Something for the Weakened

The Crow Gets Comfy – The Thirteenth Chapter

Tuesday, April 29th, 2008 by

The Crow Gets Comfy is an incomplete novel that I began writing in 1994 and I am transcribing here for posterity, shits, giggles and to see just how poor a scribe my eighteen year old self was. I will cease when I either become bored with doing it, when enough people beg me to or when I reach the end of what was written. The only alterations I am making to my original manuscript are for spelling or grammar – everything else was spilt from my half formed mind at the time (frankly my grammar hasn’t improved immensely, so I doubt you’ll notice much improvement). I have not read it in almost a decade and am only reading as I type, so am almost as much in the dark as you before reading the next chapter. The preceding episodes can be found below or in the archive found at the top of the page. Annotations to references, rip offs or other items of interest to me (if no one else) will be inserted in italics at the bottom. Ladies and otherwise, I give you The Crow Gets Comfy. Enjoy if you can.


Sod positioned his colour changing reptile delicately on a plinth and turned back to the rather worried Crow.

“You see,” Sod began explaining, “after your death, those of your cultists who’d survived began to try and spread the word, your word. Sadly for them they couldn’t completely work out what it was, so made a rough approximation of what they saw it to be. They began preaching to anyone who would listen and to quite a few people who wouldn’t. The first few months went thoroughly well – they managed to convert almost all of the Home Counties to their . . . sorry, your ideals. That’s when the problem sprang up.” The Crow nervously fiddled with his fingers. Sod, who had strolled over to a rather battered bass guitar and began playing some slap.

“A man named Sir Randolph Beltcher managed to get a bill passed through parliament, using influence, money, death threats, sexual favours and such like, which completely banned ‘Crowism’ as it had been titled. This presented your followers with something of a problem, particularly in the Home Counties. They’d already had some trouble with members of ‘The Cult of Scarabic Walruses’ going around and acting as death squads, but now they had the police and the armed forces to compete with as well. This was where things got rather hairy. After about three years of persecution, several thousand of the cultists had become heartily annoyed by having to live in heavy seclusion so as not to be arrested. The cult was still spreading and these people believed in you fanatically. They managed to cut a deal with a Middle Eastern chappy who managed to sell them a great deal of explosives and made himself quite a hearty profit in the process. Anyhow, using lots of cunning and some commando skills they’d picked up in the Cubs, this group managed to cause both the House of Lords and parliament to explode simultaneously, killing the entire cabinet and most of the lords, though some of them had been dead for a few years anyway.” The Crow was ever so slightly dumbfounded by these revelations. He’s never realised that anyone had really believed in him enough to kill anyone, let alone blow up the nation’s governing body.

“So, having managed to remove the only real threat against them, the Crowists formed a provisional government in Aldershot, Christ knows why, and took over running the country. The rest of the world seemed more amused by this than anything else, particularly the States, who had gained quite a large following for you, and the religion itself was beginning to become worldwide. Everything was pallid for around the next six or seven years, until the Middle East problems started.” Sod, looking slightly mournful, put down the bass and returned to his chameleon, prodding it playfully with a twig he had acquired. The Crow shuffled uncomfortably in the melodramatic pause. “Well?” he asked finally, the silence becoming too much for him.

“Hm? Oh . . .” Sod said at last. “The Middle East, yes. Well, as you probably know, Islam never truly died out as a religion, so when Crowism began to drift into the Asian continent, there were a lot of particularly riled folks around. They decided to ally with all other non-Crowist nations and take out all those aligned to your faith. This posed something of a problem to all the Crowist countries, due to most of them giving an extensive decommissioning to a great deal of their armed power and forces. Britain for example had three geezers named Reg, a rusty tank, two pistols, a pea-shooter and eight space hoppers. So when the Saudi’s launched the first nukes, none of the western world was particularly prepared. After an hour all the Crowist countries were uninhabitable. Worse still was that all non-Crowist nations save Saudi were, due to a little double cross by it’s dictator at the time, a man who was known as ‘Dave The Unpleasant’ I seem to remember. Sadly for the Saudis, who briefly proclaimed themselves Emperors of the Earth, their lives were also rather quickly ended, due to the Earth being knocked out of its orbit. Rising temperatures killed off most of the planet’s remaining life and the end truly came when it collided with Venus. So what’ve you got to say to that?” Sod concluded. The Crow sat, dumbfounded.

