Disclaimer: I do not claim to be half as clever as Anthony Burgess or claim responsibility for his artful excerpts, and I only speak about half the Russian he does. . . . . makes me smile, yes it does.
A/N: Just a warning so I don't get any static with skiddish people, story contains rape, murder, foul language, drug use, and violence. If you're not okay with that then don't give me shit for it, go mature-up and then come back.
So it was after we had finished our business, peeting glass after glass of synthemesc moloko at the old Korova milk bar, that me, that is Alex, and my three droogs, that is Pete, Georgie, and Dim, ventured out for a bit of the ultraviolence.
We went, real business like, down the empty roads and highways, looking for a splash of entertainment, but finding none here nor there. So we decided to set some fires across the bridge, none of us remembering the last time we'd had horrorshow bon going after dark.
The bridge, all graffitied and derelict, happened to fall over a road that used to port a conscious river of waste water, that now was just a malenky trickle, but also had become more of a hide-away for young vecks looking to count up their rookers full of crastied jewels, and all the junkies who wanted to avoid the millicents.
Traversing the bridge over the gorge, I stopped the other chellovecks when I slooshied the pitiful little pitter-patter of dainty nogas below.
"Come, O my brothers," I said, turning my head to viddy them, "Let us see who these noga-steps belong to." Alluding to a chance to jump on a bit of the old ultraviolence.
Dim gave a big, hearty, gloopy chuckle at this, like 'ho ho ho,' and we all leaned over the slightly less Shakespearian balcony of the bridge, to watch the veck or sharp that would pass.
And indeed they did, O my brothers, a pretty young devotchka in the platties of a private schoolgirl, with a length of oozy wrapped around her malenky frame, round about the shoulder shooting downwards diagonal like to rest on the opposite hip, unlike Dim's which went twice around his bolshy plott tally-wise.
We descended without a shoom, real quiet like, with myself going first and the rest following, just as it should be.
"Hello, little sister, what, may I ask, are you doing out on your oddy knocky on this nochy? Have not you slooshied that there are hooligans about at this hour? Lack of millicents I suppose . . . . " I said to the devotchka's back.
She stilled, turning, her skirt swishing with a swish swish swish around her thighs as she turned round to viddy my litso, and allowing me to viddy hers. She let not a slovo slip from her rosy little rot, but very subtly undid the oozy from round her plott, holding it in a threatening loop in a tight rooker down to her side.
"Is that how you like to play it, little koshka? With whips and chains and the like?" I flashed her a big zoobie smile, "We're fit, young malchicks, you're a pretty, young, devotchka. Let's see if we can't think of something to do?"
All the while we ittied closer to the sharp, real friendly, with big zoobie smiles and soft smecking.
She still uttered not a slovo, crasting the rest of us the pleasure of hearing her melodious goloss. She was still a mystery to us, besides us doing what we would with her.
And this sharp truly was on her oddy knocky. Not a padrooga nor witness in sight. No crasters, millicents, or junkies to come to her side for countenance.
I ittied a malenky bit closer to the devotchka than the others, hiding my zoobies inside my rot, but keeping my litso real smirky like at her.
As I kept creeping forward, noga following noga towards the jumpy young thing, Dim and George went about the sides, effectively corralling her towards Pete and myself.
She turned her gulliver about, no doubt trying to viddy a path away from me and my three smecking droogies, but hadn't gone about creeching or crarking. Just looking like she'd cleverly find a way out of the rookers of the likes of us.
I found myself wondering in my own rassoodock if she was pony to our nadsat. Most sharps and malchicks were, but you never knew for sure with all the different gangs and nadsats going around, not being pony to things they should, with no soviet to govoreet to common folk.
The ptitsa had begun walking towards your humble narrator, mostly to escape great, gloopy Dim, and I had instructed Pete without slovos to move back into the tunnel.
This particular devotchka must have been particularly oomny, because she ponied skorry to what we were doing and chained poor Dim in the rot real horrorshow, then started to the side, only to be caught by Pete, who smecked at her and pushed her back into my wanting arms.
Dim was creeching and creeching away, putting both rookers over his bleeding rot. The beautiful red krovvy ran and ran like a malenky river down his litso.
She struggled her plott against mine, giving me a sight of a panhandle pressed into her backside, I stretched out a rooker on her bare brooko, shirt unbuttoned mostly but one pearly little knopka in the very middle of the oxford shirt that was popular for private skolliwols of the day and age. Anyone viddying on had a real horrorshow view of her the aerial swell of her groodies under her navy brassiere.
"What say to some in-out-in-out, my sweet?" I take her wrist so she can't tolchok me with her handy oozy, and pulled her tight against the old plattied plott.
The devotchka turned her glazzies away from the smecking litsos of Pete and George.
I put my silver tongue and goobers to her neck. She tilts her gulliver to shut out my skorry mobile mouth, so I start on the other side with no escape in sight.
She managed to walk us both backwards, surprisingly strong legs for ptitsa. I get my nogas planted and leave her fighting against your fine storyteller.
The pet won't govoreet back, so I pretend she has the goloss of an angel, O my brothers. It's sweet like a symphony, one that Ludwig Van would have with the demons and timpani jumping out at your heartstrings.