Author's Note: This was written for my english class a month ago after we read the book A Clockwork Orange. I hadn't written fanfiction in a long long time, (try four years) and at that it had always been Harry Potter fanfiction. So needless to say this was something of a challenge and a treat all at once. I got to entirely change the mindset, and considering I hadn't written creatively in four years, I got to see how much my writing has improved! (My old fanfictions were horrific to say the least, and I shudder at the idea that I may, someday, come across them on my computer.) I also got to try out a different vernacular. Nadsat. And appropriately, I'm a Russian major, so this was enjoyable to me.
I had read the book several months back and reread it for class, now being able to identify with some themes that I had missed on my first time through, and thus, this story emerges. It happens in place of chapter 21, (Or Chapter 7 of part 3 of the book. Which some people have never read, or did not know existed. It was not in the movie and it was not in the first American printing. But it was how Anthony Burgess intended the book to be read.) so after the scene in the hospital. However it is an epilogue so it also occurs at least a year later.
As of right now, this is a one-shot.
Novu'chick
Oh, my brothers, it was a sight to behold. All, like, fresh painted and glittering in my glazz-balls. That a veck like I, oh my brothers, could take in the krovvy red and rolling down the wall, viddy the agitprop sprayed on by some malchikiwik. I viddied it once more and then went on my oddy-knocky real skorry like.
The streets have been odd, friends. Not like clean anymore. It's those malchicks, no sooner tolchock you in the rot than tag your face red or black or white. I can't viddy myself taking part. Sometimes, however, I crast from a national and give the cutter to the artists, out of my own two carmans, because It makes sense somehow. This idea, floating in my mozg, it hit me somehow.
These novu-'chicks and devotchkas, they were the army in this like bitva, that is battle. Them all dressed in the heighth of fashion (That, my brothers, being new to your humble narrator as well.) They wear these cloths tied over their rot and up over their ookos. So you can like viddy their glazzies and nothing more. They have their hair all shaved up over their gullivers or sticking up a foot over-head. And their platties, Bog, but they are the strange sort. The malchicks wear these reverse-smocks with a collar that comes up 'neath their litso-cloths. All the straps are done up in the back underneath their spray-tags. They come branded, even their pants, made of some vinyl and with the same bolshoy boots, tied up to the knee and laced in their brands' colours. These bolshoy sabogs are already red, they hide krovvy easily.
The ptitsas wear something too, 'cause for each veck there's a devotchka, and she's the stencil keeper. Or she carves it out with a britva. I've never viddied, brothers, the vecks getting the old in-out with these ptitsas. Most probably because they have their own shanks and don't belong to their veck's brands but they make their own. It's a shame, my friends, because they usually look really horrorshow, with their groodies packed into these vinyl vests and their litso-cloth covering all but their eyes and voloss. The devotchkas have their luscious glory painted up with their brands, and like, netting-covered legs under these shorts. They also wear the bolshoy sabogs.
These are no droogs of mine, friends. I'm too old now. I tried, believe me brothers, I did. I just don't have it in me now, to do much more than to crast and give cutter to the non-nats. Then I take the rest of it for my own good self, and buy myself a tass of moloko with no knives, because those give me a terrible sensation in my plott, and sit to slooshy the tunes of the stereo in this malenky corner of the pub. In fact, my brothers, your humble narrator was enjoying himself so well that he creeched for the bartender to Irish-up his starry moloko. (Being that I can now, at that ripe old age of twenty, and two years past when I could ask for my own horrowshow brewski.)
It was two years ago that I made it my like mission to pony these non-nat-nadsats. Three years out of the Staja, and a ripe chelloveck that I am: a sterling individual, who rabbits and gives all my crastings to those of the "three-N" persuasion.
It's a strange thing, methinks, that for all those years of my rabbiting away at the ultra-violence, doing the old in-out-in-out and crasting and tolchocking vecks in plott and gulliver, that the krovvy never looked like a tool to me, for use in "poly-tickle" shows and exploitation. Not like these novu-nadsats. They see it like a 12-gauge shotty, one that points to the parliament and goes "BANG BANG BANG" away, and to Downing street and goes "CLACK CLACK CLACK." They'll blow the Minister of the Inferior's gulliver off his pletchos with art and red or black or white spray. There's a new fashion, for the droogs and podroogas to pony the government and to destroy or change it. It's quite invigorating, my brothers, it's ultra-violent in a like non-violent way. It arose, in the nochy of my release from the Staja, and starry Alex's "Home," and the hospital; like a wind-storm about my plott, chilling it and making me feel real horrorshow.
I viddied one entering into the pub, adjusting the straps on the back of his smock and running his hands up over his voloss, spiking it, into a line of hair the americanskies call a "Mohawk." But this was like more of their "Faux-hawk" considering it was short and the sides of his gulliver not shaved. Now, my friends, your very handsome and humble narrator couldn't help but watch close with his glazzies, to I-spy upon this young malchick. He was of great interest to me.
He ittied over to the bar and like patted down his carmans to pull out some paint-spattered cutter for his own brewski and swung his leg up over the chair and onto the brass foothold near the floor. He had like a scar on one side of his litso and a very bolshoy morder which was shaped very odd. He wasn't the not handsome type though, he had a very boyish face, this malchick. He also had a devotchka that followed him, the sort endowed in the trunk but not overly in the groodies. (In other words, not my chasha of chai, brothers, but one that other men would like.) And she sat next to him and like, pulled out a handful of cutter for her own brewski, a dark stout or ale to his lager.
