tender neck to the matrimonial mousetrap.

“What a piece of work is man. What a piece of ass is woman. And Valerie had one of the most talented derrieres in the Virgo Supercluster. She could have easily taught it to drive a car, if she’d so desired. And oh, the sway of those cherubic cheeks, those buttery buttocks, that shimmering shitter! A sun does not rise, a bird does not sing, a palm rat does not chew through my screen door in search of Pringles that I do not mourn its absence from my bed.

“On the other hand, that same intoxicating, callipygian goddess would spend the pennies off a dead man’s eyes. There was a not a bangle, knickknack or gewgaw that this preening scattergood did not seek to acquire. Shoes, clothing, jewels – she demanded them all. There were times when I was also bereft of presentable sartorial adornment, but regrettably, ‘Boundless Genius’ doesn’t pay nearly like it used to.

“Our once fairytale conjoining of hearts ultimately chipped and whittled down to a simple mathematical formula: if I didn’t hand over the green, she wasn’t prepared to surrender the pink. And when my checks started to bounce higher than a Popeye chicken wing, it was pretty well the end of her end. But just because she became corporeally AWOL did not mean she was fiscally absent from my life. Not by a long shot.

“On the day we were inexplicably wed, who knew that when the Elvis Impersonator du jour declared ‘‘Til death do you part,’ in that glittering desert house of wager, he was only referring to the bride and my money.”


Hidden far away from the glimmering mansions of God’s favorite children rest the plebeian habitations of those he only feels so-so about. Drilled into the side of a precarious cliff stood Ocean Meadows Apartments. What’s an ocean meadow you ask? Who the fuck knows? Fires, mudslides, earthquakes and ark-worthy floods (probably within the same week) will one day reduce this rickety pressboard and drywall hovel to rickety rubble. But for the next few jiffies in time, it was the unobtrusive residence of Valerie Drawling.

Amos’s sexy ex was in repose on the 32-monthly-payments-remaining couch and deep in thought. She was in recovery from giving Maury a Three-In-A-Row pre-breakfast special. Her “daddy pleaser” stung like she’d been using it to brine pork, but at least she was off the “spreadin’ ‘em” hook until dinnertime. Why was life so hard? How could Maury stay so hard? It was just one of those typical “woe is me” mornings at Ocean Meadows.

Val sipped a large, frosty Negroni while she waited for her precious quindim to stop throbbing. This Year’s Girl by The Pizzicato Five blared from the Hitachi DA-1000 and the reeking revenants of easy-to-prepare Mexican entrees still haunted the very air they inspired.

Yves Montand, Freddie Mercury, Gene Roddenberry, Miles Davis and Dr. Seuss were all snug in their graves, but Aaron Fucking Spelling still had a full fourteen years to live. And if that wasn’t bad enough… he had a daughter! This was what life had devolved to in the bleary, dreary decade of the 1990s.

Meanwhile, beset by penury of incalculable proportions, Maury was on his knees at a Wertz Brothers’ coffee table, cutting out unthinkably thrifty food coupons from a stolen L.A. Times.

“That fucker has got to have something of value, somewhere,” Valerie groused.

Snip. Snip. Snip. “Do you want the frozen Tater Tots?”

Valerie rolled her crapulous eyes and whined. “McCain French Fries are so much better.” Had she really been reduced to this?

“Yeah, but McCain’s aren’t on sale this week.”

Valerie took a huge, angry chug of her Negroni. “This is exactly what I’m fucking talking about. I’m the divorced third ex-wife of a famous director, for Christ’s sake. I should be able to eat fucking McCain French Fries any goddamn time I feel like it.”

“So, that’s a ‘no’ on the Tater Tots?”

She hurled her ornate chalice against the wall in a fit of pre-frozen-tuber-frustrated pique. “Goddamn it, Maury! You’re the man in this pathetic relationship. Figure out a way to buy me the fucking brand of oven-ready potatoes that I fucking want!”

Maury’s ever-so-muscular brain began to clean and jerk in his head. While his mind didn’t usually wander beyond the comforting borders of his three main concerns (food, pussy and sports – down to pussy and sports, if he’d just eaten), acquiring some much needed cash might lead to more pussy fucking (while possibly, simultaneously watching sports) and less coupon clipping.

At first, outward evidence of increased cranial activity was slim to none, except he almost snipped off the end of his ring finger. After a few agonizing, spasmodic turns of the starter engine, where a substantial Beefaroni coupon was scissored almost unrecognizable, a small – tiny – minuscule – glimmer of light, about the size of Danny Bonaduce’s career, began to wanly glow. Synapses sparked. Long dormant lobes were rudely jolted to life. His face contorted like he was attempting to shit a side-by-side refrigerator… sideways. The light quickly grew to the size of Don Most’s career. Then… BING!

A glow worthy of Christina Applegate’s career turned his dusty, musty skull flotsam into a swirling disco-ball of sagacity. “Doesn’t Amos have some sort of storage locker for that movie of his?” he tendered. “Maybe there’s something in there that’s worth a couple of bucks.”

