Darrell Vickers – Chapter Fourteen: Ten Pounds of Shit in a Five Pound Bag

Back in the grandest suite that the Four Season’s Hotel has to offer, Angela Cartwright stared at the check while sipping champagne from a long-stem crystal flute.  When that ran out, there was another entire bottle of Dom very-good-year Perignon in the ice-bucket beside her.  This was the kind of establishment that charged north of 25 bucks a mug for room-service coffee in the morning.  This suite was so expensive, if you had a naked Keira Knightly’s open mouth next to the complimentary snack cupboard, it still wouldn’t be worth it.  Punjab certainly knew what it took to impress someone of her stature.  And he wasn’t only impressing her!  Punji was also delighting her famous co-star who was hearing all about it on the other end of a faux daffodil phone.  Only her side of the conversation was interesting, so I’ll spare you Mr. Mumy’s contributions.

“I’m telling you Billy, the whole thing is unbelievable.  This guy is fucking loaded.  You should see this room.  Rooms!  Nine rooms!  I shit you not, this suite has nine whole rooms.  It’s bigger than my fucking house.  A dining area.  A living area.  There’s a piano and a goddamn library.  I also have a private butler!”

Then she listened to whatever Billy had to say.

“I have the check in my hand.  Three hundred grand!  I’m going to be at the bank tomorrow at dawn.  If this little sweetheart is good, we’re back, buddy.  He wants us to be the stars of this thing.”

More Billy shit.  Angela rolls here eyes.

“No, he didn’t try to fuck me.  Which is more than I can say for you, you incestuous little shit!”

More unlistenable Billy crap.

“Yes, I know you were young then.  But you weren’t that young nine months ago at that autograph signing at the Beverly Garland, were you?”

Billy tried to say something.

“Just shut up and listen.  Punji wants you and me back out here for more meetings next week.”

Billy presented a sincere, money saving suggestion.

“No Billy, separate rooms.  Preferably in different hotels.”

One last Billy thought.

“Fuck off.”  Slam!

I guess you can’t blame a guy for trying.

The next morning Carla was down on her knees in front of my half-panted-self, trying to be so wonderfully kind to me, but my mood and physiology were not cooperating.

“We may have to do this later, Mr. Bramble.  This thing is like a noodle.”

Severely hungover and impotent.  What a great way to start the day.

No matter how bad my head or how depressingly floppity my loins, commerce could not wait.  I had to continue to feed the beast which seemed to be getting more ravenous with each passing day.  10 minutes after my failure at the pump, I was in the back of the limo being fed ghastly waffles by Carla.  Carlo and Polo were sitting across from me with note pads in hand.

“Did you get the gift basket?” I asked but I really didn’t need to.

“We dropped off that particular item at your parents’ house early this morning.”

Polo had acquired the largest, most atrociously-deluxe gift basket they offered in New York.  It was so obscenely gift-laden, he had to put it on a rolling table just to get it up to the front door of Casa de Misery.  Luckily, he had some help.  While he rearranged the boxes of imported crackers an alarmingly busty, ex-Hooters waitress rang the bell.

My father opened the door and immediately realized his mistake.  I’m sure he would have preferred home invaders or Girl Scouts on a murder spree to who stood before him now.  Luckily, Polo is a man of unwavering charm.

“Hello, Mr. Bramble, sir.  Zackery asked me to thank you and your lovely wife for graciously hosting us last night and to deliver this gift basket of assorted fine wines, candy and cleaning products…”

Dad slammed the door in their faces.  This was not unexpected.  The real secret to being successful in business is fully understanding your quarry’s weaknesses and subtly using them to your advantage.  Polo continued to talk through the slammed door.  “…And a pair of New York Yankees season tickets.”

A small grunt could be heard from inside.  Polo proceeded to reveal where the said tickets were located.

“Field Box 1 – Row A.  Reportedly, these seats afford the finest view in all of Yankee stadium.”

