"Энтони Берджес. Механический апельсин (англ.)" - читать интересную книгу автора

mappy with being a thousand years old, "we're only poor old women." But we
just made with the zoobies, flash flash flash, sat down, rang the bell, and
waited for the boy to come. When he came, all nervous and rubbing his
rookers on his grazzy apron, we ordered us four veterans--a veteran being
rum and cherry brandy mixed, which was popular just then, some liking a dash
of lime in it, that being the Canadian variation. Then I said to the boy:
"Give these poor old baboochkas over there a nourishing something.
Large Scotchmen all round and something to take away." And I poured my
pocket of deng all over the table, and the other three did likewise, O my
brothers. So double firegolds were bought in for the scared starry lighters,
and they knew not what to do or say. One of them got out "Thanks, lads," but
you could see they thought there was something dirty like coming. Anyway,
they were each given a bottle of Yank General, cognac that is, to take away,
and I gave money for them to be delivered each a dozen of black and suds
that following morning, they to leave their stinking old cheenas' addresses
at the counter. Then with the cutter that was left over we did purchase, my
brothers, all the meat pies, pretzels, cheese-snacks, crisps and chocbars in
that mesto, and those too were for the old sharps. Then we said: "Back in a
minoota," and the old ptitsas were still saying: "Thanks, lads," and "God
bless you, boys," and we were going out without one cent of cutter in our
carmans.
"Makes you feel real dobby, that does," said Pete. You could viddy that
poor old Dim the dim didn't quite pony all that, but he said nothing for
fear of being called gloopy and a domeless wonderboy. Well, we went off now
round the corner to Attlee Avenue, and there was this sweets and cancers
shop still open. We'd left them alone near three months now and the whole
district had been very quiet on the whole, so the armed millicents or rozz
patrols weren't round there much, being more north of the river these days.
We put our maskies on--new jobs these were, real horrorshow, wonderfully
done really; they were like faces of historical personalities (they gave you
the names when you bought) and I had Disraeli, Pete had Elvis Presley,
Georgie had Henry VIII and poor old Dim had a poet veck called Peebee
Shelley; they were a real like disguise, hair and all, and they were some
very special plastic veshch so you could roll it up when you'd done with it
and hide it in your boot--then three of us went in.
Pete keeping chasso without, not that there was anything to worry about
out there. As soon as we launched on the shop we went for Slouse who ran it,
a big portwine jelly of a veck who viddied at once what was coming and made
straight for the inside where the telephone was and perhaps his well-oiled
pooshka, complete with six dirty rounds. Dim was round that counter skorry
as a bird, sending packets of snoutie flying and cracking over a big cut-out
showing a sharp with all her zoobies going flash at the customers and her
groodies near hanging out to advertise some new brand of cancers. What you
could viddy then was a sort of a big ball rolling into the inside of the
shop behind the curtain, this being old Dim and Slouse sort of locked in a
death struggle. Then you could slooshy panting and snoring and kicking
behind the curtain and veshches falling over and swearing and then glass
going smash smash smash. Mother Slouse, the wife, was sort of froze behind
the counter. We could tell she would creech murder given one chance, so I
was round that counter very skorry and had a hold of her, and a horrorshow