You could now tell both the Bouchard beauties by the hairs on their chinny-chin chins. Totally fetching in their womanly whiskers, A. & L. closely resembled the two-thirds of ZZ Top that didn’t play the drums. The tender twins continually bussed and lingually thrust as the flap, flap, flap from a Kolibri money-counting machine filled the basement.

Every 45 seconds or so, the currency contraption spat out a big thick wad of twenties. At each of these monetarily exhilarating moments, Alison scooped up the precious paper and wrapped a thick rubber band around Andrew Jackson’s face. As much fun as stackin’ the spendables was, something was on her mind. Something besides motor-boating her sister’s prodigious wazambas (though, that was certainly running a close second).

“Perhaps we should do something nice for poor old Spanky. To take his mind off the fact that we had him hauling around a dead body all night.”

She passed the wrapped stack of readies to her sister who tossed it into a large plastic garbage can piled high with ooftish.

Leslie rubbed her mandible mane thoughtfully. No wonder Lincoln was so darned smart! “Let’s go over to ‘Bu house and give him an old-fashioned barbershop shave! Then, we could rub our num-nums on his chin, instead of a hot towel.”

“While a terrific way to open up those pores, I was actually considering purloining a few inches of these crisp pay-to-the-bearers and heading up to Carmel for the weekend.”

Leslie smiled and 10,000 children’s party balloons re-inflated. “Perhaps we can grab a couple of vials of Clint Eastwood’s mung for the vault while we’re up there.”

A 10,000-year-old Clint Eastwood re-inflated.


Having sufficiently bucked-up her courage and coked up her nostrils, Patti marched onto the stage like she owned the place. Her stomach was a little queasy, but that was mostly from sucking on Dack’s squishy doowanger in a hot car. Sniff. Sniff. She could do this!

Cheryl and Kris sneered at her approach.

I heard that you’d been demoted from ‘Star’ to ‘Ticket Girl,’” Cheryl snarked.

“You bitches are so old, I’m surprised you can hear anything at all,” Patti huffed in return.

“Strange. You’d think a character named ‘Doolittle’ would be tailor-made for someone like you,” Kris added, cocking a very pointed snook.

Patti gave them a jaundiced once over. “Maybe I should replace you two antediluvian warthogs as my backup dancers with Monica and Lynn.”

Cheryl bristled mightily but kept her temper. Instead, a poisonous smile infected her face. “Why don’t we go in and see what Bill has to say?”

This was the winning card that the big-boobed buddies were just dying to play.

“Why don’t we do just that?” Patti answered, holding a pretty substantial ace up her peasant girl sleeve.

The haughty high-stepper barged past them and opened the director’s door as if she hadn’t a care in the world. What a performance! Patti confidently marched into the room like she fully expected to see William Irongate sitting right there in the chair where she murdered him.


William Irongate was sitting right there in the chair where she murdered him. She screamed like someone had jammed Neve Campbell up Jamie Lee Curtis’s ass. Her eyes whirled around in her petrified head and she passed out on the floor in a lagoon of her own wee-wee.


The plain black dial phone on a utilitarian nightstand rang like a cockerel greeting the blossoming morning light. A familiar cranky-knuckled hand reached over and snatched up the receiver. A conspicuously displeased police officer put it to his siren-deafened ear.

“Officer Sturch. This better be important.” He reached over and lit up a joint while he was listening. “Fuck a hopping shit-bunny! I’ll be right there.”

Sturch tossed down the phone and turned to the sweet-looking co-ed in bed with him. She was as naked as an old maid’s ring finger.

“Can I go now?” she carped.

“Sure. Get the hell out of here.”

Emma grabbed her clothes from the bottom of the bed and headed off to the bathroom, her young sweet ass as refreshing as the first drops of winter rain on the Serengeti.

“And if you’re going to jaywalk in my town and don’t want to end up in jail, learn to fuck better!” he chivalrously called after her.


Donna tapped her fingers on the dash of a stolen sports car as Mike nervously jumped into the custom-leather driver’s seat.

“Well?” she complained.

Mike slammed the steering wheel in frustration (he really hated killing priests). “You were right. He was no help at all.”

“So, we’re going to visit your Canadian friend out in Malibu?” Donna purred, putting her hand between Mike’s legs and giving his jizz joist a jostle.

“Beats jail, I guess.” He attempted to ignore the unwelcome-but-pretty-damn-professional Malteser massage as he shifted the MG into gear. “I can’t believe I’m doing this,” Mike griped, his reluctant erection taking flight. “I was so mad at you.”


The sun smiled down upon the sun-ravaged land as the cult jeep puttered merrily northward. Leslie siesta-ed sumptuously in the backseat like the bewitching subject of Dappled and Drowsy by John Worthington… only with a Smith Brothers beard.

