Darrell Vickers – Chapter Twenty – Don’t Forget to Shake That Before You Pour It and The Epilogue

The torpid morning sun had finally come cresting over the garbage-filled Atlantic and the “day of destiny” was upon us.  Carla brought me breakfast in bed.  The girls all rushed out of the room while I was attempting to cut through my egg.  At least the coffee was somewhat drinkable.  I thought they’d run off to lick each other senseless in another room, but I was wrong.  And pleasantly so.  Man, how often does that happen?  Everyone had gotten up early and decorated the foyer within an inch of its life.  As I descended the grand staircase like the price of Facebook stock, they were all standing in line, staring up at me.  I was kind of touched, in a lord-of-the-manor sort of way.  Even my therapist was in attendance.  Behind the adoring and adorable throng, there was a big sign that read, “Happy Bonus Day!!!”

Upon touching down on the Rosa Aurora marble, the entire room burst into applause.  It was so weird being in a room with six women that had all blessed me with their tender favors.  I got almost teary.

“Thanks guys.  The place looks great.”

They cheered anew and crowded round for group hugs and affectionate testicle fondlings.
Fortunately, Polo only slapped me on the back.  “Knock ‘em dead, hero.  You da man.”

“I will be picking your father up at five so he can gaze in awe at your splendor,” confirmed Nedda, looking very, very cute in her chauffeur hat.

Carla kissed me warmly on the cheek. “Polo hired an extra chef for the party.  Just in case people want something other than waffles.”

I shook Artie and Polo’s hands.  I kissed all the women passionately and headed off to receive my just rewards.

It had rained early that morning.  It didn’t change my plans any but it meant that Randy had to take a little detour on his way into work.  Right in front of the apartment building where Brian lived, there was a small depression in the asphalt.  Not a big dip by New York City standards (you could lose whole civilizations in some of the potholes I’ve driven around), but one that could hold 100 to 150 gallons of water.  Coincidentally, this was also the precise location where Brian habitually caught his cab.  And this was where Randy lay in wait for him (or parked in wait).  As Mr. Amherst stepped out of his building, wearing his top of the line JC Penney suit and matching tie, Randy hit the gas on the Saleen.  Before Brian could blink much less react, the S7 Double Turbo with all that dry sumping hit 150 gallons of New York rainwater at warp 10, sending a viscid, murky, hobo turd-filled tidal wave ten feet into the air and cascading down upon its piteous victim.

In another part of town, Punjab was heading to work in a stretch limo.  He had taken to dressing himself up like some movie executive producer from hell.  He still wore his $500 shades, even though the sky was so dark, it might as well have been evening.  Angela and Billy were huddled beside him racked with humiliation and self-loathing.  Oh, if only they possessed the courage to open the super-stretch door and throw themselves out into oncoming traffic.
“I must tell you two, that I am all a-bubble.  Last night, was again, a panoply of sexual delights.”

Angela and Billy smiled wanly and offered lifeless responses.

“Thanks.”

“Right back atcha.”

“As of next week, I am going to be booking myself into the Bel Air Hotel for a month, so we will be able to have many naughty “Script Consultations”.  I have also found a tailor on the West Coast who is willing to make me crotch-less Jupiter 2 uniforms, so I will be needing both of your measurements.”

Angela threw up into the ice bucket but then gamely smiled, though her soul felt like it had been ripped apart by feral dogs.  She forced “That’d be great,” from her lips and elbowed her suicidal former co-star, “Wouldn’t it Billy?”

“It sure fucking would!” Billy exploded, pulling a handful of hotel-room mini-liquor bottles from his jacket pocket and inhaling them in unison.  Angela pulled a couple of mini Smirnoffs from his trembling, guzzling fist and joined in the chug-fest.

For old time’s sake, I did one last doob with Dorothy while listening to Terrapin Station and then headed off to my office.  Alchemy was waiting for me.  She looked like a princess from a fairytale with dwarfs in it.  I walked past her and sat down at my desk like I was Mr. Cool.  Considering how stoned I was, that was some kinda feat.

