Stanley Kubrick's A clockwork orange: based on the novel by Anthony Burgess (5 page)

under a tree, so we stopped and cheered at them, then we

bashed into them both with a couple of half-hearted tol-

chocks, making them cry, and on we went.  What we were after

now was the old surprise visit.  That was a real kick and good

for smecks and lashings of the ultra-violent.  We came at last

to a sort of village, and just outside this village was a small

sort of a cottage on its own with a bit of garden.  The Luna

was well up now, and we could viddy this cottage fine and clear

as I eased up and put the brake on, the other three giggling like

bezoomny, and we could viddy the name on the gate of this

cottage veshch was HOME, a gloomy sort of a name.  I got out

of the auto, ordering my droogs to shush their giggles and act

like serious, and I opened this malenky gate and walked up to

the front door.  I knocked nice and gentle and nobody came,

so I knocked a bit more and this time I could slooshy some-

body coming, then a bolt drawn, then the door inched open

an inch or so, then I could viddy this one glazz looking out

at me and the door was on a chain.  "Yes?  Who is it?"  It

was a sharp's goloss, a youngish devotchka by her sound, so

I said in a very refined manner of speech, a real gentleman's

goloss:

"Pardon, madam, most sorry to disturb you, but my friend

and me were out for a walk, and my friend has taken bad all of

a sudden with a very troublesome turn, and he is out there on

the road dead out and groaning.  Would you have the good-

ness to let me use your telephone to telephone for an am-

bulance?"

"We haven't a telephone," said this devotchka.  "I'm sorry,

but we haven't.  You'll have to go somewhere else."  From

inside this malenky cottage I could slooshy the clack clack

clacky clack clack clackity clackclack of some veck typing

away, and then the typing stopped and there was this

chelloveck's goloss calling: "What is it, dear?"

"Well," I said, "could you of your goodness please let him

have a cup of water?  It's like a faint, you see.  It seems as

though he's passed out in a sort of a fainting fit."

The devotchka sort of hesitated and then said: "Wait."  Then

she went off, and my three droogs had got out of the auto

quiet and crept up horrorshow stealthy, putting their maskies

on now, then I put mine on, then it was only a matter of me

putting in the old rooker and undoing the chain, me having

softened up this devotchka with my gent's goloss, so that she

hadn't shut the door like she should have done, us being

strangers of the night.  The four of us then went roaring in,

old Dim playing the shoot as usual with his jumping up and

down and singing out dirty slovos, and it was a nice malenky

cottage, I'll say that.  We all went smecking into the room

with a light on, and there was this devotchka sort of cower-

ing, a young pretty bit of sharp with real horrorshow

groodies on her, and with her was this chelloveck who was

her moodge, youngish too with horn-rimmed otchkies on

him, and on a table was a typewriter and all papers scattered

everywhere, but there was one little pile of paper like that

must have been what he'd already typed, so here was another

intelligent type bookman type like that we'd fillied with some

hours back, but this one was a writer not a reader.  Anyway, he

said:

"What is this?  Who are you?  How dare you enter my house

without permission."  And all the time his goloss was trem-

bling and his rookers too.  So I said:

"Never fear.  If fear thou hast in thy heart, O brother, pray

banish it forthwith."  Then Georgie and Pete went out to find

the kitchen, while old Dim waited for orders, standing next to

me with his rot wide open.  "What is this, then?"  I said, picking

up the pile like of typing from off of the table, and the horn-

rimmed moodge said, dithering:

"That's just what I want to know.  What is this?  What do

you want?  Get out at once before I throw you out."  So poor

old Dim, masked like Peebee Shelley, had a good loud smeck

at that, roaring like some animal.

