DARRELL VICKERS – CHAPTER NINE: A HORSE WITH NO NAME

BU HOUSE:

Carnality in its most ferocious iteration was transpiring on the stained and tattered sheets of bedroom number two (and the resemblance to “number two” didn’t stop there). David, pinned and perniciously pumped upon by the mercilessly naked and monstrously pregnant Rita, was in the process of having his foreskin caramelized. The bedsprings shrieked in pain. The headboard beat out time, as if it were the coxswain on an Assyrian slave ship. Randy Rita was riding him like Phar Lap in the Melbourne Cup, her bulbous belly bouncing around like a beach ball at an Ozzy Osbourne concert.

Phar Lap or Rita …It’s Hard to Tell from Here

“I can tell you one thing,” she declared, practically ramming her pelvic bone up into David’s Adam’s apple. “You’re not going to get this kind of major pussy action out of those two anorexic trollops.”

“Nayayawaaw!!” David agreed.

CLEVELAND:

More perilously prosecutable hours had passed for panic-ridden Mike, and Disney World, with his racy rodent-impersonating wife, had never looked so distant. Our morose murderer paced anxiously around the room like the mechanical soldier on a Tyrolean clock. He was becoming more agitated by the fidgety, jittery second. What a shame he couldn’t kill his anxiety as easily as he killed that chartered accountant from Houtzdale, just last month.

Donna continued to lobby for her husband’s knobby. “How about I put a little mustard on it for you? Do you like organic jam at all?”

“There’s got to be another way out of this dilemma without breaking my sacred wedding vows and spiraling down into the reckless and unseemly sybaritic abyss of homo-erotic thrill-seeking,” he moaned.

Donna laid out the case. “If you don’t do this for me now; you’re going to be providing this very same service and worse to live guys named Bubba, Diablo and Psycho Pete.”

“You know Pete?”

“Just do it!”

BINGO!

A super cock-suck-saving idea built up inside him and exploded forth like psychogenic spiders billowing out of a meth-head’s skin (delusional parasitosis, for those more medically inclined). “Perhaps I could put some of my spit in a little dish and spread it onto his jabber-nabber. Do you have a basting brush?”

“Jabber-nabber?”

“My wife’s little nickname for… never mind.”

“There’s one in the kitchen, genius. Try not to kill anyone else on your way down the stairs.”

An elated and relieved Mike lay his gun down on the dresser and practically polkaed out of the room. Yes, there are few situations in life more jolly and spiritually uplifting than not having to suck on a dead guy’s jabber-nabber (his word, not mine).

INT. BAR – NIGHT:

 

Bibulous imbibers burped on their barstools as Bon Jovi neo-Springsteened from the jukebox. There is no Happy Hour at Gray’s Saloon; just a saturnine race to closing time for its vertiginous swallow brigade.

Alcohol is a liquid time machine. Immoderate and habitual tippling neatly erases the present, leaving you nothing else to live in but the past. It is the rounder’s first true love and their first tender kiss. The clink of cubes and the hiss of Schweppes is the dulcet soundtrack to the life dissolute. These specters of pallid countenance stare unblinking at the variegated spirits and glasses hung up like rabbits in a butcher shop, lest they should espy themselves amongst the sickly, insatiable throng. Bars of this stripe are not for memory making or venerating the brotherhood of man. The indisposed inhabitants of these rooms without shadows are solitary sailors guiding their feeble crafts atop the fluids of ruination. The air was thick with ghosts hoping for one last drink before heaven.

The taproom door swung open and Switch Siksay doddered lumpily towards the quaff counter.

“We haven’t seen you in here in a while,” Gray casually observed as Switch wearily flopped down onto his regular stool.

“Well, I was dead twice. Plus, I had to help some people move a really, really heavy carpet.”

The self-serving bartender poured the peaked prestidigitator a frothy brew and placed it down in front of him. Switch gazed at the gratis grog suspiciously.

“Huh,” Gray huh-ed. “Cause, I got an old Trinitron I need taken out of my apartment.”

“But those things gotta weigh a thousand pounds.”

Gray indicated the conditionally proffered beverage. “So, you got money to pay for that?”

“Have a little charity, Gray,” Switch pleaded, “My heart’s bein’ held together with Scotch Tape and shoestrings.”

The barkeep uncharitably pulled the beer back in the direction of thirst. “Then, perhaps you don’t have enough strength to lift this glass.”

