The story was written last year in my English C-course. We were supposed to write a story inspired by one of our favourite authors. I chose Anthony Burgess as my favourite book is A Clockwork Orange. But I also threw in some Cohen (and some Joyce, Shakespeare, Poe and Monty Python).
Aslak Sverkersson wrote: Take This Waltz
Foreword:
This story is based on a dream I had once. The style and language are inspired by the late great Anthony Burgess and his mammoth masterpiece A Clockwork Orange. The language is English mixed with Nadsat, a slang-language inspired by Russian and Romany. Most of the Nadsat words here are from the above-mentioned masterpiece. A word-list is available below the story, the words there being written in the same order as they appear in the story, you only having to scroll down if there’s something you do not understand, O My little brothers and sisters.
///Your Humble Narrator
There I was, O My little brothers, Your Humble Narrator, and the hero of this story, ittying My way through the grey, grahzny city in the wonderful worn-out winter morning, the bolshy sun on high smiling like bezoomny all over My pale and serious litso. My platties, not being in the height of fashion, it being illegal to wear anything but the old Stars and Stripes, were real horrorshow, Me having chosen My bolshiest outfit for the Big Day. It was a lovely suit, blatant black, which I used to wear in memory of the Melancholy Master, his books being burned now, being forbidden by the State. Beneath, I had this very comfy shirt, all black and nice, and the old noose round My neck (guess what colour, O My brothers!). On My head was a round little shlapa and in My hand was a shontik, which I used mainly as a cane, Me minding neither sun nor rain nor snow, verily. I had not worn these platties for ages like, Me having been this really dobby and Law-abiding malchick, O My brothers, doing My duties and loving My neighbour as everyone else.
The reason of My severe crossing of Old Father Antic The Law, whom I had followed so horrorshow for years beyond count, O My brothers, was an ad I had observed in The Gazetta (there being only one nowadays) a few weeks back. Since Starry Uncle S came and took over, there had been some mighty big changes in this our Dear Mother Country, verily. I was but a malchick of twenty then, O My brothers, being free and joyful, when not being tortured with boredom and banality in the old skolliwoll, that great seat of gloopy useless learning, O My brothers; indulging in My fancies - naughty nights of lascivious lubbilubbing; sitting in cafés being witty and pretty; impenitently imbibing all kinds of intoxicants in like company of horrorshow droogies - not caring for the wicked world one whit. But when the new regime was in place I was compulsory enlisted, like one and all, O My brothers. Being a man of some oomny strength I was spared the oozhassny rabbit of the proletariat though, and put into an office, writing speeches for Ms Rosing, the new-elected puppet president, because of the press primely popular beyond all shadow of a doubting thomas. After thirteen long years of this cal I was mightily sick, as you may well understand, O My brothers, finding joy in few vesches, Me mostly sigh sigh sighing away in some shadowy chamber, chained by the malevolent monster melancholy. Not only from writing the chepooka-filled speeches, which I found quite hard, Me being too well versed in the old forgotten art of honesty, but mainly from the people’s response to it. Just like the Great Socialite once said, O My brothers, “There is no sin except gloopiness”. Never was a truer word spoken.
The Gazetta ad I had noticed said that The Ofvandahls Café, that former bolshy bastion of the aesthete and effete intellectual elite, was going to be transformed into an McD burger mesto, Ofvandahls being the last café to fall to the above-mentioned murderous machinery of malevolence. Having spent many magnificent moments in that bolshy place in the liberal and joyous days of yore, now forgotten by all and sundry, Your Humble Narrator excepted, I was a bit razdraz reading this, and I like horned out My fervent fury from the bottom of the thousand fiery hearts of My bosom, O My brothers, before starting to platch like a little child. Then I viddied that the last day it would remain open was on the 33rd Commemoration Day of the like birth of Your Humble Narrator, and then I like made up My rassoodock. And so there I was, ittying through the grey starry city, on My way to the last cup of chai like.
