Hello! This is a disclaimer, as I do not own Alexander the Large or any of the other characters featured in this fanfiction. This is just a work of fiction that respectfully used the characters owned by genius Anthony Burgess. These are his characters, not mine.

As for the setting, I am just going to assume A Clockwork Orange took place in London.

Len, Rick, and Bully appear in the 21st chapter of the book, so this takes place shortly after the end of that chapter. The entire fanfiction contains elements of the book and the movie. It's a mix.

Ultra-violentscenes are present, giving this fanfiction its T rating.

(And, I know this sounds cliché, but please, keep your comments civil if they're going to be negative. Nobody wants flames – and you are to expect flames if you are to write something and post it somewhere, (oh my brothers), so I won't completely reject negative reviews. If it is a comment that is just downright rude and uncivil, I will delete it. I would love to receive writing tips, should a comment be negative. Sorry for rambling, but really – if you're going to give a negative comment, I would appreciate it if you could be a droog and keep it civil. Thanks, and enjoy!)

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'What's it going to be, eh?'

Your Humble Narrator sat in my old spot where I used to shoot around with me original tree droogs, back in the extreme days of ultra-violence. And when I govreet the phrase "extreme days of ultra-violence", I like mean my own. Way back when, with Dim and Pete and Georgie-boy. At points in time, I found myself, Alexander DeLarge, self-nicknamed Alexander the Large, missing those bratchnies. But, I had just about fully processed through my thick gulliver that it was impossible to revisit the true nadsat years. It was chepooka to even waste my time to even remember those times, oh my brothers, because Georgie was snuffed, Pete with a zheena and taking life much more seriously, and Dim was a dreaded millicent. Whatever drove Dim to decide to join them stumped me, except for maybe the fact that he could mask the ultra-violent days with a millicent badge and a good reputation with law and order. Ever since our quarrel shortly after I was released from the Ludovico Center, every time the word 'dim' popped up in my mind I viddied bolshy, gloopy Dim towering over me, about twice my size, tolchocking me repeatedly in my litso. Never would I admit to anyone that I was somewhat poogly of old Dim, for that would affect my powerful appearance, you viddy?

I and my new droogs – Bully, Len, and Rick – still spoke the Nadsat slang although we were past that time. I had essentially replaced my original droogs with those three, even forcing them to wear the same garb as the vecks in my memory had, just so everything seemed the same. I wore my codpiece, suspenders, boots, hat, and eyelashes as I had before, sustaining my intimidating appearance as the boss.

I placed my legs up onto the creamy white-colored ptitsa footrests that were all around the Korova Milk Bar. We four were all sipping on chashas of moloko drencrom, myself plotting the next scheme of ultra-violence that would strike in London. According to my parents (which my em wept with a shaky goloss as she spoke, though my father did most of it), once I had been admitted into the Staja for the murdering of the cat-obsessed baboochka, many nadsat kids found interest in the perfection, bringing assault to merzsky deds and other people of the same kind, in an absurd kind of dress, fleeing at the first sight of the millicents. I had single-handedly, they claimed, began a tragic like following, making ultra-violence common in nadsats. I smecked as soon as they turned their backs, pleased with myself for making a bigger dent in the world other than being a guinea pig for a useless experiment.

'What's it going to be then, eh?' I repeated myself, glancing at my droogs who sat next to me. Apparently, they were focused on other things rather than listening to their leader. I was deciding who I was going to tolchock first when I was finally answered by Len.

'I say a poor old fellow whom we discover out in the outside, whose business is minded to himself,' he pitched, the two others nodding right right right in agreement. I had my mind on other things, however. I frowned and glanced over at Len with a cold stare, smecking as I viddied him swallow in nerves, fearful of displeasing Your Humble Narrator Alex.

'Oh, what a shame,' I said with such a goloss that I was being dead serious, but it appeared as if I was being sarky, 'I had plans of going devotchka-seeing. Perhaps spying one I liked.' Len's goober quivered – but not in a tearful way, in a way that told us droogs that he wanted to argue, but could find the right words to govreet – and I guffed loudly. It was decided then: we were going to search for a ptitsa we could rob, and maybe even lomtick up a little bit, if I was in the mood for the horrorshow ultra-violence. On the way out of the milk bar, I spotted a vulnerable malchick, way under the influence no doubt, and brought my swordstick onto his stomach. He sicked from the pressure onto his moloko-filled keeshka, and we laughed at him as he slowly crumpled out of his seat and onto the glittery floor of the Korova. Bully gripped his bleachy-blond hair of the back of his head and repeatedly slammed his gulliver on the footrests, the red red krovvy becoming more and more apparent with each blow, also staining the white of the rests. Eventually, after I had enough entertainment, I whistled twice, ordering Bully to stop. He threw the beaten and bruised veck onto the ground one last time, the boy slipping in his own sick and blood. We exited the bar and made way down the dark street, the outside having a blue tint to everything from the night.