"It's a book," I said.  "It's a book what you are writing."  I

made the old goloss very coarse.  "I have always had the strong-

est admiration for them as can write books."  Then I looked

at its top sheet, and there was the name - A  C L O C K W O R K

O R A N G E - and I said: "That's a fair gloopy title.  Who ever

heard of a clockwork orange?"  Then I read a malenky bit out

loud in a sort of very high type preaching goloss: " - The

attempt to impose upon man, a creature of growth and

capable of sweetness, to ooze juicily at the last round the

bearded lips of God, to attempt to impose, I say, laws and

conditions appropriate to a mechanical creation, against this

I raise my sword-pen - "  Dim made the old lip-music at that and

I had to smeck myself.  Then I started to tear up the sheets and

scatter the bits over the floor, and this writer moodge went

sort of bezoomny and made for me with his zoobies clenched

and showing yellow and his nails ready for me like claws.  So

that was old Dim's cue and he went grinning and going er er

and a a a for this veck's dithering rot, crack crack, first left

fistie then right, so that our dear old droog the red - red vino

on tap and the same in all places, like it's put out by the same

big firm - started to pour and spot the nice clean carpet and

the bits of this book that I was still ripping away at, razrez

razrez.  All this time this devotchka, his loving and faithful

wife, just stood like froze by the fireplace, and then she

started letting out little malenky creeches, like in time to the

like music of old Dim's fisty work.  Then Georgie and Pete

came in from the kitchen, both munching away, though with

their maskies on, you could do that with them on and no

trouble.  Georgie with like a cold leg of something in one

rooker and half a loaf of kleb with a big dollop of maslo on it

in the other, and Pete with a bottle of beer frothing its gulli-

ver off and a horrorshow rookerful of like plum cake.  They

went haw haw haw, viddying old Dim dancing round and

fisting the writer veck so that the writer veck started to platch

like his life's work was ruined, going boo hoo hoo with a

very square bloody rot, but it was haw haw haw in a muffled

eater's way and you could see bits of what they were eating.  I

didn't like that, it being dirty and slobbery, so I said:

"Drop that mounch.  I gave no permission.  Grab hold of this

veck here so he can viddy all and not get away."  So they put

down their fatty pishcha on the table among all the flying

paper and they clopped over to the writer veck whose horn-

rimmed otchkies were cracked but still hanging on, with old

Dim still dancing round and making ornaments shake on the

mantelpiece (I swept them all off then and they couldn't shake

no more, little brothers) while he fillied with the author of 'A

Clockwork Orange', making his litso all purple and dripping

away like some very special sort of a juicy fruit.  "All right,

Dim," I said.  "Now for the other veshch, Bog help us all."  So he

did the strong-man on the devotchka, who was still creech

creech creeching away in very horrorshow four-in-a-bar,

locking her rookers from the back, while I ripped away at this

and that and the other, the others going haw haw haw still,

and real good horrorshow groodies they were that then exhi-

bited their pink glazzies, O my brothers, while I untrussed and

got ready for the plunge.  Plunging, I could slooshy cries of

agony and this writer bleeding veck that Georgie and Pete held

on to nearly got loose howling bezoomny with the filthiest

of slovos that I already knew and others he was making up.

Then after me it was right old Dim should have his turn, which

he did in a beasty snorty howly sort of a way with his Peebee

Shelley maskie taking no notice, while I held on to her.  Then

there was a changeover, Dim and me grabbing the slobbering

writer veck who was past struggling really, only just coming

out with slack sort of slovos like he was in the land in a milk-

plus bar, and Pete and Georgie had theirs.  Then there was like

quiet and we were full of like hate, so smashed what was left

to be smashed - typewriter, lamp, chairs - and Dim, it was

typical of old Dim, watered the fire out and was going to dung

on the carpet, there being plenty of paper, but I said no.  "Out

out out out," I howled.  The writer veck and his zheena were

not really there, bloody and torn and making noises.  But

they'd live.

So we got into the waiting auto and I left it to Georgie to

take the wheel, me feeling that malenky bit shagged, and we

went back to town, running over odd squealing things on the

way.

3

We yeckated back townwards, my brothers, but just outside,

not far from what they called the Industrial Canal, we viddied

the fuel needle had like collapsed, like our own ha ha ha

needles had, and the auto was coughing kashl kashl kashl.  Not

to worry overmuch, though, because a rail station kept

flashing blue - on off on off - just near.  The point was

whether to leave the auto to be sobiratted by the rozzes or,

us feeling like in a hate and murder mood, to give it a fair

tolchock into the starry watersfor a nice heavy loud plesk

before the death of the evening.  This latter we decided on, so

we got out and, the brakes off, all four tolchocked it to the

edge of the filthy water that was like treacle mixed with

human hole products, then one good horrorshow tolchock

and in she went.  We had to dash back for fear of the filth

splashing on our platties, but splussshhhh and glolp she went,

down and lovely.  "Farewell, old droog," called Georgie, and

Dim obliged with a clowny great guff - "Huh huh huh huh."

Then we made for the station to ride the one stop to Center,

as the middle of the town was called.  We paid our fares nice

and polite and waited gentlemanly and quiet on the platform,

old Dim fillying with the slot machines, his carmans being full

of small malenky coin, and ready if need be to distribute

chocbars to the poor and starving, though there was none

such about, and then the old espresso rapido came lumbering

in and we climbed aboard, the train looking to be near empty.

To pass the three-minute ride we fillied about with what they

called the upholstery, doing some nice horrorshow tearing-

out of the seats' guts and old Dim chaining the okno till the

glass cracked and sparkled in the winter air, but we were all

feeling that bit shagged and fagged and fashed, it having been

an evening of some small energy expenditure, my brothers,

only Dim, like the clowny animal he was, full of the joys-of,

but looking all dirtied over and too much von of sweat on