The princess spoke in tones of pure melody. “Well, you’ve been a very good boy.  It looks like we’re going to Fiji, stud.”

In that singular instant, the possibilities were endless and my joy was absolute.  The road ahead was already mapped.  I had won my blessed prize.  Every second of delay would only intensify the inevitable moment of concupiscent ecstasy tenfold.  You could live for a hundred years and not have another moment as glorious as this.  Plus, I really, really wanted to eat a donut.

I leaned forward to kiss those heavenly lips, but no.  Alchemy put up her palm to block my oscillatory advances.

“Not yet,” she purred, “I want to wait until we’re in the air.  By then I’ll be so hot and horny, I won’t be able to say no to a single thing you ask of me.”

I was somewhat disappointed but I could see the logic in her reasoning.  “But there’s so much I want to ask of you.”

True to her word, Alchemy would have none of it.  Or more to the point, she wouldn’t let me have none of it.  But she did lean over and oh-so-seductively whisper into my throbbing ear. “You have 30 days.  That’s ten whole days in each wet and aching orifice.”

With that mind-blowing mathematical proposition, she turned and was gone.

This left me with about 15 minutes to dry-hump the credenza by the fish tank before I had to get my act together and prepare myself for the ultimate moment of remunerative resplendence.

The rest of the day passed like I was watching Dirty Dancing.  Time seemed to have stopped.  I tried to keep it real but all I could think about was that big, big wad of cash and a whole month in Fiji with my soon-to-be possible bride.  But “big, big wads of cash” time wasn’t until three and it turns out, there’s an awful lot of day to get through before you even get close to three o’clock.  Just ask school kids.  I thought I had been transported back to Mr. Treadgold’s chemistry class.  Concentration was impossible.  I tried making lists of obscene physical acts of debauchery between phone sales to pass the time but it proved to be a dispiritingly insufficient divertissement.  I couldn’t even have a glass of wine.  There was no way I was going to fall off the wagon this close to nirvana.

Fin-a-fucking-lly!!!!!

The excitement level in the boardroom was a micron shy of involuntary urination.  I must admit that I myself was somewhere between giddy and goggle-eyed as I sat there trying to retain some small degree of dignity.  I squeezed Alchemy’s hand and she let me.  God, that was soooo wonderful.

Randy had Achmed there to wind his Patek.  I’m sure he wanted to show the poor old man the size of his dick (I mean check).

Punjab had brought Angela and Billy along.  He was going to sign his entire bonus over to Lost in Space Productions, Inc.  Casting was due to commence first thing Monday morning.  All that nightmarish defilement, Subcontinental bodily fluid ingesting and wishing they were dead was about to become worth it.

The room was dolled-up suitably, in accordance with this most celebratory of occasions.  In the middle of the conference table, there was a huge cake with the word “Thanks!!!” written in gold icing on the side.  The festive decorations and ebullient atmosphere resembled a Chuck E. Cheese except the employees here didn’t want to disembowel themselves with a pepperoni slicer.

The door swung open and everyone and everything went deathly quiet.  The entire universe was temporarily frozen in time.  The moment of truth had arrived.  Harvey gave a little wave, smiled humbly and stepped into the room.  Dorothy followed him, carrying an armful of gorgeously large manila envelopes.  I thought, “What the fuck?” and started to clap.  The entire place went Springsteen-concert crazy.  Good old Harve started to blush.  He put his hand up for silence.  We complied.

Our dearest and most beloved of bosses nodded his head and gave a little wink to his bubbly receptionist.

Dorothy seemed to be having the time of her life as she quickly dashed around the table throwing down big fat envelopes in front of the covetously jubilant.  Before we could tear them open at the speed of avarice, Harvey spoke again.

“Now, if you’d be so kind, I’d like you to wait to open those, because I’ve got a little story I’d like to tell you first.”

