The Craw Eats His Drummer

The Craw gurgled a wet and disturbing chortle as he contemplated his drummer’s most recent question: “Why Does The Craw Speak in the Third Person?”

His heavy boots trudged a shallow trench in the floor of his Lair, as he pondered how best to answer. Stroking his face in what he hoped appeared to be a contemplative manner, he extricated several small  rodents and a welsh midget from the crags in his ancient leathery skin.

“What’s wrong with The Craw speaking in the Third person?” he wondered aloud.

Nefarious, the Cat

“Sounds like a bloody fool, if you ask me,” muttered his cranky cat, Nefarious. “Always going on about yourself, Craw this, Craw that….you know I could do with some sleep here.”

 

Nefarious eyed the small rodents scurrying away into the dark corners while the welsh midget simply flopped on the floor and clamored for something to drink.

Dropping his right boot squarely on the midget, The Craw attempted to fix an awful and powerful gaze at the cat, to remind him who brought home the mouse-flavored kibble each week, but his left eye became strained, and he burst a small blood vessel, sending a small creek of ancient brown blood cascading off the tip of his rotted nose.

“Oh bother,” thought the Craw to himself, for he certainly wasn’t going to think it to anyone else.

Giving the cat a swift kick with his steel-toed reaping boots, he strode forcefully into the bathroom and quickly applied a disgusting old dishrag to his streaming eye socket, hoping it would become infected with some sort of spongy bacterial growth. There were just not enough good bacterial growths anymore, what with this modern obsession with anti-bacterial soaps.

Having stopped the immediate flow from his face, The Craw once again turned to thinking about how to answer the question. But first he had to remember what the question was. The Craw thought hard and navigated to Brain > Documents, in an attempt to find the previous conversation cached somewhere on his brain drive. Apparently, his preferences were not set to auto-stash his conversations, and he gradually lost interest in the search and opened a browser to search for some porn.

“Ahhhhhhhh,” he sighed, in a way that would typically indicate pleasure, but sounded more like he was passing a kidney stone through his Medula Oblongata.

He flicked casually through the photos of naked seraphim performing obscure rituals involving lube and several heads of cabbage, when he was struck by an image of such power that it left him breathless. There, on the screen, was….

Oh hell. The knock on the door interrupted his unholy pursuits, and he casually struggled back into his thick black cloak, wrapping it tightly about his thin frame.

Such was life today.

After eating the pair of blond Mormons at the door (nice kids, but a bit gamey), he plopped himself into his large armchair, and quietly burped the theme to his favorite reality show, “You Show Me Yours, I Kill You”

Drifting into a hazy sleep, he slipped into silent dream worlds where he covered 14 drummers in BBQ sauce and slowly roasted them over a pit of hellfire. It was pleasant enough until he realized that he’d completely forgotten his floss.