Darrell Vickers – FtN: Chapter Eight Kraproom
Meanwhile, across town, Randy was doing a few morning lines off his new glass-top coffee table. His living room was piled to the ceiling with new ultra-prestigious tech crap; most of it still unpacked. A gigantic flat screen television was left leaning up against the wall. He’d taken his top-of-the-line Bang and Asshole-ifson stereo out of the boxes but hadn’t bothered to wire it up. It was like being a complete jerk-off had consumed his entire life and he just didn’t have time for anything else. This was especially true now that he’d become a full time snowman.
Coke puts a magnifying glass up to all your failings as a human being. While you’re feeling like you’re just the greatest motherfucker who ever lived on the inside, you’re sickening people to the teeth on the outside. Basically, it’s Dartmouth College condensed down to a powder form. But there was one small cloud darkening his pharmaceutically induced euphoria. The one tragic downside to sitting at home alone, having nose sex, is that you’re not making anyone else miserable. You’re not showing the populace at large what a mean, turgid bucket of shit you are. There’s something intrinsic and essential missing from the experience.
That’s why we have phones. Randy picked his up and hit the auto dial. Then he hung up quickly, took one last snort and dialed again (It’s never too late to take one last toot…or even two last toots.).
“Hello?” Brian answered. He sounded a little wary. Who could possibly be calling him? No one ever called.
Randy deepened his voice and tried to sound very officious with a subtle overlay of menacing. “Is this Brian Hersfield who went to Amherst College?”
Even a guy as slow-witted as Brian started to smell a rat. “Who is this?”
There was a small pause while Randy put his hand over the phone and giggled like a baboon.
“Well…” Time out for another giggle fest. What a dick. “We’d like to come over and do a feature article on you for (he comes to the oh-so-sophisticated-and-witty punchline) 
Fat and Boring Fucking Loser Magazine.”
Now Randy is bursting at the seams with peels of laughter. It was that weird, over the top, Reefer Madness/coke laugh. Urine may have been spilled.
“I know that’s you, Randy. Leave me alone!”
Randy couldn’t hear Brian’s admonishment because he was rolling around under his new coffee table, chortling like Mephistopheles.
Meanwhile, the girls had practically sucked my tonsils out through the end of my man-wood. God they were good. The next thing I knew, I was whizzing through expensive-looking neighborhoods in the back of the limo. The radio was playing an assortment of Bon Jovi ballads. Every nerve and fiber in my body was on edge (Well, except for my whoopee sausage, which was having a well-deserved nap.).
I hadn’t really spent any time in suburbia since I’d escaped to college. As we passed pleasant-looking house after pleasant-looking house, I was afraid all my childhood memories would come charging down the driveways and try to drag me out of the car. Don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t like I was beaten with a spaghetti ladle every day after school. My parents were not really interested in raising “little ones” as a going concern. They preferred that I go out and make my own mistakes in life. That way, they’d have plenty to disapprove of. And I did not disappoint them.
Finally, just as my heebie jeebies were about to turn into some serious collywobbles, we pulled up in front of this immense fucking Tudor-style money pit. It was plopped down right in the middle of Swankville, with its beautiful lawns and well-behaved flowers. One could envision paperboys in flat caps, riding bicycles and throwing rolled-up quotidian’s onto front porches with marksman-like, headlines-up accuracy.
This was a neighborhood of maids and cooks and gardeners and tradesmen of every stripe. How wonderful it must be to have enough money that you can afford to have others live your life for you while you puff on fat cigars and sip from oversized snifters of Courvoisier in the downstairs library.
Before I could even register my first disapproving sneer, Izzy and Rebecca had yanked me out of the car and were clacking away on the big brass, lion-faced door knocker.
Artie followed us into the house with a cooler of cocktails. There was no way the girls wanted me making a decision this monumental sober.
Hey, it was a nice place. No doubt about it. There was this gigantic oak and marble staircase at the back of the oak and marble foyer. Do houses have foyers or just hotels? I guess it doesn’t matter because this place was just a sign-in desk shy of being a hotel.
Score! It had a snifter-sipping library. It also had a games room and a separate TV room. So you didn’t have to strain to hear re-runs of Seinfeld over the clicking of pool balls. There were fireplaces in the bedrooms. His-and-her closets, though I needed his-and-her-and-her closets. It also offered the discerning derriere eight and a half palatial poop palaces. Yes, it was all very la-de-da. (I know that palatial and palaces are exactly the same thing but “Palatial poop palaces” had a rather nice alliterative ring to it.)
I. and R. were knocked out by the furniture and artwork. I was knocked out by the price. Who knew that living in jaw-dropping opulence would cost so much! I perused the information sheet and contemplated suicide. It seemed like the only way out.
“It’s a steal at this price. I don’t think it’s going to be on the market long,” the realtor lied.
Even with my exceedingly limited business sense (the aforementioned mornings of wacky tobacky and CNBC), I instinctively knew that this was probably a very bad idea.
“Man, that’s a mighty large monthly, not to mention the down payment.” I whistled doubtfully, hoping the girls would pick up on my dubiousness.
Rebecca liked the house so much she decided to make the supreme sacrifice.
“Come on, sweetheart.” She slid her hand down the front of my jeans. “You can put half the money you’re paying me to fuck you towards it.”
“That’s so totally fair of her, Zack.” Izzy chimed in.
I could see the realtor was a little taken aback, but there was no way she was going to let the fact that I was paying women for sex, and getting a handjob in front of her, stand in the way of her 6 percent commission. She smiled and led us into the backyard.
If it wasn’t wow before, it was wow now. It’s a good job people don’t look out on an expanse of ground like that and think, “How am I going to mow this acre of lawn? How am I going to manicure these humungous trees? How am I going to keep the leaves out of that black-bottom pool? Do these gorgeous flowers and bushes always look like this?” No, people think, “Holy crap, it’s the Garden of Eden and I can own all of it for just the price of a small African country.”
In the end, I just didn’t have the heart or the balls to disappoint my ladies. I really wish I would have had that heart.
An hour later, a formal offer was signed and Izzy and the Realtor were enjoying tea on the shaded patio while I was enjoying Rebecca on the backyard swing. She was right. The action on that baby was mind-blowing.
Izzy sat with our bewildered saleslady and acted like Rebecca and I had sex outdoors and in front of total strangers every day. “I hear it’s ten degrees cooler out here in the 
summer.”
“Oh absolutely. I hardly ever have to use my air-conditioning.”
Rebecca had a huge orgasm that started the next door neighbor’s dog howling. Our realtor sipped her tea and pretended to be looking over the contracts.
=DV=
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Darrell 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
Segarini: Don't Believe a Word I Say 
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