Apparently, my droogs hadn't been too thrilled with the idea of targeting a ptitsa. 'Alex,' Rick began, walking on my left side next to Len. 'What if, we three, minus yourself, went off in search of a homeless person while you seek your devotchka? And if we find a good, vulnerable one, we'll send one of us off to find you so you can join?'

Honestly, brothers, I wasn't finding ultra-violence as horrorshow as I used to. I deeply wished for a zheena and a son, along with a quiet life much as Pete's was. It wasn't impossible, apparently, to completely switch gears and change the ultra-violent lifestyle. But I wasn't ready just yet; a few more acts and I might possibly be done with it all then.

I gave up with a groan. 'Fine, droogs.' Almost immediately, we came upon the alleyway that led to the Marina walkway. The tree of them halted and clumped in front of the alley's entrance.

'We'll split here,' said Len, 'I'll send Rick if we find anybody good.'

How cute; little Len was playing leader. No, he wasn't.

'Send Bully instead.' I stated with stern goloss. Len opened his mouth to speak, but gloopy Bully cut him short.

'Alright, Alex, I'll be the one to find you!' I smirked at Len, who was undoubtedly boiling inside, wanting to shive me and tolchock me and razrez me from limb to limb, because I absolutely would never allow him to order any of our droogs around. Only in his sneeties would he get to be the boss of our little group. Bully was a nazz anyway, and would only listen to Your Humble Narrator. Len nor Rick would ever convince him in a million years to do as they said.

'Will you be at the record shop?' Bully asked. I confirmed this and ordered them to go search for whomever they were looking to cause trouble with.

I watched in silence as malenky Len privodeeted Bully and Rick down the Marina, walking with such nadmenny that it made me want to sick. There were times where I could stand him; there were times where I couldn't. This was one of those times.

I wandered my way to the record shop in only a few minootas, the colorful store being overrun with music-loving nadsats like I had been years ago. I still was, but I was in my twenties, so I didn't fit in with the crowd as much. I never normally appeared in the disc shop wearing my ultra-violent clothes, but so many other ultra-violent kids shuffled around, whom I assumed were the leaders of their malenky groups as well, it didn't really matter. Should the millicents appear I could slip out through the back door while the beginners ran around like nazzes, trying to figure out how to escape the clutch of the law.

There were devotchka ultra-violence fans there as well, one sporting violet hair and knee-high boots of the same color, another with a green, tight-fitting plastic top, with the makeup of a glittery blue tear under her right eye. How could I tell that they were likened toward a bit of the old ultra-violence?

It was the cuffs, oh my brothers. Every single ptitsa and devotchka whose fingers skimmed the pop-discs wore eyeballs on their wrists, whether it be on their shirt or on a bracelet. That was an element that Your Humble Narrator had invented, and I was even wearing my own on the cuffs of my longsleeve that night. It was the heighth of ultra-violent fashion, used as a way to communicate between each other, apparently, as a way of telling each other who had the same interest as them.

I sighted a blonde-haired devotchka that wore green eyeballs on a neon-yellow, spiked bracelet and began to close in on her. I walked up next to her and pretended to have interests in the pop-discs that were in the bins that were in front of me. Lovely lovely Ludwig Van was playing rather loudly through the stereo, as I had requested that a disc be played not many minootas ago. Nonchalantly she looked over at the chelloveck that scanned through the discs, to see what he looked like out of curiosity, and had to look twice.

'Why, aren't you…?' The attractive ptitsa breathed, bringing her hand up to her rot. Her long fingernails were painted, a bright pink of the sorts. I gave her a smirk, lowering my head as if to darken the view of my left eye, bringing more light to the eye I wore two false eyelashes on. I had created a cult following, also, being the ideal icon of ultra-violence. I was their hero. The best part was, the chaplain and those at the Staja and those at the Ludovico Center couldn't throw me, 6655321, back into a cell, because it was my "old appearance" that nadsats of the modern age idolized. According to them, I had reformed, no longer ultra-violent thanks to the Ludovico Technique. They had no idea that I was still slithering around with my britva and steel-toed boots, shiving and kicking anybody who did me wrong to a pulp. The trick was, I never got caught. I was still goody-goody Alex that wanted to sick every time he raised his fist or heard Beethoven.

'Alexander… DeLarge?' The mesmerized one finally managed to spit out loudly, but not drawing the attention of any others.

I smecked. 'Yes, love. It is I, in the plott.'

Oh my brothers, this devotchka had my great interessovat. She was more gorgeous than any other I have seen before, and held great interest in Your Humble Narrator Alex as well. Her eyes were a deep brown, wide at the sight of myself. She was just about to open her mouth as a gruff but gloopy goloss echoed throughout the tiny store.

