Darrell Vickers – Chapter Sixteen If You Don’t Like This Nose, You Can Stick It Up Your Ass
Meanwhile Izzy and Rebecca were in Bergdorf Goodman, spending it to the ground. The entire morning had been a ferocious but fashionable maelstrom of wanton consumerism and torrid homoerotic girlie-groping in and around NY’s toniest boutiques. Snotty sales clerks gaped and gasped in commission-reckoning amazement as these two sizzling sartorial style-junkies swiped my credit card to the point of it setting it ablaze. Dior! Stella McCartney! Galliano! Zac Posen! They grabbed as much cloth-with-a-foreign-name-stitched-on-it as their arms could hold and carted it away to small rooms with poorly measured curtains. And no accent or accessory was spared. Izzy was rounding up a large herd of Balenciaga clutch purses when something caught her eye. She turned to Rebecca and whispered, “Am I crazy, or is that Angela Cartwright and some street bum over there buying up the other half of the store?”
“Who?” asked Rebecca. Prostitutes don’t get a lot of time to watch late night reruns.
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I’m not a big subscriber to the concepts of Karma and justice. Everything that happens on this troubled old orb of ours is completely random. Bad deeds and good deeds are neither punished nor rewarded. It all comes down to a roll of the destiny dice. Sometimes you win and sometimes you take it up the poop-shoot. Lots of guys drown while trying to save a child from being swept away by a raging current. Where’s the reward in that? So, I was pretty impressed one day, when Polo dragged a remarkably nervous fellow into my office. He was holding a pair of slacks on a hanger. They were covered in plastic so I assume they had just been dry cleaned.
Polo made the official introductions. “This, Mr. Bramble, is the gentleman who stole your pants, lo those many months ago, on that ill-fated subway train.” He pulled tight on the back of the man’s collar causing him to emit a rather heartfelt gagging sound.
“Now he has already expressed his unreserved and bottomless regret to me for such a tragic lapse in character. Haven’t you, you little turd monkey?!” Polo now shook the man causing him the let out a succession of retching noises. It was almost nice to see a bit of the old Polo again. Kind of violently nostalgic.
“I’m very, very sorry,” the panicky man gargled between desperate attempts to breathe.
“Shut the fuck up you pant-stealing ratfuck.” His old lexicon had also made a remarkable comeback.
“To make amends, Gerald here, has kindly offered to not only return your purloined trousers, but to give you, as an act of genuine remorse and contrition, a second pair.”
“I would be okay with that.”
“Are you sure, cause I’d just as soon whack this fucked-up motherfucker and bury him in Jersey with his head up his own ass.”
A minor amount of urine was deposited on my carpet.
“Nah. The pants and his apology will be sufficient.”
“You are a supremely kind and understanding man, Mr. Bramble. And I can assure you that Gerald here is going to lick up every drop of micturition that he has soiled your floor with.”
I don’t think I’ve ever seen a man’s face don the expression that Gerald’s possessed at that moment. If he’d been wearing a fright wig, it would have been flapping up and down like hummingbird wings. Let’s just say, I don’t believe he wanted to lick his own urine out of my Saxony carpet. I’d had a good day, so I decided to let him off lightly.
“That won’t be necessary, Polo. But, I think there might be just one more act of atonement necessary before full clemency can be granted.”
Polo gave one last forceful tug at the back of Gerald’s collar. “CHLECHCHHHHHHHHHHH.” he cheered.
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Billy and Angela had now returned to the hotel for a little post-shopping/fancy-luncheon R&R. They lay naked, side by side on puffily-padded massage tables. Four large Nordic women pummeled and brushed them with wet switches of imported birch, applied hot stones to their bodies’ meridian points and kneaded various oils and hydrating gels into their steam-room-heated flesh.
“Man, this feels wonderful,” Billy moaned as Helga applied her thumbs and elbows to either side of his well-lotioned spine.
“It almost makes me want to get back into Show Business.”
A satisfied smile creased Billy’s face as he looked over at Angela’s moist and pampered back.
“You know what would feel even better after this?”
“Forget it!”
“Come on, Ange. We’re already naked, for crying out loud!”
