Trapezious, The Sub-Dermal Terrorist

"Trapezius!" spat The Craw, as he hobbled to his velvet sitee´, favoring the left side of his back as he lowered his decaying frame into the soft cushionry. Like the backstabbing muscle that he was, Trapezius clenched his length along The Craw’s left shoulder blade, sending the semi-evil deity into spasms of pain and social embarrassment. 

“Ouch, goddammit!” yelled The Craw, as Trapezius dug in relentlessly trying to bring down his victim like a giant Anaconda of pain.

The Craw flailed uselessly at his own back, unable to dig his knuckles into the clenched muscle and relieve himself of Trapezius' authoritative hold. He flailed onward for several hours, collapsing in a spent, gasping pile of displeasure, before slowly rising to his feet. Changing tactics, The Craw swept his dark cape from behind him, in a grand gesture of authority, but failed halfway through, what with being unable to lift his left arm.

“Drats and curses!” shrieked The Craw, releasing his pent-up frustration into the world beyond his lair. “Pain shall confound me no longer!!!”

Grabbing a large kitchen knife from the drawer, The Craw strode angrily to the mirror where he planned to slice into his already rotting dermal layer, and pry an edge of Trapezius upward, where he would grip him firmly in his pliers, and less-than-gently remove said muscle from his body, and parts therein.

Squeezing the pliers tightly, he began to tug, and was distressed to learn that Trapezius has spread his unholy kingdom of pain outward, encompassing almost all of his upper back.  

“By the flames of Albion, I shall triumph over his domain!” shouted The Craw, quickly downing 3 shots of espresso and a non-lethal dose of painkillers.

Yanking unmercifully, The Craw tugged Trapezius, kicking and screaming, out from under his dermal layer, whereupon he proceeded to become unconscious from the level of pain that was quickly rising through his fog of medical indulgences.

“Gahhhhhhh…” he drooled, puddling in a cape-wearing pile of loose tendons and gristle on the floor of his dirty Lair. His last thought was that he should draw up official Papers of Ostracism against old Trapezius. A majority vote among The Craw’s many personalities was all that was needed to make it official.

Some time later, he awoke to find a trained masseuse grinding away at Trapezius with a marble pestle and an electric cattle-prod. 

ZAP!

“Begone bitch!” yelled the mighty masseuse, raining down deathly blows upon Trapezius and his nearby muscle neighbors, who were not terribly pleased with how Trapezius had drawn The Law into the neighborhood.

Several hundred blows and zaps later, Trapezius was subdued, cuffed, and placed back into his sub dermal domicile, where he lived, huffing with hostility for three days before he was sentenced to obscurity by the Craw’s internal judiciary system. He ranted on in lunatic fashion for several more days before falling silent, hopefully never to be heard from again.

* * * * 

“That was a good story,” thought The Craw, slowly un-hunching from his laptop, groaning as his body creaked under the strain…..as Trapezius’ eyes blinked slowly open…

Would he awake again?!?!?!

The Craw Contemplates Shit

The Craw put down his third beer and paused, ready to contemplate the absurdity of life, when he was struck by the enormity of change around him.

It was his 42nd attempt to contemplate this particular absurdity, and the rusty gears in his head squeaked to a slow start, with several backfires and a small puff of exhaust. He casually pulled a small snack-pack of toasted badger spleens dusted in chili powder from the deep pockets of his tattered black cloak, and popped a handful into his waiting maw, and crunched the lot with a sublime look of pleasure on his otherwise frightening visage.

It was springtime in the Underworld, and the beautiful aroma of dying flowers and trees brought a certain deathly pleasure to his senses.

Underworld Spring

"Wow, I am actually contemplating shit," he thought to himself, since he usually ambled about without much contemplation whatsoever.

He was momentarily distracted by the word "whatsoever," since compound words brought a delicious sense of importance to his ego, even if they didn't quite roll off his decaying tongue with the grace that he always hoped for. Scratching his chin, and extricating a small rodent from one of the dents in his craggy face, he momentarily forgot that he was actually busy contemplating things.

