Something for the Weakened

The Crow Gets Comfy – The Fourteenth Chapter

Wednesday, April 30th, 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.


The Crow found himself in darkness. Hmm, he thought to himself, so this is what reptiles look like from the inside. All around him he felt nothing, which was minorly disconcerting. He had at least hoped to find an intestine or maybe a lung, but instead there was little surrounding him save for something resembling air. A strange smell of aged pilchards surrounded him and, all of a sudden, he became aware of some sort of substance underneath his back. Darkness still surrounded him. “Shit,” he thought out loud. “I’m blind!”

“Open you eyes then, fuckwit,” came a vaguely familiar voice. The Crow frowned, unable to place it. He decided to take its advice and opened his ocular orbs. Five figures stared at him. “Fuck,” said The Crow, shutting them rapidly. There was a quantity of tittering. He decided to stay blind and quiet.

“Are you gonna open yer eyes, or do we have to take ‘em out with a hoover?” Satan enquired reasonably. The Crow pondered this for a couple of seconds before reasoning that it was wiser to open them. He found himself in a heartily empty shed, devoid of content save for Satan, the horsemen and a creation that resembled some kind of a vacuum cleaner, which Death appeared to have been playing with, causing a look of irritation to spread across his particularly bony face.

And that’s where it stops. Not really enough here to annotate and nothing really of note in these final three paragraphs either. By this point I had probably been scribbling the whole thing down for at least two and a half years and had had enough of it. I have trouble finishing creative projects, usually because my initial enthusiasm wears off extremely quickly and is quickly replaced with the certainty that someone else has done it before, only better. Where would it have gone after this? I’m not one hundred percent certain, though I do recall a few plans that I had.

Presumably Satan would have given The Crow another chance at life – that would have been one of the contrived devices that would have allowed him to place a tiger in his own fridge. Or maybe that would have employed the time travel motif, though that might have just been a red herring. There would have been a third shed, I remember that much, though not who or what would have been lurking within. I believe that the reborn Crow was to discover that Robbie Schmittenfunk had been appointed the leader of the cult in his absence, what with his being present at the demise of its original followers. This would have undoubtedly been quite grim. I think that everyone else who had died by the end of the first book was to remain dead. Quite what was going to go on with all the mythical characters is utterly beyond me. I can’t think of any other developments other than that, so let’s try and tie off a couple of loose ends.

The reason that The Crow collapsed at the end of the first book was because he was allergic to soup. I still maintain that this is a funny gag and will continue to crowbar it into things until some bastard laughs. In case you hadn’t guessed, the grave that was visited belonged to Syd Barrett and, to a lesser extent, my grandfather, who died during the writing of the piece. I would dedicate it him, but frankly no one deserves so poor an accolade.

So did The Crow ever get comfy?

I wouldn’t have thought so.

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