On My way I viddied many like big State Posters put up where people couldn’t like miss them. It was the usual cal. Starry Uncle S with his arm around the pletcho of his droogie J.C. Bogson, both of them pointing like at Your Humble Narrator saying: “We want you”. Apparently the malicious Muslims had reclaimed the Holy Land, naughty malchickiwicks as they are, and The Forces of Good and Just and all that cal wanted it taken back and the craven culprits nailed to the cross. “Good luck O Thou Starry-spangled father of the Free!” I said, and let out a gromky smeck. Then, realizing I was in the neighbourhood, I thought I would itty off to the bookstore (Tom Clancy only, O My brothers) and viddy whether the ex future mother of My children was rabbiting, Me having a sladky tooth today. So Your Humble Narrator turned into old S:t Olof’s Street (it being one of very few names unchanged, O My brothers, for obvious reasons). Walking down that starry street and memory lane I couldn’t help but viddy the spot where once the bolshy public Biblio had stood, that starry fortress of knowledge and refuge of the oomny ones, now gone forevermore. And then I was there, at the bookstore, which I once, before its dreadful transformation, had favoured with My inestimable custom, O My brothers. Standing there outside, I could viddy her well through the okno, she standing behind the counter. Real horrorshow she was, despite the platties she was wearing, gorgeosity made flesh, and I felt the old pan-handle. So I goolied into the store, made with My zoobies and went like: “Hi hi hi there O thou mistress of My heart! Long time no viddy, eh?” She gave Me at first a like cold glazzy, not showing her nacreous zoobies in that smile that used to clothe her so aptly, she neither having forgiven nor forgotten. But then she like viddied My platties and made with the jaw-dropping, so I could viddy her lovely yabzick, that pleasant tool of pleasure, O My brothers. She asked Me with a some-what worried voice why I was dressed as I was, it being illegal and all that cal. Then down I went on My knees, O My brothers, in front of like all the people in the store, creeching like bezoomny, My like undying love for her, and Me missing her real bolshy, with Me going boohoohoo in between. How she like never had left My mind since things ended, and how I was like breaking The Law and risking My life and all that cal to tell her this. Silent she was at first, O My brothers, but My fiery oratory had melted the ice, and then she like jumped across the counter and like threw her rookers around the shiyah of Your Humble Narrator, platching out of joy and smiling like bezoomny. And there was much rejoicing.
To celebrate our new-founded alliance of love, we ittied off to her abode, for some like lascivious lubbilubbing, it being not too far really, and her colleagues like covering for her at work. Her place had not changed one malenky bit, O My brothers, still as dull as it ever was. She went into the bedroom to change platties, and Your Humble Narrator, now nagoy after having removed His platties, placed Himself on this comfy stool in her like living room, remembering the golden olden days, an activity which caused the old pan-handle, verily. Then she came out, O My brothers, and she had not changed a malenky bit neither. Dressed she was in the luscious leather outfit, with the old cat o’9 in her hand. Real horrorshow it was, O My brothers. Blatant blistering bliss. She that eateth My flesh, and drinketh My blood, dwelleth in Me, and I in her. And except ye eat the flesh of the Son of Man, and drink His blood, ye have no life in you. But what was actually done that morning though there is no need to describe, brothers, as you may easily guess all. After a couple of hours of this and that, I, being shagged and fagged and fashed and bashed, un-collared Myself like a good little doggie, made with My platties, combed My luscious glory and My monstrous moustache, and swore My undying love to the mistress of My heart, O My brothers, telling her how I now had to itty off homeways to change My platties or else all would be ruined. She was like blah blah blah as usual, suggesting we should itty off to the sinny in the evening, there being this bolshy new movie about Starry Uncle S’ glorious defence of the World’s oil supply, O My brothers. I was like right right right, thy kingdom come, thy will be done and all that cal. So I kissed her on the cheek and then I ookadeeted.
So once more I was on My oddy knocky, ittying along the old rippling river, heading to the old Ofvandahls for the last cup of chai like. A way a lone a last a loved a long the riverrun. The sun shone no longer, O My brothers, and the day was becoming colder, a flip dark chill winter bastard though dry, so I quickened My step like. There were not many people out, most lewdies probably rabbiting, or languishing in the old skolliwoll, with the rest sitting home glued in front of the telly. The few people out gave Me like strange glazzies, but without caring, having been taught to avoid problems just like everybody else. Back at old S:t Olof’s Street I turned right and crossed the reeking river, O My brothers, and then I was there.
