Author's note: I would highly recommend reading the book this is based on before reading this, or at least knowing that the book is full of bad things that are usually tutted upon. Rape, theft, beating up old homeless people...none of that actually goes on in this story, but is mentioned.

This small story takes place before Alex, the narrator, goes to jail and all that cal. Er..crap. Speaking of hardly known lingoes, I must warn that this story is full of words that were made up in A Clockwork Orange. I've made a list of some of the words that might be especially hard to understand the meaning of, but the others I shall make you ponder over. You'll get it if you really try...

Britva- razor/blade or switchblade

Twenty-two-one- violence/fight

Ultra-violence- rape. sweatdrop It doesn't actually happen in the story...it's just mentioned. Alex is a vair vair violent young teenage boy with no rules...

Radosty- joy

Milk-plus- Milk plus...something illegal.

All I wanted, my brothers, was to peet some good old milk-plus, along with my droogs. They'd been acting a bit strange, though, so I was reluctant. There I was walking all on my oddy-knocky, as I'd been doing a lot lately, on my way through Bog-knows-where, when I heard some wonderfully loud creeches coming from a small alley close by. I myself wasn't quite in the mood for any twenty-to-one or ultra-violence quite yet, but didn't mind seeing who was. As I made my way to the alley, I slooshied some grunts, and then the beautiful sound of a britva being pulled out. I could recognize that sound anywhere, brothers, seeing as I myself had a real horrorshow britva in my pocket which I always practiced with.

It was then I slooshied a voice, which for some reason reminded me of Beethoven himself, come as a devotchka. "Vonny bastard," the devotchka was yelling. She then went off in a language that sounded a malenky like Nadsat talk, but it wasn't English. She came running out of the alley and viddied me viddying her. To my surprise, it was the devotchka that had the britva out to play with, and she didn't look to be in much trouble. "Are you after what that pervert wanted," she demanded of me. In the light I could viddy her clearly, and my brothers, it was like the music of Beethoven was there in her, shining off of her and on to the streets and all that cal. She was probably only a year or two younger than your humble narrator, but she was different from any devotchka here. She was dressed in a long skirt with too much cloth that dragged in the back, and had on a long coat that looked to be made before her jeezny began. The other devotchkas wore close to no platties. Her litso was dark, and her glazzies were shining like no star I'd yet seen. Looking lower, I could see through her open coat that she had on a top that didn't completely cover real horrorshow groodies. I could viddy myself giving her the old in-out-in-out with radosty.

I had my rot open, I realized, and tried to think of some slovo to fill it with. "In trouble, my friend?" I asked with the upmost politeness, while getting closer to the devotchka. I glanced in to the alley and saw a lump of the 'vonny bastard' in the dark, and a puddle of black around him that was probably his own red krovvy.

When I was close enough to grab her, she brought out her britva again. "Am I?" she replied in a voice I could slooshy until the end of the world. I looked into her glazzies and saw she wasn't poogly in the least, but there was something in them that I couldn't pony. It was like she was tired, or done with something. She held out the britva so that the point was right against me and I could feel it through my platties. "I don't want to do this anymore!" she yelled out, swiping the britva against my platties. I could tell she didn't want to cut me, but a faint line of krovvy leaked out of me, from rib to rib. She looked in to my glazzies then, and whispered to where I could barely slooshy, "I don't want to fight anymore." With that she turned around in a swish of her skirt and tinkle of jewelry, britva still in hand, and started walking away.

Now I wanted her more than ever, and she had razrezed my platties, which where at the height of Nadsat fashion. I went after her, grabbing the arm with the britva in it. I turned her around so that her litso was facing me, and looked in to her glazzies. I wanted to see fear, but all I saw was that look of being tired and done. She wasn't going to fight. I could do the ultra-violent right then in the street and she probably wouldn't have creeched. But I couldn't, by Bog. I couldn't bring myself to hurt her. I was still holding on to her arm, her litso right near mine, and I asked, "Where are you from?"

The devotchka gave a laugh, but the laugh was the saddest sound I'd ever heard, all hollow and like there was nothing left to laugh about in the world. "I don't know," she replied.

"Where do you live?"

"Anywhere I can sleep for the night," she replied in a voice as hollow as the laugh. So she was on her oddy-knocky, but had been her whole jeezny.

"And your parents?" I already knew the answer, though. She looked up at me, and she knew I knew the answer.

"Are you holding me this close just to govereet about nice things such as those we've gone through?" she asked of me. "We shall talk of my family history next, then? Of the father that killed my mother before deciding he didn't want a daughter?"

"Let me take you to get a cup of chai," I said suddenly. I don't know why I said it, for never had I ever intended to say that to the devotchka. She should be crying and creeching for her life under me, I thought. Then I saw two tears fall out of those shining glazzies of hers. She shook her head and pulled at the arm I had in my hand, but I knew she wasn't really trying to get out. I knew, all of a sudden, why her eyes held the look of being tired and done. She was growing up, and playing with a britva wasn't the same to her anymore. It was then, my brothers, in the moment of clearness and maturity, that I first had the image of me holding some devotchka close and affectionate-like. But not any devotchka- it was the devotchka who's rooker I was grabbing right then that I could see myself kissing and even loving.

It was only for a moment, though, and then it was gone and I was a young chelloveck again that spent his nights running through town and scaring the starry bourgeois that roamed through in daylight. "What's your name?" I asked then, and it was suddenly very urgent I know, for I needed a name to go with a litso I don't think I'd ever forget.

She once again shook her head, but this time she was smiling, and even though her cheeks were still wet with tears, the smile shone through like all radosty on a cloudy day. "If ever we meet again, I will tell you." It was then that she brought her litso close to mine and kissed my cheek. "Until we meet again," she whispered in my ooko, before turning to go once again. I must have let go of her rooker some time in the past few seconds, for she was soon walking away from me, her glazzies still shining in my gulliver. I went to the old mesto for a bit of milk-plus then, and to join my droogs, slowly becoming a chelloveck fit to send ptitsas and starry folk running once again.