Flinging the rodent aside without bothering to check whether it was a gerbil, hamster, or some sort of feral rabbit, it occurred to him that for once, he had no obligations to anyone but himself, and the thought brought a rush of exhilaration that raced up his spine and lodged itself somewhere between his shoulder blades and his cerebellum. Unable to dislodge the thought from its hiding place without causing severe damage to his existing nerve center, The Craw shivered with delight and tried to remember what it was that he was supposed to be contemplating....

Ah yes...the absurdity of life.

The Craw wondered if it was absurd to think about the word "absurd," which itself actually sounded rather absurd, when you really thought about it, which he never really did, so it struck him as particularly peculiar at this moment.

"How peculiar a word that is," he thought to himself, as he wondered if you could really think something to anyone BUT oneself. He decided to experiment, just to see how that would work.

Nevertheless, the Grouchy Porcupine

He quickly beckoned his grouchy pet porcupine, "Nevertheless," to his side and scratched him recklessly behind the ears, poking several large holes in his rotting fingers as he did so. Wincing with sheer delight at the pain, The Craw decided to think something to Nevertheless, and to test his theories. He figured that he should likely think something outrageous, so the reaction would be profound enough to measure, scientifically speaking.



"I am sexually attracted to herons and I once spooned a rabid marmot," he thought, not to himself, but to Nevertheless.

Nevertheless eyed him warily, and continued crunching the stem of The Craw's favorite indoor shrub, but did not appear to register any major surprise. Perhaps this was not shocking enough for a porcupine who was obviously jaded, and was likely attracted to herons himself.

"Hmmmm....unexpected," thought The Craw, this time to himself, just to make sure the whole "thinking" thing was working.

It was at that precise moment that he was distracted by another thought, which flung itself into his mind without even asking.

"I am tired of this small rant, but have forgotten how to end it."

In order to avoid having to write any further, or wrap this up in a nice tidy way, he simply ate his keyboard, and felt that should do it.

The damned thing could have used some BBQ sauce though....

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.

Insomnicraw

The Craw sighed a deep wet wheezy sigh and rolled over in bed for the 1,324th time that night, and looked at the clock. It was 4:27 a.m.

As he stared, the clock blinked insolently, taunting him with the progressing hours and The Craw, already weary, attempted to ponder why he was still awake. The left hemisphere of his swiss-cheesed brain had been in a huff all day, and had been annoying the right hemisphere since breakfast, when one wanted a sensible bowl of oatmeal, while the other craved a duck confit served with a potato pancake and grilled

onions.

Thus, his ability to properly ponder his sleepless predicament was hampered severely, and as an idea presented itself, it was sent along a route that was dangerously close to the right hemisphere border, and in the ensuing skirmish, the idea was shot point-blank and left in a slightly wooded ditch just south of the Hippocampus. Clearly, something was wrong.

"Why so awake am I?" he asked himself, as semi-evil deities are often known to do, and taking his Magic 8 Ball firmly in hand (or claw, as the case may be), he shook vigorously and awaited an answer.

After an alarmingly long delay, the 8 Ball responded, "Suck it up, bitch."

"Hmmm," thought The Craw. He was unused to such a surly attitude from his chief strategic confidant, and he heaved another sigh.

Had the two hemispheres of his ancient brain been willing to cooperate, they could have deduced that The Craw was missing his flame-haired companion, and his sleeplessness was simply a matter of being affected by the air density of her negative space, which loomed around him, taunting him with the absence of her laughter.

He tossed the 8 Ball aside, vaguely hoping it would smash itself open upon impact, but when it simply rolled under the dresser and disappeared, he resigned himself to a night of disappointment.