“So, where is it again that we’re destinationally headed?” David asked, wearing his unease like a velvet-smoking jacket.

“It’s a magical place, dear Spankerton,” his shoddy chauffeur answered while peeling an orange with both hands and steering with her left knee.

“Golly,” David gushed, “I thought Malibu was about as magical as it could just about get.”

Alison smiled. “You’re quite an unusual gent, Mr. ‘Shwa. So innocent. So forthright. So unsullied by narcissism and turpitude.”

“Could you perhaps pass along all those laudatory testimonials to Rita? ‘Cause, she’s gonna want my nards on a fondue fork if I don’t show up for this afternoon’s toenail painting.”

Alison reached over and shyly held David’s hand. This singular moment of genuine warmth did not go unnoticed by her supposedly somnolent succulent sis. And yet, the unconscionably sweet did not sour. To the contrary, Leslie smiled. She had long ago eschewed the base invidiousness of binary love for the ambrosial Grail of the polyamorous. Because, as the Lord Almighty once so succinctly noted, “Why can’t we go on as three?” Or perhaps it was David Crosby. I always get those two guys mixed up.


Police and photographers swarmed around the stage and Irongate’s office like an episode of NCIS (only sooo much better written). Two men in white smocks struggled to lift the corpulent director’s carcass onto a gurney.

Sturch lumbered gingerly into the room like he’d been porking a Pepperdine jaywalker all night. “So, do we know the cause of death?” he Joe Friday-ed.

McLaughlin shrugged like a guy who’d just let a Pepperdine litterer off with an oral caution. “The coroner says, without more tests, it’s hard to tell. His skull is cracked open like a Walmart table lamp, but sitting on that golf club could have killed him.”


A Muzak version of “A Lotta Colada” by Sea Level had everyone’s head boppin’ from Gibb Street all the way up to King. Business was off the charts. Coles Bookstore was sellin’ stuff like people could actually read. The Saber Restaurant was doling out the chicken special as fast as they could thaw their improperly frozen wings and fingers. And the kiosk was kickin’ it. They’d had four customers already, and it wasn’t even one o’clock yet!

Llew was thinking about moseying on down to Star Records on the weekend so see what Canadiana they had on special. All of his buddies had switched over to CDs, but Mr. Flintoff was a “slow to change” sorta dude. He liked his music like he liked his women – as inexpensive as possible. Since his teenage years, Llew had amassed a pretty impressive collection of vinyl and had ample time to listen to it between dates.

Marybeth alluringly approached in a coat big enough to house an Up With People troupe.

“Hey, Llew.”

“Hey there, Marybeth. How’s it hangin’?”

“Girls don’t hang, Llew. Don’t got the right equipment for it,” Marybeth flirtatiously corrected him.

“Oh, fer sure on that.”

“How are you hangin’?” She smiled suggestively.

Llew wasn’t quite sure what to make of this. Although absent, his best buddy still had official first dibs on her do-ables. “Oh, pretty good. A little less than usual, due to the cold weather an’ all.”

The conversation hadn’t quite gone down the lurid path she was hoping. “So, Spanky sent me another picture, eh? From a place called Caramel?”

“Wow. Talk about your world traveler.”

Ms. Visneski extracted the pic from her big puffy coat pocket and pulled the pin on her gossip grenade. “I think David might be a mo.”

Llew raised a heterosexual eyebrow at this brain-busting bruit. “A mo? Spanky?”

Marybeth handed him the incriminating 3.5×5-inch proof – a close up of David being kissed on both cheeks by two familiar flocculent females.

“It looks like he’s doin’ the dirty with a couple of Arthritic Jews.”

“I think you mean Acidic,” Llew sagely clarified. He immediately flashed back to Mrs. Sobanski’s dire warning about David goin’ all Hollywood and failing to defend his sphinctoral integrity. “Son of a gun, I guess his mom was right.”

“I hear they got another ‘We Don’t Look in the Back Five Rows Night’ at the Marks this Sunday,” Marybeth hopefully dangled.

Alas, Llew was oblivious to her inveiglements. He continued to scrutinize the picture of the two hirsute brutes kissing his premier pal and tried to make sense of a world gone mad.

Marybeth waited a few seconds for a response, and then sulked off to Fairweather’s to see if they had any bigger coats. It was starting to get really cold out.

*   *   *

And now a word from our esteemed author:

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is the second gripping installment of ‘Bu House. Will love triumph over hate? Will good triumph over evil? Will frozen sperm triumph over fire? Will Llew and Marybeth ever solve “The Mystery of the Whiskery?” Please join us next time for sex, drugs, death, new life, a movie in the desert, and the end of the world.


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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