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Back at Ziegler Industries, Gerald was paying his solemn debt. I had dressed him up like a street-corner condominium-sign-juggling clown (Try to say that three times really fast.), complete with a big red cardboard arrow. As Alchemy quick-marched back to her office following a luxurious 12-and-a-half minute afternoon coffee break she caught sight of “Pants Stealing Man” juggling a ridiculously-sized piece of red pointy cardboard, “Completely Wild and Crazy Woman’s Office!” it proclaimed. I wrote that myself. The rest of the staff thought it was a giant hoot. Some of them even had their pictures taken with him. And I…got her to smile. Thank God. This kind of thing can go a million different ways and only one of them is good. But this time, it went wonderfully right. She smiled that smile. Slowly, ever so slowly, I was wearing away at that thick granite wall of sensible resistance.
“She is a woman, therefore can be wooed; She is a woman, therefore can we won.” I would have been overjoyed with a regulation tie and an overtime shootout.
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Back in the room/rooms/palace that is the Four Seasons Ty Warner Penthouse, Angela and Billy sat with their feet up on some gold-colored something and watched the sun go down behind the majestic buildings of the New York skyline. What a day it had been. Their bellies now warmed by Camus Cognac Cuvee, they were at peace with the world. This was as it was always meant to be. Billy picked up a crystal decanter designed by Serge Mansau and poured liberally into his snifter. They could almost hear the early strains of Thus Spoke Zarathustra ringing in their ears. For this was indeed a resplendent new dawning (even though it was technically evening). Fresh and glorious worlds were about to open up. There would be red carpets to walk and free designer dresses to be worn. Interviews to give and paparazzi to pretend to avoid. They were back. Billy let his winky slip out of his ultra fluffy dressing gown but Angela slapped at it with her complimentary hotel slipper and he covered it up again.
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The sun may have been going down, but there was still an hour or so of work to finish up at the office. I always put on a last-minute burst of activity before the end of day, just so I could go home knowing that I’d deposited an extra ten or fifteen grand into the Zack account.
Randy had returned, yet again, to the boss’s office. He was sitting in Harve’s chair with his head back and his eyes closed. An occasional moan of pleasure leaked from his lips. One of these occasional leaky moans was lip-escaping as Punjab walked in. Randy was too deep into the ecstasy of the moment to notice.
Punjab was justifiably freaked. “I just want you to know Randy and whoever is beneath that desk, that you have my solemn promise that I am seeing nothing. There is no recollection of you being here or whatever is going on under that furniture between two consenting adults.”
Harvey popped his head up, holding Randy’s sockless foot.
“I’m giving the staff Chinese foot massages. It’s the least I could do for all the hours you’re puttin’ in for a miserable uneducated toilet worm like me. I just finished this whole community college course on foot therapy. ‘The ultimate in stress relief.’ I have a 1:30 opening tomorrow, if you’re interested.”
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Artie stared at the canvas. Then he looked at his pallet. Then back at his canvas. Then he took a slug of tequila and sat down. He put his thumb up in the air but he wasn’t quite sure why. Being a world famous artist was going to be a little tougher than he thought. He had another shot of tequila.
Me? I’m at the office on the phone. My father had actually called me. This never happened. Well, my father used to call me all the time, but that was to complain. This wasn’t a complaint. This was to thank me for the tickets and to grudgingly tell me what a great guy I was.
“Hey, I’m glad you’re enjoying the box seats, dad.” I chuckled into the phone.
I’m only going to give you my side of the conversation, because from this point on, there wasn’t a single syllable of truth coming from the other end.
“No. No, really, you’re welcome.” I thought I’d make a real gesture of familial reconciliation, even though it was one of the last things I wanted to do on Earth. “Say, maybe I could use the other ticket one weekend and we could go to…”
Here is where the truth started to become a little thin on the ground.
“No. I understand. Taking a poor crippled, dying child is more important than going with me.” I didn’t think Tara looked that sick or toddler-like the last time I saw her.
Daddy dearest must have been having a really good time with his “new friend” because asking me for a favor must have killed him.
“Yeah, I guess I could get you some Knicks tickets, if she makes it all the way to November.”
There was a knock at the door and Alchemy marched in wearing her leathers. She looked alluringly butch.