Switch put on a sulk you could have washed your car with. But then… a silver lining! “Does the TV work?”

“It sure does.”

Switch’s face brightened. If the inestimable odds against surviving this suicidal undertaking were made farce, then at least he’d have a…

“That’s why you’re taking it to my sister’s place in West Covina.”

Switch’s face dropped like a Quaker’s hemline. He looked dolefully down at the finely cooled hops and malted barley before him. Sure, it tasted great and was remarkably less filling, but still, supping its bubbly bounty was almost certainly a one-way ticket to a pauper’s grave (in Malibu, that means becoming a crab buffet under the pier).

Once committed and refreshed, there could be no turning back. The deadly die would have been cast. Abandon all hope, ye who enter here (this is also the phrase tattooed above Laura Ingraham’s vagina).

A teary-eyed Switch prayed to his Lord and Savoir for the strength to resist this accursed, injurious temptation. That accomplished, he grabbed hold of the murderous mead and began to eagerly swig his doom.

CLEVELAND:

Mike’s Terpsichore had evolved from a polka to more of a gigue as he giddily ascended the stairway, a small bowl and basting brush in hand.

Upon entering the bedroom, however, his good mood burst quicker than Chris Christie’s water wings. Donna was kneeling on the bed with her nightdress in tatters. She was also pointing Mike’s gun ominously in his direction.

“I devised a brand new and simply marvelous plan, while you were away. You killed my poor, loving husband in a robbery gone wrong. Then you decided to rape me.”

“RAPE??!!’

“But I managed to grab your gun in the scuffle and… goodbye, asshole!” Donna closed her eyes and pulled the trigger.

BLAM!!

A bullet whistled past Mike’s ear and crashed through the bedroom window. The recoil from the blast tore the high precision weapon from Donna’s girlie hand.

“Are you fucking crazy?” Mike crapped, diving across the bed to retrieve his smoking roscoe. “I’m sorry to say this,” he snorted, getting to his feet, “but you are not a very nice person.”

Donna shrugged. “Well, excuse me for trying to think outside the box.”

 

THE PCH:

The jeep vroomed down the windy, poorly maintained highway.

“What exactly is perfidy, anyway?” Leslie asked, stroking a long black beard she had spirit-gummed to her dainty chin.

“It’s an act of betrayal or treachery. Pretty heady stuff in the intrigue and backstabbing department,” Alison informed her linguistically curious sister.

“Ooh, that sounds positively dire! So, I guess in this sort of grievous circumstances, we wouldn’t have time to stop off and have a Bubble Tea?”

“Anything for you, my one true love.”

Alison leaned over and planted a big moist one on her oh-so-kissable kin, their improper probing tongues intertwining like the impossible lines in an Escher drawing.

“Oooh. Tickly. I like it.”

As if to confirm a certain potato chip’s braggadocian claim, it was nigh on impossible to have just one. Alison re-tongued her sizzling sibling like her uvula was bacon and eggs. Forthwith and with force, car horns screamed for attention as foreign-made halogen headlights glowered at them in umbrage.

Yikes! Alison prudently swerved back into her own lane and regained control of the vehicle. Well, sort of.

“Besides, we’ve got plenty of time. If I know that fat, bitchy slut, she’ll work poor Spanky’s joint ‘til his nut hair catches fire.”

‘BU HOUSE:

Sure enough, Rita continued to despoil David’s loins with extreme prejudice. The bed linen looked like Nick Nolte’s face after a night out with Gary Busey. She could feel the first precursory tingles of a building climax rising up within her feminine fortress. The walls of wonder began to tighten around Spanky’s distended doowanger. Her aperture began to put on the squeeze for his cheese. Heaving hips quickly switched from second gear to overdrive as she jammed her metaphorical foot down on the gyno-gas pedal and rocketed toward the frenetic finish line.

“Just fifteen more minutes,” she perspired all over him. “I’m almost there.”

“How long??”

THE MARKS THEATRE (OSHAWA):

The night was as cold a Plutonian pole dancer. Snowflakes cascaded down from the miserable sky like the frozen tears of angels. Discolored lumps of toxic ice dotted the sidewalk, lying invisibly in wait for the brittle bones of the elderly. Vast puffy clouds of choking exhaust spewed forth from the shivering cars parked along King Street. The Marquee above the cut-rate movie house door read:

Midnight Showing

Blood Orgy of the She-Devils

A small crowd of self-hugging Shwa-cicles quickstepped out of the theatre to brave the skin-cracking, hyperborean air. The all-too-common Oshawarian phrase, “Oh, Christ-ey Fuck, Fuck!” rang out from various quarters within the congregation as the incisive winter gale tortured their tits and shrinkied their dinkies. Boden and Llew were among those huddled and shrinkied masses.