I saw them govoreet quietly, after they pulled their litso-cloths down and out of the way, him pulling up a bottle of spray for her to viddy and shaking it in his rooker before putting it back in the vinyl pants' carmans. She flashed her zoobies at him before pulling something out of her short yubka, next to her thigh. It was a stencil, folded and with the Minister of the Interior's ugly litso on it. Just viddying him on paper made me hear his gentleman's goloss in my head, like mocking me.
I moved closer to them, so I could slooshy what they were saying to each other, carrying my chasha of moloko and whisky with me in my rooker to the table on their right. I could slooshy them real horrorshow there, every single slovo.
"What colours will we be doing him in then? 'Cause I've got these like two stencils cut and no brand colour for them yet. And I'd be willing to pass street-rights over to thou and thy droogs Joe and Grimmy." The ptitsa took a hearty sip of her dark brewski and pressed the folded paper stencil into the veck's meaty rooker. He had that kind of hand, one that had viddied work before. Not like mine, my brothers, mine are slender, for crasting takes a slightness of hand.
The malchick took hold of the stennie and glanced at it real skorry like before he stuffed it in the carman of his vinyls. "I've got like, black and white. That's it," he said, pausing to glup gulp gulp at his lager, "What other colour wouldst thou want, Hedon? What other options do we even have? Cause if we had a colour, I could make it like pop." (I knew it was true, what he said brothers, because his patch on his smock said "Atmos" in like tech font, and was only black and white, so no other colour was available to this veck.) So in answer, this ptitsa spun on her stool and flashed her platties patch which said the bolshoy imya "Hedonismos," and it was in orange on black. "So orange, it would be. The minister's gonna be so salty, thou knowst that that Alexander chelloveck wrote a book against the poly-ticks of the Interior. It had something orange about it… maybe the binding." He said this all in a like, mumbling goloss near the end, and it was real affected by his morder, being all nasally and what-not.
"Yea-ho, that's what gets me so weak about it!" creeched the devotchka, flashing her zoobies wide enough that even I could see them like little pearls in her grinning rot, "He's got like, no poly-tick grip on the sitch. We, Atty, can corner the market."
I ittied a table closer, friends, so that I could viddy all that they did with their rookers and I saw, my brothers, a like very malenky exchange from one to the next, where the veck flashed something very very small and then hid it again up his sleeve and the devotchka grinned her bolshoy grin and whispered in a soft goloss "Deuces."
I didn't know what to make of that, but couldn't get close enough to viddy what this Atmos veck had up his smock sleeve. He had that grin on his litso like me and my droogs used to get before ittying off to Korova. It was a like sleepy, lust-like look in his eyes, and I didn't know if it was for this thing in his platties, his ptitsa, or both. I kept my glazz-lids open and my ookos trained to slooshy them talking.
"You're getting too old for this, don't you think?" the ptitsa continued, "You're almost twenty-three, Atty."
"And? You're eighteen. We're going to inherit the world someday. And these starry, cally chellovecks? They've just got to itty out of the way. Do you see what they've been doing?"
The ptitsa stopped to think for a minoota and glanced my way before answering in a like authoritative goloss: "They've been not like bringing us up have they? They've not taught us to be responsible at all, just spoiling young malchicks to not be able to be like grown adults. What do they know of cutter, they can crast it in the streets and not pay a penny in taxes… but then look where the taxes go… these kiddos, they don't know anything of anything. They don't know how to rabbit, effing entitled to the goddamned world… effing poly-ticks, they vote for the nationals 'cause they're afraid of the goddamned 'Pakis.'"
"And look at the like classes, eh? A sterling example of what goes on. I'm appalled, I am. Here's yours truly, a middle-working-class contractor and I rabbit every day, six to four, for not an ounce of recognition from those high-brows in those nice areas. I haven't any respect from those chellovecks. I used to not care, when I was a young malchikiwik. But viddy me now, all caught up in those poly-ticks."
I have to admit, oh my brothers, that I couldn't much pony them. Neither could I pony that malenky okno I had which viddied into their lives. That chelloveck was older than I! And maybe those other malchicks were too. When they govoreeted, it was something I could never understand. Forever they talked about the poly-ticks of this, and the oppression of that. And they bought another two rounds of the horrorshow brewski and then reached into their carmans and bags and drew out little veshches, like newspapers, britvas, cancers, and cigarellos, and they took a long raz to explain one veshch and to hold it in their rookers and take it in with their glazzies before passing it back or putting it down.
After a good long time (I had replenished my moloko and whisky with more cutter on the bar,) they arose and lifted back their litso-cloths and ittied off. Atmos had his like arm around Hedon's pletchos and she had her rooker in his carman, so they were like together, smecking behind their cloths and pressed side-by-side.
I arose, after a few minootas, and went into the bitter nochy, knowing a malenky bit less than I had before. So these were not young malchikiwiks, but starry ones- in their twenties or so usually. I couldn't say a single slovo about their brands either, for I still did not pony what they were for. Neither could I understand why they cared so much about poly-ticks. However I could say this: That bolshoy orange, black, and white stencil was very easy on the glazzies sprayed, as it was, on the front of the municipal building across the street. It was kind of krasivoy, with the Minister's litso all frowning and his rooker wagging on top of the words "Starry Grahzny Bratchny," that is "Old Dirty Bastard." Maybe, my brothers, I am starting to understand poly-ticks, for I had a good smeck at that.