At last and with much strain, Llew divined a topic of conversation that wasn’t about hockey or the nifty goal Scott Hollis had just scored. “So, I heard from Spanky, eh? Well, Marybeth Visneski did.”

“Is she the one who gave Boden the hummer at Beano’s?” Mother asked.

“Yeah, she was. Super nice girl, though.”

“Oh, super nice,” Dad nodded. “David thought the world of her.”

“Fer sure. He was going to take her out to the Lobster for a ‘Goodbye Dinner.’”

“Jeez,” Dad shook his head. “I had no idea it had gotten that serious.”

“Well, Walt’s Favorite Shrimp and Mango Mai Tais all went out the proverbial window the second she let Boden paint her tonsils. Disgusting,” Mother scornfully declared.

“Sigh. Those were the days,” Dad internally opined, while outwardly scowling in full fellatiotic contempt.

There comes that dreaded, heart-rending day in every fellow’s life when he realizes that the transcendent comforts of a woman’s favors are forever lost to him. From thence ‘til death, finding hollow consolation in stolen glances and chance moments of pulchritudinous propinquity. The damnable, relentless years may rob a man of his ability and opportunity to “kiss the sun,” but it can never diminish his ardor. It is a gnawing, torturous hunger that will not be slaked until the merciful dirt of eternity removes them from his sight.

Llew pulled the increasingly crumpled postcard out of his pocket and held it forth. “So’s, like I was sayin’, Spanky sent Marybeth this here postcard. I figured you guys might probably want it, bein’ as he’s the blessed fruit of your married union an’ all.”

Neither of them raised an eyelid to look at it.

“Not really,” Dad shrugged, peeking over at a Zellers salesclerk adjusting her skirt in front of the Coles Bookstore. Ah, to be granted just five minutes residency within the supernal arms of her youth.

“He’s gonna get ass-raped.” Mrs. S. made a face like a dried up bucket of eel parts. “Who wants to read about that?”

“But maybe you could read about him until then?” Llew was always a half-full kind of a guy.

“I will light a lamp with camphor and make auspicious marks with sandalwood paste for the well-being of his pink and tender anus, but I don’t hold out much hope.”

“Well, it’s the thought that counts,” Llew acquiesced.


The metal sliding door was once again in the “up” position. The hacksawed guardian lock lay critically wounded upon the cold concrete floor. Valerie and Maury looked very unimpressed with the bizarre collection of props and insect skeletons before them.

“Fuck. Nothing but a bunch of junk and crap,” Maury posited, kicking a chipped and earless bust of Pericles.

“Isn’t ‘junk and crap’ pretty well redundant?” Valerie crabbed.

“What’s redundant?”

“I think you just answered my question.” Val was itchy, so she was bitchy. That last hurried hump-fest had been like trying to attain La Petite Mort using a dildo made out of bees. She was scanning the dusty mess for anything of even minimal value, but all she really wanted to do is shove a Dairy Queen soft-serve up her skirt.

And there it was. Fortune was shining down upon her like a Sperti Fiji Tanning Lamp. Those premium brand Frozen French Fries would be hers after all! She turned to her paramour-more-more and barked. “Why don’t you quit trying to fucking think and lift that carpet into the trunk? It’s gotta be worth at least thirty grand.”

Maury’s eyes lit up like a remedial-reading Christmas tree. Thirty grand! That kind of money was going to buy him some major, major muff-time. After all, this was his idea. He bent down to joyously wrap his mighty guns around this first class ticket to Poon Town. Fuck, it was heavy. Really fucking heavy. Still, it was major muff… and most likely, copious amounts of anal ‘til her labia returned to their normal size… and color.

A Cruella de Vil smile creased Val’s iridescent and avaricious lips as a purple-faced Maury continued to struggle with the oddly weighty floor covering. “Amos, you old fuck. I finally managed to squeeze a nickel out of you.”


