A Clockwork Aranji

There was me, that is Alex, and my three bencoves, Julian, Sandy and Bim, Bim being a naff bimbo, and we sat in the Korova Milkbar making up our moyekhs what to do with the evening, a flip dark chill winter bastard though dry. The Korova Milkbar was a bijou milk-plus logo, and you may, O my sisters, have forgotten what these logos were like, things changing so rapido these days and everybody very quick to forget, newspapers not being read much neither.

Well, what they sold there was milk plus something else. They had no licence for selling liquor, but these was no law yet against prodding some of the new cosas which they used to put into the old gin, so you could bevvy it with vellocet or synthemesc or drencrom or one or two other cosas which would give you a nice quiet fantabulosa fifteen minutes admiring Gloria and All Her Fantabulosa Fairies and Santos in your left slingback with lights bursting all over your eke. Or you could bevvy gin with efinks in it, as we used to say, and this would sharpen you up and make you ready for a bit of a palaver, and that was what we were bevvying this evening I’m starting off the story with.

(this has been threatening to be written for the past few weeks; luckily, exam marking has prevented it until now)

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