Before you, damn it, is nothing more than 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 Korova dairy bar, which serves that same milk plus, we also call it “milk with knives”, that is, we add every seduxen, codeine, bellarmin and it turns out v kaif. All our kodla in such an outfit as all maltshiki wore then: black pants with a metal cup sewn into the groin to protect you yourself know what, a jacket with false shoulders, a white bow tie and heavy govnodavy to kick. Kisy then all wore colored wigs, long black dresses with a neckline, and grudi all in badges. Well, we said, of course, in our own way, you yourself hear how with all sorts of words there, Russian, or something. That evening, when they got hungry, for a start we met one starikashku near the library and made him a good toltchok (crawled on to karatchkah, covered in blood), and all his books were put into razdrai. Then they did krasting in one shop, then a big drasting with other maltchikami (I put a razor in use, it turned out cool). And only then, by night, they carried out the operation "The Uninvited Guest": they broke into the cottage to one hmyr, kisu finished four of him, and left him to lie in a pool of blood. He, blin, turned out to be some kind of writer, so fragments of his leaflets were flying all over the house (there is about some kind of clockwork orange, which supposedly can’t turn a living person into a mechanism, that everyone, blin, should have free will, down violence and any such kal).

The next day I was alone, and spent time very kliovo. In my favorite stereo I listened to cool music - well, there Haydn, Mozart, Bach. Other maltchilds do not understand this, they are dark: they listen to popsu - everything there is hole-hole-hole-hole-hole-wheat. And I am bastard from real music, especially damn it, when Ludwig van sounds, well, for example, “Ode to Joy”. Then I feel such power, as if I were a god myself, and I want to cut this whole world (that is, this whole kal!) Into pieces with my razor, and so that the scarlet fountains flood everything around. That day still oblomiloss. Dragged two kismaloletok and trimmed them to my favorite music.

And on the third day, suddenly everything was covered with s kontzami. They went to take silver from one old kotcheryzhki. She made a fuss, I gave her a proper ro tykve, and then the cops. Maltchicki washed off and I was left on purpose, suld. They didn’t like that I’m in charge, but I consider them dark. Well, the cops broke into me both there and in the station.

And then worse. The old kotcheryzhka died, and even in the zamochili cell alone, but answer me. So I sat down for many years as incorrigible, although I myself was only fifteen.

It's terrible how I wanted to get out of this kala. The second time I would have been more circumspect, and it’s necessary to count with someone. I even started swags with the prison priest (everyone called him the prison fistula), but he explained everything, damn it, about some kind of free will, about moral choice, about the human principle, which finds itself in communion with God and every such kal. Well, then some big boss allowed an experiment to correct the incorrigibles physically. The course of treatment is two weeks, and you go to freedom corrected! The prison fistula wanted to dissuade me, but where did he go! They began to treat me according to the method of Dr. Brodsky. They fed well, but they injected some kind of damn it, Louis’s vaccine and took them to special movie shows. And it was awful, just awful! Some kind of hell. They showed everything that I liked before: drasting, krasting, sunn-vynn with girls and, in general, all violence and horrors. And from their vaccine, when I saw this, I had such nausea, such cramps and pains in my stomach that I would not look at anything. But they forced them, tied them to a chair, fixed their heads, opened their eyes with struts, and even wiped away their tears when they filled their eyes. And the most abomination - at the same time they included my favorite music (and Ludwig van constantly!), Because, you see, from her I increased sensitivity and the correct reflexes were developed faster. And after two weeks it became so that without any vaccine, from the mere thought of violence, everything hurt and I was sick and impossible, and I had to be kind, just to feel normal. Then they let me out, they didn’t deceive me.

And in the wild, it got worse for me than in prison. They beat me all to whom it would only occur to me: my former victims, and the cops, and my former friends (some of them, damn it, had already become cops by that time!), And I could not answer anyone, since the slightest such intention became sick. But the worst thing is again, that I could not listen to my music. It’s just a nightmare that started from some Mendelssohn, not to mention Johann Sebastian or Ludwig van! The head was torn apart in pain.

When I felt really bad, one muzhik picked me up. He explained to me what they did to me, damn it. Deprived me of free will, from a man turned into a clockwork orange! And now we must fight for freedom and human rights against state violence, against totalitarianism and any such kal. And here, it must be said that this turned out to be the very same bloke to which we then collapsed with Operation Uninvited Guest. Kisa, it turns out, died after that, and he himself slightly set off. Well, in general, I had to make nogi from him because of this. But his drugany, also some human rights activists, brought me somewhere and locked me there so I could lie down and calm down. And then from behind the wall I heard music, just my very own (Bach, the Brandenburg Quartet), and so I felt bad: I am dying, but I can’t escape - it's locked. In general, it is locked, and I'm out of the window from the seventh floor ...

I woke up in the hospital, and when they cured me, it turned out that from this blow the whole factory for Dr. Brodsky was over. And again, I can do and drasting, and krasting, and sunn rynn to do and, most importantly, listen to the music of Ludwig van and enjoy my power, and I can bleed anyone with this music. I again began to drink "milk with knives" and walk with maltchikami, as expected. Such wide trousers, leathers and neckerchiefs were already worn then, but still govnodavy on the legs. But only not for long, this time I shustril with them. Something became boring to me and even it seemed like sickening again. And suddenly I realized that now I just want a different one: for my house to be, for my wife to wait at home, for the little baby ...

And I realized that youth, even the most terrible, passes, and, blin, by itself, and a person, even the most zutkii, still remains a person. And every such kal.

So your humble narrator, Alex, will not tell you anything else, but simply go away into another life, singing his best music - hole-bat-hole-hole-bat ...