We were all more than happy to be so kind.  Randy looked a little irked but even he got over it.  He checked the time on his Patek and rolled his eyes.

Punjab joyously spoke for the group, “We are all of us having your ears, Harve!!”

There was more applause and then Harvey began his speech of speeches.

“This story is about a friend of mine.  Nice guy.  I’d like to think so, anyway.  He wasn’t the brightest bulb in the shop.  His parents weren’t rich.  He wasn’t handsome or witty.  But he made up for those deficiencies and many, many more by sheer persistence and hard work.  It took a lot of tough years but all that hard slog eventually culminated in him becoming a plumber.”

I saw Randy yawning out of the corner of my eye.

“Day and night he pushed himself to the very brink of endurance to build a better life for himself and his sweet, beautiful wife.  And praise be, he succeeded and set up his own business.  She was so darned proud of him.”

Harve paused for a moment to compose himself.

“More years of dedication and sacrifice followed.  The business prospered and he became a relatively wealthy man.  I think he deserved it.”

The people in the room who weren’t yawning like a dick nodded their heads in agreement.

“As my friend reached his sixties, he decided that now was the right time to cash out and enjoy the fruits of all those years of brutally hard labor and self denial.  His nest egg was pretty sizable and he could finally give the woman who owned his heart and his dreams, everything they’d ever talked about.  But alas it wasn’t to be.  That very month, his darling wife was diagnosed with a brain tumor.  She only had a year to live.”

The room went completely silent.  Even Randy seemed to be paying attention.

“How could this be?  He’d worked so hard.  So very hard.  He’d played by the rules.  He’d been a good, honest man his entire life and this was going to be his reward?  Losing the only woman he had ever loved?  This should have been their time.  He’d earned it, by God.”

A couple of the girls wiped away a tear.  Even I got a tad misty-eyed.

“This couple should have had decades to frolic on sunny beaches.  Got to play baccarat in Monte Carlo.  Gone to see those little puffin things off the coast of Maine.  Held hands as the sun went down over Paris.”

Harvey’s voice became a little crackly but he soldiered on.  “This treasure of a woman was all he had ever lived for.  He looked back on all those precious, irreplaceable years that he had spent working towards a day that was now, never going to come.  Without her in his life, gold and silver would be like iron.  Never would there be a pauper of such low means as this man without his precious love.  Where was justice?  Where was fairness?  Was there no merciful God?”

Harvey reached down and scooped a little of the icing off of the cake and plopped it in his mouth as we all waited with baited breath for the powerful dénouement.  I was hoping for some miracle cure – perhaps copper-based?

“It was at that exact, horrible, unthinkable moment that an idea of simplistic beauty popped into his brain.  If the “Divine Power” was so indifferent to the suffering of his children that he would permit such an unspeakable outrage to befall him, then it was up to this humble little plumber to restore the balance to a world gone mad.  If brutal, unimaginable punishment was just meted out at random with no thought given to its poor unsuspecting victims, then so be it.  He vowed that he would not endure this unbearable torment alone.  Not by a long shot.  But he wasn’t going to be capricious and petty like God, oh no.  He wouldn’t victimize some poor schmuck who’d scraped and clawed his way out of nothing.  He looked around for someone far more deserving to receive life’s fly-covered bowl of shit.  And low and behold, all around him, there they were.  These young, pretty people with agile minds and healthy bodies.  They went to expensive schools and had the world handed to them by their rich parents on a goddamn gilded platter!!  They didn’t have hardships.  They wouldn’t have to scrape and claw.  They wouldn’t have to walk around in other people’s sewage just so they could buy their wives a winter coat.  Why should the children of privilege be given a free ride?  Why shouldn’t they suffer like he had?”

Harvey slammed his fist down onto the desk darkly.  Several people almost jumped out of their skin.  This was the first time I had ever seen this sweet generous man get angry.  An unease slowly descended upon his rapt audience.

“So, he sold his house, his car and cashed in his bonds.  He rented some fancy offices and put an ad in the paper looking for college grads.”

