Before you, blin, is nothing like a society of the future, and your humble narrator, shorty Alex, will now tell you in what kal he is here vliapalsia.
We sat, as always, in the milk bar “Korova”, where the milk is served plus, we also call it “milk with knives”, that is, add any seduksen, codeine, bellarmine and get v kaif. All of our code in this outfit, as all the maltchiki wore then: black pants in the headband with a metal cup sewn into the groin to protect themselves know what, a jacket with overhead shoulders, a white bow tie and heavy govnodavy to kick. Kisy all then wore colored wigs, long black dresses with a cutout, and grudi all in badges. Well, and we said, of course, in your own way, you yourself hear how with all sorts of words there, Russian, or something.
That evening, when they were bullied, they first met one starikashku near the library and made him a good toltchok (crawled on to karatchkah, all in blood), and his books were all started in razdrai. Then did krasting in one shop, then a big drasting with other maltchikami (I used a razor, it turned out cool). And only then, by night, they had an operation called “Uninvited guest”: they broke into the cottage to one hmyryu, kisu was beaten by all four of them, and left to lie in a pool of blood. He, a blin, turned out to be some writer, so scraps of his leaflets flew around the house (there about some clockwork orange, that supposedly one can not turn a living
The next day I was alone, and time spent very kliovo. On his favorite stereo listened to great music – well, there Haydn, Mozart, Bach. Other maltchild do not understand this, they are dark: they listen to popsu – all there are holes-dust-holes-holes-pyras. And I’m bald with real music, especially, blin, when Ludwig van sounds, well, for example, “Ode to Joy.” I then feel such power, as if I am God, and I want to cut this whole world (that is all this kal!) Into pieces with my razor, and that the scarlet fountains fill everything around. That day still oblomiloss. Dragged two kismaloletok and finished them under my favorite music.
And on the third day suddenly everything was covered by s kontzami. Went to take silver from one old kotcheryzhki. She made a noise, I gave her the proper tykve, and here cops. Maltchicki were washed away, and I was left on purpose, suld. They did not like that I was in charge, but they were considered dark. Well, the cops broke me in there and in the station.
And then worse. The old kotcheryzhka died, moreover in the zamochili chamber of one, and answer me. So I sat down for many years as incorrigible, although I was only fifteen myself.
Horror as I wanted to get out of this kala. The second time I would have been more careful, and I have to count with someone. I even made a mess with the prison priest (there he was called a prison fistula), but he kept on talking, blin, about some kind of free will, about moral choice, about the human principle, finding himself in communion with God and every such kal.
So the modest narrator your Alex will not tell you anything else, but just go into another life, singing the best of his music – hole-dust-hole-hole-pyre…