The door reopened.  Bob stood there looking pissed off and suspicious but the bait was just too alluring to resist.  Polo handed him the precious pieces of cardboard.  They were thoroughly, thoroughly inspected.  Bobby boy was holding his holy grail.  Celebrities sat in those seats.  It was the dream of a lifetime.  81 opportunities to leave the house and cheer for his heroes close up.  Or boo and wish them die in a fiery team-bus crash, depending on the score.  Polo added the oh-so-attractive icing to a very seductive cake.

“And should Mrs. Bramble be regrettably unable to attend these highly exclusive sporting events, Tara here would be more than happy to accompany you.”

Tara smiled, curtseyed and pulled down her top to show Bobby her impressive and almost paid-for bust.  He took a long hard look.  It had been eons since the old guy had seen a really nice pair of jiggle kittens up close.  You have to savor moments such as those.  And lordy, did he.

A lot of things have gone in and out of fashion in the last 5,000 years.  Doublets, witch dunking, Myspace.  But those bobbley mounds of joy are as loved and as cherished today as ever.  Women love having them.  Guys love women having them.  Heck, a lot of women love other women having them.  Everybody wins.  Looking, licking, fondling, circling, sucking, worshiping, tweaking, wugga wugga-ing (one of my favorites) and dipping in honey/mustard sauce.  Yes, there is no shortage of fun, healthy activities at one’s disposal with pair of happenin’ holy chest orbs.

My father’s mind started to slowly come out of its breast-induced fog. “Is she a prostitute?” he grumpily queried.

Polo sighed. “Unfortunately, until I can find another beautiful woman of her caliber who is willing to perform the legendary act of Siamese-tongue fellatio on you for Yankees tickets, it’s the best I could do.”

Bob half-blinked and then shrugged.

“I’ll get over it.”

“Mr. Bramble senior has graciously accepted your kind offer and will be attending your bonus party.  I have ordered a stretch limo for him and some very tasty arm candy.”

“Excellent.”  If I wasn’t so hungover, I would have been truly happy.  I couldn’t wait for him to get an eyeful of my house.

Speaking of eyefuls, there appeared to be one driving our car.  She was a young and beauteous damsel with long red tresses that she shook in a very appealing manner.  At least it would have been appealing.  Actually, the sight of her sultry hair, shaking and waving was about to turn me into a chunks cannon.  I decided it was safer to look at Polo.

“Where’s Artie?” I inquired greenly.

“Mr. Sultan and I had a long heart to heart talk yesterday evening.  It turns out he doesn’t really want to be a limo driver anymore.  Providentially, I found Nedda here, who really, really wants to be a driver.”  He craned his neck.  “Don’t you sweetheart?”

“Absolutely.  I’d do anything at all for Mr. Bramble, Polo.”

“So it all worked out.  Kind of serendipitous, don’t you think?”

I was a bit lost. “But where did he go?  I mean, his wife is living with me….Isn’t she?”  I would have missed Rebecca’s expensive company but I guess I would have understood.  They were married.

“Oh, he didn’t go anywhere.  He’s a painter now.”

Carlo enlightened me further. “I am setting up the garden shed at the back of the property as a studio for Mr. Sultan.  And don’t worry Mr. Bramble, you have spared no expense.  Very classy.  Everything is top of the line.  Artie is very, very happy.”

“I’ve seen some of his early works.  He has a real nice touch with forest glades.”

Carlo nodded in agreement.

Great.  Now I was a home owner, an employer of more people than I could count and a patron of the arts.  Plus, there were still several miles of bumpy, bumpy roads and temple-splitting stops and starts ahead of me before I got to lie down and moan on my comfy office carpet.

Back at the house, the girls had finally arisen.  Izzy was swallowed up in a fluffy Egyptian cotton towel, drying her hair in front of a huge antique mirror.

Just imagine some of the weird shit that mirrors must have seen over the centuries.  I mean, I’ve done things in front of mirrors I wouldn’t want a mannequin to see.  Just imagine what Caligula or Torquemada got up to in front of their own reflections.  What’s the weirdest thing you’ve ever done in front of a mirror?  See?   I guess that’s a bit off topic, but if only those slabs of silvered glass could talk, people would sure have a lot of explaining to do.  And probably jail time.