People at this point were really trying figure out where his spellbinding story was going.  Quizzical looks abounded.

“He set up an elaborate answering service on the third floor to place bogus orders all day long.”

Pennies were beginning to drop like a tropical downpour in the room.  I’m speaking metaphorically here, of course.  The end of this startling saga was now upon us.  Harvey opened up his arms expansively.

“So all of this, ladies and gentlemen, has been an illusion.  It doesn’t exist.  It is my great big ‘Fuck You’ to this pisspot of a world and to God himself!  Don’t you get it?  I’ve destroyed your lives like mine has been destroyed, you, you over-privileged little shit-turds.  So, go ahead.  Open up your fucking bonus envelopes!”

The exceedingly worried, over-privileged little shit-turds ripped open their envelopes.  There were no checks.  Instead, sand fell out in little piles.

Punjab looked at his tiny pile of silicone and then at a horrified Angela and Billy.
“There appears to be nothing inside but this sand in my envelope.”

Billy and Angela stared in abject horror, “We’ve been raped!!”

But good old Harve hadn’t finished by a long shot.  “Oh, and Mr. DeSena?  The guy you’ve been borrowing hundreds of thousands of dollars from?  His full name is Tony “The Corkscrew” DeSena.  Tony works for the New Jersey mob and he is going to be wanting his money plus 38% interest by Friday or you’re all going to find out what he does with that corkscrew.”

Harvey permitted himself a little maniacal chuckle.

We were catatonic.  It was just too much to take in.  This had to be some sort of dream or a joke?  Any second Dorothy was going to crack up and then we’d find out our checks were actually taped to the underside of our chairs.

Nope. It sure wasn’t a joke.  A least not a funny one.

Harvey turned to Dorothy who smiled back at him.  He touched her cheek so softly, and with so much love that I thought I was going to cry.

“Are you ready, Sweetie?” he asked her warmly.

“I sure am, Honey” she replied.  Her eyes were shining like she’d just won the lottery.

He held her in his arms briefly and the sweethearts kissed, one last time.  That may have been the only real kiss I have ever seen or will ever see in my life.  It was breathtaking.  They held each others hands while they took pistols out their pockets.  Randy screamed.  Still smiling lovingly at one another, they held the guns to their heads.

Just before he pulled the trigger he turned to us one last time.  “Oh, and don’t eat the cake, it’s poisoned.”

BLAM!!!  Bullets shattered their skulls like it was a scene out of a John Woo film.  Everyone was splattered with blood and old plumber brains.  It was absolute chaos for the next couple of minutes.  Screams.  Vomiting.  Sobbing and praying.

So you see, I wasn’t kidding.  Love stories don’t come much more ultimate than that.  Sure, it would have been nice if I were writing about Alchemy and moi from the sun-soaked shores of Fiji, but…

I’m not even mad at them.  They showed me something of such transcendent beauty that I’ll be forever in their debt.  I only hope one day, that I might find someone like that.  Someone that I loved so deeply that I would gladly die with them, rather than say goodbye.

Alchemy

Epilogue 

     So, that is pretty well my story.

I suppose you’re wondering what happened to everybody else since “The Event”.  Only fair I should fill you in, I guess.

Well, Randy almost didn’t make it out of the board room.  During the ensuing panic and confusion, Brian ran over and picked up one of the blood-drenched pistols.

“See how funny you think this is you fucking Dartmouth dirtbag!”

And with those words, he fired.  Of course, being from Amherst, he missed.  He pegged poor Jonesy from Skidmore right in the forehead.  Dead before he hit the floor.  What is it with the guys who go to that school?

Punjab was forced to flee back to India to escape being cut up and thrown in the Hudson by the mob – or by Angela and Billy.  He works in an un-air-conditioned office/warehouse with thousands of other sweaty individuals in some place called Bheemunipatam.  Now when his phone rings, he picks it up and says, “Hello.  My name is James White.  What seems to be your computer problem??”  He’s good.  You can hardly hear his accent at all anymore.

