We sat in the Korova Milkbar making up our rassoodocks what to do with the evening
a flip dark chill winter bastard though dry.
What they sold there was milk plus something else.
They had no license for selling liquor,
but there was no law yet against prodding some of the new veshches which they used to put into the old moloko,
so you could peet it with vellocet or synthemesc or drencrom
or one or two other veshches which would give you a nice quiet horrorshow fifteen minutes
admiring Bog And All His Holy Angels and Saints in your left shoe with lights bursting all over your mozg.
There were three devotchkas sitting at the counter all together,
but there were four of us malchicks and it was usually like all for all and one for one.
These sharps were dressed in the heighth of fashion too,
with purple and green and orange wigs on their gullivers,
each one not costing less than three or four weeks of those sharps' wages,
I should reckon, and make-up to match (rainbows round the glazzies, that is, and the rot painted very wide).
Then they had long black very straight dresses,
and on the groody part of them they had little badges of like silver with different malchicks' names on them -
Joe and Mike and suchlike.
These were supposed to be the names of different malchicks they'd spatted with before they were fourteen.
There was a doddery starry schoolmaster type veck,
glasses on and his rot open to the cold nochy air.
He looked a malenky bit poogly, then he-- hahaha. What the fuck does "poogly" mean?
I dunno but this Anthony Burgess guy sure seems to like it.