“Shit on a biscuit, eh?” Llew pushed out between chattering teeth.

Both frozen fellows stretched fetching wooly tuques over their red, crispy ears. Their red, crispy cheeks and noses were not so lucky.

“No fucking way it was this fucking freezing when we went in,” Boden griped, slapping at his ribs.

“Well, it’s sorta later now. Probably, it got colder.”

“My sister says it’s way colder where she is.”

“Well, I wouldn’t wanna go there then, eh?”

“No fucking way I am. Plus,” Boden squirmed, “her head smells a lot like Steve Prefontaine.”

“That runner guy?”

“Yeah, the dead one.”

“How come you’d know that?”

“Had an Uncle, eh? Met Steve at this here track meet after a long run. Says her head and him is indistinguishable.”

“So, how come her head is indistinguishable from a real quick-runnin’ dead guy?”

“Don’t know. Genetic malfunction or something. The rest of her body smells perfectly normal.”

“Wow.”

“Wow’s right. We’ve tried to get her on some of them exposé TV shows, eh, but so far, nobody’s interested.”

“Fuck. I mean, the public has a right to know, right?”

“That’s exactly our opinion. Somethin’ just ain’t right with our so-called mainstream media.”

MALIBU COLONY DRUG STORE:

 

A post-coital David again found himself flustered and flummoxed in the feminine aisles of The Colony drugstore. He half-heartedly examined a package featuring a smiling model holding multicolored plastic tubes in one hand and a winking scarlet macaw in the other. Our mildly brained hero stared in consternation. “Yes,” he somewhat thought, “it is sure easier to enjoy women than to actually be one.”

But, his fanciful daydreaming was short-lived. Before he could even read where those kaleidoscopic tubes needed to be inserted, the gallivanting girls appeared, as if out of nowhere. A talent they frequently utilized.

“Well, hey there, Spanky Manky,” Leslie beamed. “Fancy meeting you here.”

“Good choice,” nodded Alison, referring to the box in his hand. “That stuff will make your vagina smell like a sweet tropical garden, but without the insects.”

“Could we offer you a Bubble Boba or a specialty Frappe?”

“Now girls, I, honest injun, am totally on board as in reference to ensurin’ the survival of our endangered species. You can put an absolute ‘fer sure’ on that. But, at present, I am chafed right up to the eyeballs.”

“Fear not, fairest of Spankies,” Alison reassured him, and followed up with a little tweak of his carnally contused nutsack. “We do not come seeking your suck-sational seminal fluids.”

Leslie leaned in, almost whispering. “We’re here because of perfidy.”

“Who-idy? And does this have something to do with why you’re wearin’ a beard?”

“Her facial hirsuteness is merely a whimsical chin adornment and titillating osculation accessory, but our current mission could not be more serious.”

“Say, that does sound serious. Do you have a rash of some sort?”

“What we are in the middle of is a nefarious plot that could potentially have unjust and world-ending consequences.”

David looked down into his bag of women’s products, a man truly torn. “World-ending sure sounds bad and all, but Rita was pretty darn riled the last time I took off with you two gals.”

“Peeved, however overwrought and uncalled for, is practically marmalade-covered mothballs compared to being set ablaze by the molten flames of recalibration, Spanks,” Alison expertly countered. “Don’t you agree?”

“Well, jeepers, yeah. There’s practically no comparison.”

“And you have your blessed child to think about now,” Leslie reminded him.

“Now, as to my fatherin’ of this… and I’m sure it’s going to be as cute as a bucket of kittens, but…”

Alison placed her index finger over David’s skeptical lips. “The Great One has deemed it so, Spankers.”

“Exactly,” agreed Leslie. “Do you think my exquisite sister and I would have sucked off a horse, if The Great One had not deemed it so?”

“You WHAT??!!”

“It’s a long story,” explained Alison, biting into a Tabasco-seasoned Slim Jim.

Leslie nodded her head and held her hands about two feet apart. “Literally.”

=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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