A Clockwork Orange: Bethesda Edition

There was me, that is Brett, and my four droogs, that is Judge, Squi, PJ, and Tobin, Tobin being really dim but excellent at peeting skis and bolshy with muscles from weight-lifting. Of them all, Judge was like a real brat to me. He taught me to cover the mouths of the pretty bits of sharp so when they creetch in fear, no one can hear them. That way, no one believes them later. It’s a dobby bit of fun.

Squi brought me some milk with knives in it, to sharpen me up and make me ready for a bit of ultraviolence. I liked milk sometimes but I yelled “I LIKE BEER! Still like beer.” Squi should know this because he’s smot my calendar. So we pounded skis and mixed in a malenky vellocet, just for the heck of it. I pocketed some of it to use later on the devoshas.

We roared in our auto through the danger-dark streets of Bethesda, trumpeting some UB40 on the way over. The music! Oh, it was gorgeousness and gorgeosity made flesh. The saxophone crunched redgold and the trumpets threewise silverflamed and the bass rolling through my guts and out again crunched like wonder of wonders. I was in such bliss, my brothers. I never wanted the glory to end.

When we rolled up to the domy where the party was, we recognized some of the devoshas from our sister skolliwolls. One devoshka seemed mousey quiet, so I knew she was a right target. I mixed some milk with some vellocet and I brought it to her with a sladky smile.

She drank it right down, innocent and unsuspecting-like. She said she was suddenly feeling bolnoy, so I suggested she go to the vaysay upstairs to plosh some water on her litso. This was the routine Judge and me worked out and it fails never unless they don’t peet the firegold or run really, really skorry.

We both followed her up the stairs. When she comes out all pale, we give a push so she falls bedways. By then, her glazzies was drooping closed and she was ready to spat so we whispered “Sladky dreams” and invited all our droogs from the sports teams. Just for your information, I filly all the sports the best of everyone if I haven’t pounded too many skis.

I razrez her platties off so we could all see her groodies and then had some of the old in and out and she didn’t know anything about it. It was a nice warm feeling when I was done.

Then after me it was right old Judge should have his turn, which he did in a beasty snorty howly sort of way, while I held on to the ptitsa. Then there was a changeover to PJ so Judge and me chassoed the door and decided who was next after.

The pretty bit of sharp was disheveled and torn and making noises, but she’d not remember. If she did, she wouldn’t tell her pee and em about what just happened. None of them did. Maybe they told another droog or two but the devoshkas know that no one will believe them over a captain who can brosat the basketball and pound skis like bezoomny but still get into Yale with no connections except my grandpee. Perhaps one day I will go to the #1 law school Yale and when I’m up for Supreme Justice, I’ll yell at the ptitsa senator when she asks about my horrorshow blackouts. Maybe I’ll platch big tears to show I’m sincere.

But what to mark in my calendar? I know! “Skis with Timmy and the rest of the shaika. Definitely not 20-1. Definitely not.”