He grumpily gave a loud "harrumph" and rolled over once again, hoping that THIS time, the slight shift in orientation would be the magic key to falling asleep. Just as he was settling into the new position, several muscles in the right side of his neck began complaining about the new location. He hated their low-class  cockney accents, and attempted to ignore them. This group of neck muscles had been hanging out and raising a lot of trouble together and The Craw was losing his patience with them.

"Ey! Wot's with this shite new position?!?" screamed the lead neck muscle, who we shall simply call "Brian."

The Craw responded with a medium sized punch to the side of his neck, where Brian the Angry Neck Muscle sat protruding, throbbing, and shouting racial epithets.

"Ouch!" yelled The Craw, as the rest of his body wondered what the hell was going on.

The story continued on for some time in this manner, as The Craw did mighty battle with Brian the Angry Neck Muscle and his group of cockney associates. His attempts to rub them out were largely unsuccessful, and he resolved himself to enduring a night of pain, and grinding noises every time he turned his head.

Sighing once more, with what he hoped was enough conviction that it would help,The Craw rolled over once more, and did not go to sleep. He is likely still there, in his temporary Lair, cursing vehemently at the world, with nary a badger spleen snack to be had....

The Craw Faces a Medical Infestation

It wasn’t a dark or stormy night in the Underworld.

Well, not more than any average west coast evening in the Underworld, where The Craw paced furiously in his Lair, wearing a small trench in his earthen floor. He had just come back from the medical clinic – a small little problem with parts of his face rotting off after 4,645 years of abuse, and some unwanted tenants therein.

With a heavy sigh, he logged onto the Undernet and for once, bypassed his favorite site full of pictures of saucy otters and several fetching young badgers in skimpy fur outfits.

Absentmindedly extracting a small rodent from an open wound in his face and flinging it into a corner, he logged on to his medical portal to see if his test results were in. His ancient eyes glowed with excitement as a small skull and crossbones icon appeared to let him know his medical mail was waiting.

“Oh boy!” exclaimed The Craw, for he was far too tired to initiate a search of his vocabulary database for a more exciting phrase.

The news was not as bad as he had expected. He appeared to have a small infestation of Nutria living in several puckered holes in his face, and he ran a long claw under his chin thoughtfully. Oh sure, there was a lotion for that, but what fun was it to kill by ointment? No fun at all, he was pretty sure. There had to be a more fun-based approach to de-vermining his craggy visage.

It was obvious that he would have to commit some time to devising the perfect plan. The Craw’s brain sputtered roughly to life as he rebooted his cerebellum, hoping for some increased speed, or to free up some…..what was it?

Oh yes…memory.

Several dark and disturbing plans began to form in his mind, and the distant sound of hoofbeats thundered ominously from somewhere within the author’s brain. The Craw concentrated forcefully, and his eyes turned blood-red from the exertion of his thoughts. With a sudden pop, and a loud wheeze, his brain blew out a small artery, and sputtered to a halt, with several half-formed ideas still encased in their gelatinous packaging.

Knowing further development was unlikely, The Craw unwrapped the first idea with a glee bordering on hysteria, as he pictured the squatting family of Nutria being evicted from his facial crags, hopefully at an hour most inconvenient to his unwanted guests.

"Mwaaaaaah-hahahahah!” laughed The Craw evilly, picturing the varmints being awakened early from their repose, and tossed unceremoniously out of his face and onto the earthen floor, where he would point at them and accuse them of acts that would shock even the most flagrant violators of taste and decorum. That would show them.

On the other hand, The Craw wasn’t sure if that plan was vengeful enough to cheer him from his current doldrums.

Opening another half-baked idea, The Craw pondered this one for some time. It required extensive planning, several lengths of audio wire, a USB port, 16 “D” batteries, a transgendered pineapple-flavored squirrel, and several pages of XML code. In fact, this plan was so half-baked, The Craw wasn’t entirely sure what the plan actually WAS, and in keeping with his usual modus operandi, he chose that plan above all others.

 

To be continued.....….or is it?