But back to my bathroom.  There are just a few basic rules when it comes to creating the perfectly snooty salle de bain.  All the flat stuff must be made out of Italian marble and all the rounder stuff must be gold plated.  Oh, and there also has to be a lot of other accessories made out of onyx.  I don’t even know what that shit is, but the bills for it were staggering.  Only the finest of bum nuggets were good enough for this toilet.

Now, you don’t need to live with two women long before you own just about every bathroom product in the universe.  The counters and shelves were loaded up to the 18-foot ceilings with imported and opulently-packaged beauty products.  Me?  I used a bar of soap, some Colgate toothpaste and a generic shampoo.  The rest of that crap was theirs.  I didn’t realize people had that many specific body parts that needed individual creams, ointments and scrubs.  Guys only have two body parts.  Their dick and everything else.

Izzy finished drying her hair and began slapping on this oozy liquid and that crushed-almond scrubby stuff and headed back out into the bedroom.  She was greeted by Rebecca, who obviously had something in mind.

I’d been noticing lately, that I was becoming a smaller and smaller player in our evenings of coital extravagance.  While I was more than taken care of, the real libidinal fireworks didn’t start to explode until after I’d pumped my little offering into whichever man-cave was in session.  That’s when the pudenda party really got into full swing.  Yes, I had definitely borne witness to a rapidly increasing number of steamy post-ithyphallic lickfests in recent weeks.  The girls were all over me but it was almost as if they were just in a rush to pop my cork so they could move on to the tastier wines.

Anyway, enough about my crippling feelings of sexual inadequacy and back to the story at hand.  As you’ll no doubt recall, Izzy had just exited the bathroom and come face to naked face with Rebecca who was also sans attire except for a rather impressive strap-on dildo (the second half of this sentence is new and vital information). She gave the rather bulbous black latex tip a flick with her finger and suggested forcefully, “Don’t bother to get dressed, sweetheart.”  Oooh, don’t you just love it when girls get all bossy like that when they’re naked?  Or in a warden’s outfit?

Meanwhile, back at the office, japery was abounding.  Randy had come in early that morning.  That’s pretty easy to do when you’re riding the coke train like Mr. Hungry Nose was.  He’d glued poor Brian’s door shut and no matter how big a run he took at it, his Amherst shoulders were just not sufficiently manly enough to make the slightest dent in the fine oak.

Randy cheered him on from a distance while guzzling liberally from a flask of scotch in an attempt to smooth out his jag.  “Come on, Brian!  Put all your Amherst fat into it.  Loser!”

My hangover was in the common room during this farrago, trying desperately to avoid loud noises and tasting its own tongue.  I was attempting to pour molten hot coffee over that same disagreeable wad of flesh when Alchemy appeared like Pallas rising from the salty waters of Lake Tritonis.

“You look like shit.”

A fair statement.  Of course, next to Alchemy, Tom Brady would look like shit.  But today, I would have looked like shit standing next to shit.

“You know, just because you can afford to buy and drink all the alcohol in the world, it doesn’t mean you’re obligated to.”

I looked at her and smiled.  It wasn’t the beaming, tooth-filled grin I would have liked to have given her, but considering my delicate state of health, I think I bravely rose to the challenge.  “You’re very sensible, aren’t you Alchemy?“

She rolled her big, beautifully wonderful, dreamy, limpid pool-like eyes.  “It’s not about being sensible, Zack.  It’s about not being retarded.  And I do do things that are fun, if that’s what you’re implying.”

I think I must have hit a small nerve because she continued to expound on what a wildcat she was.  “Admittedly, I may present a dull façade, but that’s only because I believe it’s the proper way to comport oneself in a professional work environment.”

I was so in love.  And so dyspeptic.  It’s actually kind of an unpleasant combination.  “What’s the craziest, wildest thing you ever did?”

Her back straightened a little.  I had obviously called her bluff. “I don’t feel I need to reveal explicit details, but believe you me, it was plenty wild.”