“You evil, sick, motherfucker,” said Sod’s Jackson Chameleon unexpectedly, with a voice resembling fingers scraping down a blackboard.

“Now, now Karl,” Sod said to the colour changing beastie, calmly, “we can’t just condemn a man. Let’s listen to the case.” He indicated for The Crow to pipe up in his defence.

“Er . . .” he began poorly. “Well, I was dead at the time, so I can’t really be to blame can I?”

“You think Christ got away with that one you scrawny little piece of shit?!” retorted Karl, this time sounding like a Scotsman doing a very bad impression of an American.

“Um, okay,” The Crow went on. “Er . . . yeah, how about this. It was all based around what they thought I believed in – I never actually did any preaching or such like.” He sat back and looked smug.

“Sorry about this,” said Sod, rummaging around in the grill of an aged and dirt caked oven. Finally he pulled out some tatty pieces of paper and handed them to The Crow. “Remember this?” he enquired, cocking his head slightly.

The Crow flicked through the pages. “Shit,” he said to himself as realisation of what he held entered his head.

“Shit indeed, helmet cheese,” mocked Karl.

“How old were you when you wrote it?” asked Sod.

“I dunno, sixteen, seventeen . . .” trailed The Crow off. In his clammy mitts lay ‘The Joy of The Crow’, a shortish piece of questionable literature which basically described his ideas for how to lead a heartily pleasant life. If by some miracle it had ever been published, it would have been banned very quickly in a number of countries.

“Someone found it in your room. It then became a holy book . . .” Sod sailed from his lips.

“Even the bit about cucumbers?” The Crow asked worriedly.

“Yes,” said Sod, airily staring into space.

“I enjoyed that bit,” said Karl in the style of Eric Idle.

“Well,” said Sod, snapping out of his trance, “anything else to say to get you off the hook?” The Crow thought for a second or two. “Too slow,” Sod said finally. Karl’s tongue leapt from his mouth, adhered to The Crow’s cheek and pulled him down his throat.


This was the least coherently written chapter I’ve transcribed. Many sentences have been altered in a vague attempt to have them make sense – too many for me to have bothered taking notes. It seems as if I was losing interest by this point, which was almost certainly the case, as we shall see next time. Anyway, time for something specific.

Para. 1 – I think it was Stephen Fry who’d described his favourite word as ‘plinth’ around the time this was written. That’d be why it’s included here.

Para. 3 – The simultaneous destruction of both governmental House’s is probably a bit of a nod of the head in the direction of ‘V For Vendetta’, which I would have been reading for the first time back then.

Para. 4 – Another moment of real locations that I’d never visited. I can’t imagine that I’ve been to Aldershot since either.

Para. 5 – The use of the word ‘riled’ is another Vic & Bob ‘omage I should think. The use of ‘Asian continent’ is a bit dubious mind, so apologies for that.

Para. 7 – The whole “Listen to the case,” bit is lifted from the live version of Make It Funky from James Brown’s ‘Revolution of the Mind’ album (Live at the Apollo Volume Three). My good chum Toylor had it on a funk compilation long before I heard the album itself. Due to overuse, it tended to get locked into a skipping groove of James saying “Get back to the bissown, bone.” Many hours were spent listening to that loop while experiencing altered states. I still have no idea as to what a ‘bissown’ is, or how one would go about boning it.

Next time – The Fourteenth Chapter – The Second Shed

What there is of it.

Leave a Reply