A Clockwork Orange

“It wasn’t me, brother, sir,” I said, a malenky bit weepy. “Speak up for me, sir, for I’m not so bad. I was led on by the treachery of the others, sir.”

“Sings like a li

“I’ll speak,” said cold P. R. Deltoid. “I’ll be there tomorrow, don’t worry.”

“If you’d like to give him a bash in the chops, sir,” said the top millicent, “don’t mind us. We’ll hold him down. He must be another great disappointment to you.”

P. R. Deltoid then did something I never thought any man like him who was supposed to turn us baddiwads into real horrorshow malchicks would do, especially with all those rozzes around. He came a bit nearer and he spat. He spat. He spat full in my litso and then wiped his wet spitty rot with the back of his rooker. And I wiped and wiped and wiped my spat-on litso with my bloody tashtook, saying “Thank you, sir, thank you very much, sir, that was very kind of you, sir, thank you.” And then P. R. Deltoid walked out without another slovo.

The millicents now got down to making this long statement for me to sign, and I thought to myself, Hell and blast you all, if all you bastards are on the side of the Good then I’m glad I belong to the other shop. “All right,” I said to them, “you grahzny bratchnies as you are, you vo

“Right, son, you go off and get a nice cup of chai for yourself and then type all that filth and rotte

So I was kicked and punched and bullied off to the cells and put in with about ten or twelve other ple

But the tune was right, as I knew when I was being woke up two or ten minutes or twenty hours or days or years later, my watch having been taken away. There was a millicent like miles and miles down below and he was prodding at me with a long stick with a spike on the end, saying:

“Wake up, son. Wake up, my beauty. Wake to real trouble.”

I said:

“Why? Who? Where? What is it?” And the tune of the Joy ode in the Ninth was singing away real lovely and horrorshow within, The millicent said:

“Come down and find out. There’s some real lovely news for you, my son.” So I scrambled down, very stiff and sore and not like real awake, and this rozz, who had a strong von of cheese and onions on him, pushed me out of the filthy snoring cell, and then along corridors, and all the time the old tune Joy Thou Glorious Spark Of Heaven was sparking away within. Then we came to a very neat like cantora with typewriters and flowers on the desks, and at the like chief desk the top millicent was sitting, looking very serious and fixing a like very cold glazzy on my sleepy litso. I said:

“Well well well. What makes, bratty. What gives, this fine bright middle of the nochy?” He said:

“I’ll give you just ten seconds to wipe that stupid grin off of your face. Then I want you to listen.”

“Well, what?” I said, smecking. “Are you not satisfied with beating me near to death and having me spat upon and making me confess to crimes for hours on end and then shoving me among bezoomnies and vo

“It’ll be your own torture,” he said, serious. “I hope to God it’ll torture you to madness.”

And then, before he told me, I knew what it was. The old ptitsa who had all the kots and koshkas had passed on to a better world in one of the city hospitals. I’d cracked her a bit too hard, like. Well, well, that was everything. I thought of all those kots and koshkas mewling for moloko and getting none, not any more from their starry forella of a mistress. That was everything. I’d done the lot, now and me still only fifteen.