'Alex! We've found one, bratty! An old, creaky ded, weak and was near-death before we even started on him!' He let out his booming laugh and startled everybody else in the store. They spoke among themselves, startled, glancing around for the source of the goloss.

I cursed in my gulliver and govreeted to myself that I was going to pop Bully in the goober for interfering at the worst possible time, but I wanted to seem like a busy veck for this interesting devotchka.

I swapped feet that I was balanced on quickly and put my left rooker behind my back. I tipped my hat at the beautiful one. 'Till next time, o my little sister.' Ending it there before the surprised ptitsa could open her rot, I raced out of the shop with the greatest point of the Ninth playing as the background noise as I swiftly maneuvered between the thin spaces where bodies were standing in crowds around the disc bins, stealing the wallets of a few clueless nadsats who wore the eyeballs on the way out. If they were true ultra-violence fans, then they wouldn't mind their polly being taken by Alexander the Large.

I stumbled out of the shop, tripping over my own boots, regaining my balance next to Bully. I had to look up to see his face I was so close.

'Alex!' he horned, 'Let's go and drat that chelloveck before Len and Rick finish him off first.'

I knew that the idea of those two actually snuffing somebody without myself there to assist was complete cal, but I didn't have the heart to tell bolshy Bully that. But I still wanted to correct him. 'Chepooka, droog!' I guffed, beginning to sprint down the winding road that led to the Marina if you felt like running uphill long enough. I was already at the top for about a minoota before Bully appeared beside me, huffing with his hands on his knees. I raised my right eyebrow (creating the appearance that the eyelashes on my eye were quite longer and darker than they actually were), giving him a grin. 'A bit fagged, Bully?'

'Naw,' he lied.

I eagerly swung my swordstick beside me as Bully privodeeted to where Len and Rick were. Sure enough, as we wheeled around the corner to turn down onto the Marina walkway, the image of two vecks beating and kicking a helpless ded appeared, the man's red red krovvy visible from even where I was, some of the moonlight glinting off of the wet.

Once I had reached them I jabbed the end of the stick into the chelloveck's stomach, making him cough up a bit of the krovvy. I and me tree droogs smecked as we dragged this man closer and closer to his demise, his plott turning a dark shade of black-blue. He was platching in pain, spewing krovvy in several places, specifically his rot and nose. For a moment, the ded reminded him of himself when he was very first admitted into the Staja, being beat by the officials, my nose broken and my goober gushing krovvy. I smirked evilly as I continued to whack this man with the swordstick, releasing some of my anger towards those Staja officials with each hit. It was just me delivering blows to this veck for several minootas, the others stepping back once viddying that I was taking over. I was having a rather horrorshow time, too, so my droogs were lucky they let me have the man, or else I was going to have to drat them once in a safe place from the millicents.

The ded was nicely dressed, too, so it wasn't any homeless person that Len had targeted (and to no surprise that it wasn't either, Len was such a nazz that he probably started to drat the first man he saw). The veck finally opened his eyes and looked up at me in complete and utter fear, his rot quivering.

'Alexander?' He weakly sputtered, the red red krovvy gushing out of his mouth in great amounts with each time his jaw flexed. Once I heard his goloss, I instantly knew who he was, and my body was flooded with remorse and fear.

The Inferior. The Inferior was the one whom I was delivering rough blows to with my swordstick, illuminated by the moon and the light that glinted off of the water. Len had targeted the Inferior because he was the first one he saw, and ordered Bully to go off and retrieve me. And I, a huge, gloopy nazz, had just joined in without viddying who the veck was before I began to tolchock him.

My legs and rookers shook terribly. Other than my pee and em, and Pete, I suppose, the Inferior was the only person I could truly be around more than a few minootas before wanting to tolchock him in his litso.

The goloss deep in my rasoodock told me not to fret about being caught, since so many malchicks and devotchkas were interested in ultra-violence that it would be impossible to directly point an accusing finger at Your Humble Narrator. They had no proof.

I wanted to spare him so badly. But, no matter how much I wanted to, brothers, I couldn't. I wouldn't want to weight the Inferior with the burden of having to govreet Brodsky and Branom that the Ludovico Technique wasn't effective. Not only that, but then the millicents would be after me and I'd be stuck in the Staja for a good fourteen years, solidified this time. I had to snuff him. I stood staring at him for a minoota, poogly, my swordstick holding me up.

Finally, Len opened his rot. 'Alex, what are you doing? Finish him off.'

I knew I had to. And then, feeling as if I might begin boohoohooing, I struck my swordstick down onto the gulliver of the poor poor Inferior, instantaneously lulling him into eternal sleep.

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