The sneakers with patent leather uppers sold like mustache wax at a Russian Women’s track meet. Myriad rain checks were required. The peppercorn steak they were offering on special over at The Saber was also flying out the kitchen as fast as they could overcook it


It was just like you’d always imagined, only way more expensive-looking. Clouds as soft as a baby’s skin, tinctured with gold and jewels of spellbinding coruscation. Songs of the devout and righteous rang forth in purest tones of praise and exultation. Gary and Randy stood trembling and in awe at the feet of the archangel Barachiel. And “Blessed by God” he be. As white as a Klansman on laundry day, he knew no besmirchment. Wings both mighty and beauteous. A voice as calming as the mellifluous waves of the sea. Translucent spirits of true believers assembled in great multitudes to bear joyous witness to their oh-so-accurately prophesized induction into heaven. All as one were hosanna-ing to beat the band.


“What the fuck is this?” Sturch queried.

An Earthly crowd of the curious had gathered. They verily gawked. Gary and Randy, adorned in nothing but their Fruit of the Looms, were knelt most reverently before a Heermann’s gull perched on top of a churro cart. It had a human eyeball in its mouth that looked a little like Ron Palillo in the right light.

“I don’t exactly know,” shrugged Officer McLaughlin. “This kind of thing seems to be happening every couple of weeks.”

“Well, nutfuckers and loonballs aren’t welcome here in Malibu. Put ‘em in the squad car and drop ‘em off on the 3rd Street Promenade.”


The purloined Persian floor covering took up most of the compact living room floor as Maury beefily sawed through the layers of duct tape with a steak knife. Val looked on disapprovingly. It’d taken her supposed über-stud forever to get this simple bit of rug up into their damn apartment. Perhaps she was fucking all the strength out of him like some sort of totally prettier Delilah. It didn’t matter. Thirty grand would buy her a lot of “first drinks” at some very exclusive Brentwood gin mills. Husband No. 2 was just over the horizon… as long as this carpet wasn’t damaged.

“Careful, you fuckhead. That thing is worth some real dough.”

“It should be. It weighs a fucking ton.”

“I just hope to God he hasn’t let the moths eat it like they did his dick.”

“You know, I’m not sure I like you talkin’ about another guy’s dick.”

“And I’m not sure I like you being a retarded fucking numbnuts. I let you drop four loads into me today and you can’t even cut through some goddamn fucking duct tape? I could eat a trilby full of Emu shit faster that this.”

“What’s an Emu?”


“All right! All right! It’s done.”

Val crossed her oh-so-ringable fingers as Maury grabbed one end of the troublesome combination of Warp and Weft and gave it a serious tug. The carpet magically unrolled, as if in a movie. But instead of the lovely, lithesome and unclad Cleopatra, a big, fat, murdered director tumbled out.

“Who the fuck is that??”

“Motherfucker! This thing’s all covered in blood. It’s worthless like this.”

“But there’s, like, a dead guy.”

“Don’t you fucking think I can fucking see that?”

Maury began to think about how pretty he was and jail! Not an especially uplifting cogitation. “What are we going to do?” he squeaked over the sound of his sphincter tightening.

“First off, you’re going to roll this fucking stiff back up in that carpet and then we’re going to get rid of it.”

“Back to the storage unit?”

Val self-servingly shook her head. “Amos isn’t going to do us any good in the jug.” She tapped her temple for inspiration. “Think. Where is the most likely place in Malibu to have your skull turned into a drive-thru?”

Maury had already exhausted about a decade’s worth of good ideas that very morning, but he gave it the old didn’t-go-to-college try.


David stood before the mother of his transcendentally ordained child. She did not look especially felicitous.

“And just where the fuck have you been for four fucking hours?” she kvetched.

“I was threatened with murder.”

“And exactly how long does that take?”

Amos lit his 78th cigarette of the day and joined the conversational fray. “She’s right. The last time I had my life threatened, I was in and out of there in ten minutes, tops.”

“Well, there was also a need – or so Alison and Leslie felt…”

Rita jammed her very pregnant finger into David’s recently tamponed face. “Don’t you dare tell me you’ve spent all this time with those two skinny sluts?”

“Oh no, they’re super nice girls, who just felt that, in light of credible and worrisome threats to my personage, it might be as prudent as heck for me to make a contribution to the Vault of All Tomorrows.”