Talk about beginner’s luck!

Valerie almost smiled. Her hunk in the bunk with indefatigable junk might just have stumbled across something. She lifted her overly plush ass up off her underly plush settee. “Get the car out and I’ll give you a quickie before we go,” she announced.

It was a brave call. She knew that his dick was going to feel like a Mr. Big Curling Iron up there, but for once, Maury just might be onto something that wasn’t her.


Llew stood encased in his beloved booth, meticulously examining two keys to confirm that they were indeed identical. Phew! The answer was a resounding “Yes!” He was a true grindstone artisan and justifiably proud as punch of his kioskian triumphs.

Business at the mall was unusually brisk for a Tuesday, but Kresge’s was having a sale on sneakers with patent leather uppers, and that never failed to pull in the discerning shopper. David’s heavily clothed parents appeared out of the crowd and sauntered up to the Centre’s resident keysmith.

“Hey, Llew,” Spanky’s mother half-waved.

“Hey there, Mr. and Mrs. Sobanski. Pretty cold, eh?”

“Really cold,” Dad nodded.

“Super cold,” Mom agreed. Mrs. S. pulled a bronze key out of her purse. “We need to get this copied, eh?”

“Mother and I changed the all the locks at the house.”

“I figure, as soon as David gets ass-raped and killed down there, those murderin’ L.A. bastard types’ll be headed straight up to the Schwa with his key.”

“Oh, fer sure,” Llew agreed. “Very prudent.”

Dad nodded. “All new locks ain’t cheap by any measure, but I’m getting to an age now where gettin’ ass-raped is just – well, let’s just say better not than got.”

There was a short silence while everyone awkwardly nodded in agreement.


Tiberius smothered the room with his avian-centric regalia, high atop his throne of many twigs. He gazed down appraisingly at his two devout but confused visitors. A topless Fawn served them Lumbini tea from an ornate, white drinks table. The fashionable piece of wood on wheels was purchased in 1981 from an MGM “High Society” themed yard sale, along with Louis Calhern’s cravat flask. Alas, all available Grace Kelly items that “a gentleman should not touch while courting” fetched prices that would have given Mansa Musa or Simon Cowell pause. Gravity by Fred Frith clicked and clacked from the stereo speakers.

Gary and Randy Rouden sipped their Ceylonese refreshments cautiously and tried not to ogle their hostess’s unsheathed and perfectly ripened bazongas. It was a harrowing task. Chained to the mast of their theocratically dictated pious probity, they ardently foreswore any and all temptations that even hinted at happiness and contentment. Thus, sex was something only to be entered into under duress and by two irrevocably married and miserable adults. Even Jell-O, ice cream and strawberries’ most cherished chum, was deemed far too prurient and arousing to darken a decent family’s dinner table.

The riotous hedonism on display ran so contrary to the missioners’ sanctimonious abjuration and beliefs, it was beyond fathoming. Stirrings long suppressed and denied bubbled to the surface, much like Percy Shelley in the Gulf of Spezia. Blood flow was disconcertingly returning to body parts left for dead. The Devil’s Welcome Mat was spread out before them; flashing and gleaming like a Las Vegas marquee, bidding them wipe their pietistic soles upon its iniquitous fibers. When all the Lord cares to offer you is a lifetime of unsalted crackers and knees that ache from prayer, Satan’s beribboned gift basket of boobs and booze can easily lead to paradise unattained, flogging with molten whips, being chewed upon by demons, and dancing.

Tiberius filled his sinuses with a healthy scoop of Coca Puffs and sonorously spoke unto them. “So, this other God you speak of…”

“No, no. Not other God. The God.”

“The one and only true god,” Gary nodded in joyless agreement.

“I’m not sure I’m following you.”

Randy held up his bible. “It’s all in here. The holy word that has never been diminished or disproven.”

“Okay, this God of yours…”

“He’s everyone’s God.”

“Yours. Mine. Every lamb in the field and every bird in the sky – all God’s creatures. All are bathed in his everlasting light.”

“And he’s all powerful?” The Great One casually inquired.

“Absolutely. Very powerful. He and he alone can do the impossible.”

“You mean like this?”

Multi-colored rays of shimmering light exploded from behind Tiberius, bouncing off the ceiling like Ping-Pong balls and ricocheting around the room. Birds of blazing hues and varying beak shapes took wing out of his sleeves. Two Chinese cobras slithered from his holy eye sockets and wrapped themselves together to form a reptilian halo above The Great One’s oscillating Head. Over to his right, Fawn’s effervescent breasts had transmogrified into a pair of snarling undead Wolves. She fed them putrefied, suppurating pound cake with her shriveled, broken fingers. Their cracked and yellow teeth bled as they chewed.

Yep, the acid in their tea had started to take effect.


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


Now available in paperback!


But best read Vol. One first.


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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