Billy and Angela went back to Hollywood where they cry for no apparent reason 12 to 14 times each day.  But, at least they’re in Los Angeles and not Bheemunipatam.

Polo went back to his old occupation.  Throwing fucked-up motherfuckers off motherfucking roofs for not paying him his motherfucking money.

The girls – oh God, how I miss the girls – they eventually fell in love with, and married, Vivica Fox.  It’s legal now in California.  They keep it on the quiet, just for her career’s sake.

For the last few months, my father has been living with Tara in the back of a Ford Torino and has never been happier.  I wish him well.

Artie makes a decent living, supplying the Holiday Inn and Marriot chains with high quality, original oil paintings of tranquil forest glades.  I believe you can take one home with you for a rather reasonable 350 dollars.

Clint Howard finally gave up on his hopes for a TV comeback and ate his beloved bear.

I guess that brings us to the belle of Princeton.  Needless to say, I didn’t get to run away with her.  I was too busy running away from Tony “The Corkscrew” DeSena.  Sigh.  Alchemy, as predicted, became a national news anchor.  Occasionally, I’ll turn her on at six o’clock and jack-off in front of the set.  If I’m in a more romantic mood, I’ll kiss her televised lips as she says, “Goodnight”.  It isn’t much, but it’s all I have left of her.

Me?  What happened to me?  (Besides jacking-off in front of my Sony flatscreen.)  Well, I now live in Kansas City.  That’s where I’m hiding out from the mob.  I’ve been forced to restrict myself to cash-only transactions to stay off the grid.  Mostly giving blowjobs to out-of-town businessmen.  That way, I minimize the risk that I’ll be traced through my financial records.

Yikes!  Did I say giving?  No, I meant providing. NOO!  Providing is practically the same thing as giving, isn’t it?  I meant arranging.  Phew! I’ve become sort of a mouth pimp.  A liaison, if you will, between the oral-gratification-seeking male public and Randy.

Yes, that Randy.  What could I do?  He was destitute, friendless and practically neck-less.  When I hightailed it out of town, he begged me to come along.  Williams guys have pretty soft hearts when you get right down to it.  I guess that’s what makes us so lovable.

Polo helped me set up this business (that was very nice of him) and things sort of evolved from there.  You know, under the circumstances, it’s not the world’s worst way to make a living.

Well, for me.

 

Just the other day we booked an appointment behind the bus station.  I ambled up to this portly, nervous looking guy wearing a bad suit and sweating under his toupee.  He looked at me and then at Randy and enquired, “Is this the dick smoker?”

“It surely is,” I answered with a smile.  Randy did not smile.  “Now, before the proceedings begin, I, that is he, offers a whole range of services.  It’s 50 bucks if you just cum in his mouth and he spits it out.  It’s 75 to show you your deposit on his tongue and then swallow it and for 100 he will spit it back into your mouth.”

The guy thought it over.  “But how’s he going to get any real head-bobbing action going with that neck thingy”

I acknowledged his query with a knowing wink and pulled an old Russian car crank out of my bag.  “No problem.  This fits into that little socket there on his brace and I can move his head back and forth, up and down to whatever speed and intensity you desire.”

If the business builds up, I’m hoping to get it motorized so I can operate it by remote control.  That way, I can stand a little further away and won’t have to hear all of the gagging noises and cum spluttering.

He hasn’t had to take it up the poop shoot yet.  I’m waiting for something special, like a Shriner’s convention for that.

Should you be passing through the KC area, you might want to look us up.  If you bring a copy of this book, I’ll give you a discount.

And as I said earlier, I don’t blame Harve for putting me in this awkward situation.  For having to set up “Date Night” for horny salesman’s dicks and the back of Randy’s esophagus.  “Man is condemned to be free; because once thrown into the world, he is responsible for everything he does.”  Jean Paul Sartre once said that.

See.  I did go to college.

Jean Paul Sartre

=DV=

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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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