This went over about as well as a McCulloch Chainsaw at an Orthodox Bris. Hell was certainly about to hath no fury like… “So, I’ve been waiting here all fucking day for my vitally important women’s products while you’ve been off getting a skinny-whored hand job?”

“It’s really more your case – a reassurance, if you will – of a survival of the species kind of thing. Super critical stuff. Though, I will admit that certain traditional methods of extraction were employed.”

“Well, you’d better have something left in that tank, that’s all I’ve got to say. Because my nipples feel like I’ve been breastfeeding a velociraptor.”

There was a time when David’s penis cried out for female companionship. Now, it just cried out. He sighed like a bridge-crossing Venetian.


A night of unimpeachable darkness leaned down from a cloudless sky to kiss the land. The air was as still as the inside of a Scotsman’s wallet. Coyotes were raiding trashcans and dining on scraps of food that ended in “Gras,” “Torchon” and “Thermidor.” (The original meals having been consumed by people whose personal descriptions ended in “-hole,” “-wad” and “-ucker.”)

Inside the Cult Mansion, Tiberius was dining on a different kind of dishy dejeuner. Debbie Sorvino was a luxury cruise organizer for one of the major shipping companies. Over the years, she had sent tens of thousands of unsuspecting tourists to their Norwalkean doom.

But even as her victims were marooned far out on storm-tossed waters, ardently praying to never have to shit again, Debbie was delivering her own plea unto the cosmos.

“Let the seed of the future find purchase within me. Let the seed of the future find purchase within me,” she called out as Tiberius furiously pounded his Peter into her Gordon.

Deb had always been fairly religious, but her hard and fast Christian beliefs had not saved her from her hard and fast lifestyle. Eventually, the ravages of drugs and alcohol cost her her job, her self-respect and her life savings. Within a year, Debra fell as far as a human being could drop. She was homeless, destitute and considering dating Harry Nilsson when she miraculously happened upon The Great One. This man, nay prophet, nay Big, Feathery World Savior offered her a divinely inspired spiritual truth and an inviolable house of worship where they gladly supplied her with all the booze and drugs she could ever possibly want. Hallelujah! Problem solved.

“Let the seed of the future find purchase within me,” Debbie repeated as Tiberius continued to nitty gritty her dirt band.

But, before he could produce any batter for her platter, the gossamer glow of the cult’s fairest followers flooded the beatific boudoir. And oh, what saintly sylphs they were. There wasn’t a schismatic congregation of fervid adherents sharing blatantly heretical beliefs and comically deviant practices in Southern California that could come close to such bodacious believers. Why, they were the envy of chicken-abusing sects from as far away as Solvang and Ridgecrest.

“You called, oh Great One!” Alison announced.

“Do you need us to stick a finger up your patoot?” Leslie inquired, holding her swoon-worthy index at the ready.

Tiberius paused, mid-travel-agent hump.

“No. Not at this juncture. I require you to bring your friend from the north to me.”

“Do you need him to stick a finger up your ass?” asked a confused Alison.

The Great One smiled. “A charming thought, but I believe I’m just about to unleash a fecund flood, unassisted.”

The three girls chanted in unison. “Let the seed of the future find purchase within her/me.”

“Perfidy is upon us,” Tiberius continued. “And it is imperative that this tide be turned.”

“Let our friend from the North turn this perfidic tide while the seed of the future is finding purchase within her/me,” they preternaturally repeated back.

“I hate to interrupt, oh Great One, but I have to get home to make my husband his dinner.”

Tiberius rolled his all-seeing eyes. “Consider yourself lucky. I still have a congresswoman and Bobby Gentry to fructify.”

“Let the seed of the future find purchase within Bobby Gentry.”

“Oh, I love Bobby Gentry!” Alison glowed.

“Can we stay and watch?” Leslie gushed.

“Does she sing while you’re fucking her?”

“I’ll fuck her if you’re too tired,” Deb offered.

The room went quiet.

“A very nice offer, I’m sure,” Tiberius replied. “But…”

“But what?”

“You’re a girl,” Leslie pointed out.

“Where are you going to get the necessary seed to find purchase?” Alison asked.

Deb shrugged. “In two minutes, I’ll have a whole cunt full of it.”


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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