I managed another wan smile. “Did it involve adding extra raisins to your bran flakes?”

“Fuck you!”

I’ve lost count of how many times she had utilized fruity language, but it was getting up there.  Perhaps this perfect princess had a few scuffs on her Goodie Two Shoes after all.

Alchemy had had enough of my teasing.  It was back to earning her next employee-of-the-month plaque.

“You’d better step aside everybody.  She’s a rebel!” I called out in her wake.  Alchemy continued to stomp down the hallway but I knew I had her.  She was half smiling as she stomped.  Me? I was throwing up in a garbage pail.  Unfortunately, it was one of those wire ones that’s only meant for paper products.  Time to amscray.

Things back at my house were definitely heating up.  Any hotter and I would have needed asbestos sheets.  Rebecca had mounted her dewy, Sapphic quarry and was slowly pumping Izzy with her generously-sized artificial woody.  Izzy, for her part, was letting out moans and sighs so mesmeric they’d make the Pope want to pound his pant miter.  The delicate, dazzling sonatas that escape a young woman who is afloat on a sea of sexual rapture make the world’s sweetest melodies sound like a Hungarian taking a dump into a blender.

“Mmmmmm.  Where did you get Mr. Groin Candy from, baby?” Izzy purred.

“Oh, I’ve had this forever.  Tool of the trade.  I mostly use it on wimpy guys who want me to fuck them up the ass.”

Izzy stopped purring.
“Don’t worry.  I washed it first.”

The purring resumed.  Rebecca thought she would elevate the already steamy proceedings by throwing in some aural stimulation. (I was going to use the word “ecstacious” here.  You know like in ecstasy only an adjective?  But I didn’t know if it was a real word?  But even if it wasn’t, authors are allowed to make up new words right?  Shakespeare did it all the time.) So Rebecca thought she would elevate the already ecstacious proceedings by throwing in some aural stimulation.

“This is just the beginning sweetie,” she whispered in a voice so sultry it would have raised a stiffy on Tim Gunn.

And Izzy was more than willing to be sulterized.  “Talk dirty to me, baby.”

“After this, we’re going out to buy C. Gilson lingerie at Le Corset.”

Izzy’s pelvis involuntarily rose up to meet Rebecca’s penile thrust at the mention of this women’s finery emporium. “Oh yeah.”

“Then some Roger Vivier shoes from Saks Fifth.”

“UH!” Izzy experienced a little mini-cum.  Rebecca poured it on now that she had her girl’s love button turned up to eleven.

“Intensité Volumizing Serum from Martyn’s.”


Rebecca picked up the speed of her pelvic gyrations and her boutique namedropping in equal portions as Izzy entered the final approach to gamic apoplexy.  She clutched Rebecca’s perfectly shaped ass like it was a life preserver on a Pakistani ferry.

“Followed by lunch at DB Bistro Moderne!”

     All decorum was lost. “FUCK ME!  FUCK ME, YOU MOTHERFUCKING BITCH CUNT!”

“Jewelry auctions at Christies!”

“Jesus Christy fuck-hole!”

“Perfume from Clive Christian!” 

     Izzy was on the cusp of an orgasm that would have drowned a whale. “Fuck me! Fuck me, you zombie-fucking cheese whore!”

     Rebecca was also turning herself on, “And dress shopping at the House of Jean Patou! Henri bendel! The Armani exchange! Chuckies nyc uptown!”
I’m cumming!!! I’M CUMMING!!”

Izzy’s climactic thrashing and bashing had reached teeth-loosening intensity while Rebecca drove the last nail in her own orgasmic coffin with some mighty thrusts and talk of after-shopping dessert.

“Then Sicilian canola at Caffe Dante!”

That did it.  Rebecca was squirting and swearing like a fire truck with turrets.

In time, Rebecca regained her composure, rolled off of her petticoat paramour and picked up the phone.

“Nedda, can you have the car ready out front in about 10 minutes?  Izzy and I are going to do a little shopping.”


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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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