HONKY TONK PART THREE
This is A Clockwork Orange fan fiction, but it is also a tribute to a song called "Honky-Tonk Part 1&2" by Bill Doggett. Crank up the original song very loud while you read and please comment nicely!
"Come on, come on, get a move on there!" Dr. Branom used smiles and gentle language to calm his experimental patient. But he had no patience for slow and clumsy workmen. The orderlies under his command felt his rough tongue or yazhick every day.
"Right, right, doobidoob! One minoota, Doctor!" The new male nurse or under veck was like, big and ugly. Very big and very ugly. Also he did not seem too bright. In fact he really seemed quite dim! Not looking where was going, he bumped into Dr. Branom while hurrying into the control room with the classical music that was needed for the day's treatment.
"Oh, no! Oh, please, please, not more horrible violent films!" The wailing of the experimental patient was music to Dr. Branom's ears. Each day it was clear that his ability to resist was weakening, as his body was conditioned to feel sickened by thoughts of violence.
"Really it's all for the best, young man," said fat little Dr. Brodsky. "All for the best." The great surgeon laughed quietly to himself.
"All right," Dr. Branom called out, feeling like a big-time movie director. "Start the film, start the music. Lights! Camera! Action!"
The video feed started up right away, but there was evidently something wrong with the soundtrack.
"Check audio, check audio," Dr. Branom spoke crisply into the intercom. No response from control. One guitar continued to play, with nothing but lazy hand claps over slow-clashing cymbals.
"What's that? What's that?" Dr. Brodsky sputtered. "Is that some sort of a . . . . Saxophone joining in with the guitar?"
"Doctor, distress readings are below normal," chirped the pretty young nurse twiddling dials. "Distress levels are falling steadily."
"That saxophone is really wailing," Dr. Branom said worriedly. "The way the hand claps groove along, and the guitar, chunking away, it's not classical music at all!"
"I like it," said a voice from the dark. It was the patient's voice. And something was very wrong.
"You, you, get to the control room right now!" Young Dr. Branom hated the low-down sound of the easy groove, the casual swing of the good-time music. Yet as the sax and guitar traded long, lazy, looping solos he refused to show fear.
"Patient's levels are still falling," reported the nurse. "Patient seems to be regaining muscle function and . . . getting into the groove."
"Brother, I like this music!" With a joyous shout, the experimental patient began wrenching the leather straps from his limbs.
The saxophone kept swinging, going into long, lowdown ripples of golden sound. Four long centuries of slavery couldn't kill this groove. Whooping musicians kept the beat locked in the pocket, but the pace was lazy and the whole band just seemed to . . .
"This music really swings!" With a roar of joy, the patient known as Alex left classical music behind forever. He tore the wires and widgets from his body and leapt from the like chair of torture.
"Control room is locked!" A burly young under veck was jiggling the door knob desperately but to no avail. From inside the room came a huh-huh-huh sound, a deep and clown-like guffaw.
"That big dim bastard stole my keys!" Dr. Branom felt the pockets of his lab coat, realizing too late that the ugly-faced brute had set him up, bumping into him in the hallway on purpose.
"Hit the panic button, hit the panic button!" Fat little Dr. Brodsky scuttled for the control panel, but was too late. Alex splattered his blood all over the counter like golden notes from a saxophone solo that soared over a million malt shops where teens groaned and groped and rubbed against each other in the dark. At the same time the big ugly criminal named Dim burst out of the control room, his bicycle chain swinging, laying under-vecks low two at a time.
"Riot in Cell Block Number Nine! Riot in Cell Block Number Nine!" All across the prison, criminals were bursting out of confinement, rioting, assaulting their guards, grooving to the low-down beat.
"Not classical," Dr. Brodsky croaked, choking on his own blood amidst the sputtering flames and smoking ruins of the prison. "Not even civilized. It's . . . it's . . . jungle music!"
Later that night, back home at the dear old Korova Milk Bar, Alex toasted his favorite droog Dim with a tall glass of milk.
"We knew it was the music," Georgie explained. "Read it in the papers, figured there had to be something more to it than the violence that was making you sick."
"I used to love Beethoven," Alex said, draining the old moloko. "But no more. From now on it's clean living and rock and roll for me!"
And from the jukebox came the sound of Link Wray's "Rumble."