“I’ll call you back.” I said and slammed the phone down. Fathers were a dime a dozen, (especially fathers like mine) but Alchemy was a feminine delight sans pareil. Let’s face it, if she was inflatable, stores wouldn’t be able to keep her on the shelves.
“Can I help you, Ms. Zipper?”
“Who?”
“Eric Von Zipper. He was this motorcycle-riding bad guy in the old Frankie Avalon movies.”
“I repeat, who?”
“It doesn’t matter. My father used to make me watch them. I learned to masturbate thinking about Annette Funicello’s bikinied mellons.”
“Charming.”
I gazed at Alchemy’s blessed nipple muffins. “Well, I didn’t know you back then.”
My be-leathered angel was having no more of my nonsense. She forcefully barked out her terms. “Okay, here’s the deal, you little pant-germ. For the next 3 weeks, you don’t come in here hungover. Not even slightly. If you succeed in this seemingly impossible task, you get to take me to Fiji for that month long vacation and you can do anything you want with or to me. Is that wild enough for you?”
I was dumbfounded. Well, that was how she’d always found me. I tried to wade on through the libidinous deluge that was flooding my mind. “Anything?” I stammered, oh-so-suavely.
“Whatever you want, I do. Any dirty, disgusting, degrading act of perversion you can think of, I acquiesce to. You don’t get shit-faced, you get it all. Is that clear enough for you?”
“Jeez. I’ve got a boner already.”
“I’d hold off on that erection, noodle boy.”
“Noodle boy?”
“I was talking to your new ‘chauffeur.’”
“I can explain that! Did she tell you that I thanked her profusely and gave her a raise?”
Alchemy quickly jumped back to the wager. “But.” (And this was a huge fucking but – almost literally.) “If you fail at this simple task of sobriety, you have to lick Randy’s big hairy Dartmouth ass.”
I will admit that I found this part of her proposal a little shocking, not to mention decidedly unappetizing. I did see the obvious out, though.
“I’d absolutely love to, but I don’t think Randy is gonna sign off on something gross and seedy like that.”
She smiled. Most of the time I absolutely loved it when she smiled…This wasn’t one of those times. “He already has.”
YIKES! I should have realized that he’d be just the kind of dick to sign off on something gross and seedy like that. She continued, somewhat cruelly I thought, “He’ll do it as long as I video tape the whole slurpy thing so he can upload it to YouTube. So…do we have a deal?”
Giving up drinking would be hard, but not nearly as hard as I was at that very moment. “Hell yeah!” I shouted with not a small amount of alacrity.
Alchemy leaned over my desk. I could see her breasts hanging down in front of me like two big scoops of Milk & Cookies ice cream. “Oh the pain, the pain!” as Doctor Smith so often opined. She reached over and stroked me under me chin, all seductive-like. I had shivers.
“I will treat your nuts like gods, Zack. Don’t let me down. Don’t end up on YouTube as a hairy asshole licker.”
That gave me another shiver but not nearly as nice as the first one.
She swiveled on her high-heel and sashayed out of the room.
I watched every molecule of that ass as it boingied mouth-wateringly out of sight.
“I guess the girls will get along somehow,” I thought to myself. “I’m sure they can figure out something to do for a month, without me.”
Luckily, or unluckily, I couldn’t have been more right. As I was mulling over my thoughts of concern, Izzy, Rebecca, Nedda, Carla and Gloria were all nightie-less and piled into my oversized bed recovering from an afternoon of unbridled tribade ecstasy. The epic tales of those pink-part feasts will be whispered with reverence by future generations of men till our very sun goes dark.
As I said, I was still the boss and getting mine but the vast majority of their coital fervor was reserved for each other. Not that I blamed them. If I were a girl, a woman, that’s all I’d want to be doing as well. I think we Y chromosomed guys are unbelievably lucky that women even give our humble sausage the time of day when they could be dining on each other’s richly-stocked buffet table of Howdy.
Izzy looked up at the clock forlornly. “God, I wish Zack wasn’t coming home tonight.”
This elicited a number of responses from the naked and the beautiful.
“Oh fuck, yeah.”
“Me too.”
“Maybe he’ll be late again.”
“Who’s got their finger in my snatch?”
=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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