Warm it was and cozy, and just like I remembered it. And to think I had not set My foot inside there for almost fifteen years. An eon it was, and yet like yesteryear. I viddied the empty room, and the corner where I used to sit in the golden olden days, laughing with the shaika; and where with My best girl at My side, I’d sing sing sing:... But then, in the middle of My nostalgia, a small skinny veck, with otchkies that almost made Me smeck, goolied up to Me and said in a very nadmenny goloss, used to be obeyed: “who are you and why are you not dressed properly and in accordance with The Law?”
“I’ve come to say farewell to this here bolshy starry mesto, and I have dressed accordingly, O My little brother”, I answered him.
“It is against The Law and we cannot serve you, you wanton hooligan. Now get out before I call the Police!”
And he turned walking towards the kitchen like. But then, O My brothers, all of a sudden, I slooshied, from a radio somewhere nearby, such lovely sounds, namely the self-same song above-mentioned. And once more, My brothers, I heard the raspy voice of the starry Buddhist-Jew himself inviting Me to his Little Viennese Waltz. And though I am not splenitive and rash, yet have I something in me dangerous which let thy wiseness fear. So I like creeched: “bastard! Filthy mannerless bastard!”
And I rushed up to him real skorry and tolchocked him real horrorshow on the gulliver, him going down like a whore at a blowjob, Your Humble Narrator being a chelloveck of some strength, O My brothers, and My faithful shontik being really hard, being crafted in days when things were made to last like. “Ay, Ay, Ay, Ay, take this waltz, take this waltz, take this waltz with the clamp on its jaws”
While standing there, lovely music in My ears, watching the crude krovvy spread on the floor like, the door to the like kitchen opened and two vecks, one malchick and one starry veck, came out, carrying a rolling-pin the one, nozh the other.
“What for did you do that for?” the first of them said looking at Your Humble Narrator and the late nadmenny veck lying on the floor.
“For him being a bastard with no manners and not the dook of an idea how to comport himself publicwise! And if you don’t like this and you wouldn’t want that then you know what to do little brother!” I answered him.
Then he creeched out like bezoomny and leapt at YHN, aiming a horrorshow tolchock with his rolling-pin, but I like being a bit more skorry, had no trouble avoiding it, him punching a bolshy big hole in the air, and with the sharp point of My shontik I stabbed him in the brooko, nailing him to the wall. “Ay, Ay, Ay, Ay, take this waltz, take this waltz, take its broken waist in your hand.”
In his agony of death he made such a funny litso that I could not help letting out a smeck. It was cut short though, O My brothers, by the starry fellow like stabbing Me in the side with his nozh.
“Naughty, naughty, naughty”, I said, in a goloss of like pain, and grabbing his gulliver I sank My zoobies into his litso, his nose and upper lip being caught between them, and Your Humble Narrator shaking His head like a dog that is killing a rat. Then, letting go of the starry veck, he fell to the floor, bloody mess as he was, creeching like bezoomny, but a skorry tolchock on the gulliver shut him up. “Ay, Ay, Ay, Ay, take this waltz, take this waltz, take this waltz it’s been dying for years”. Me, being perhaps severely hurt Myself, O My brothers, ittied off to the counter and got Myself a nice cup of chai and some pastry or other and sat down at My old table, all on My oddy knocky. Pulling out the nozh from My side I collected My red riverrunning krovvy in My cup, feeling the perturbed pulse of the thousand fiery hearts within My bosom. And munching away at the vanilla heart that I had taken, and slurping away at My heart-warming chai, while slooshying the sluice of lovely sounds, I knew such lovely pictures. Your Humble Narrator was back in the golden olden days with all the melliferous merrymaking and the redundant revels with My darling droogies and bride at My side. Ah, it was blatant blistering bliss, O My brothers. “Ay, Ay, Ay, Ay, take this waltz, take this waltz, with its “I’ll never forget you, you know!”” And then I like viddied the mistress of My heart, a bit more starry now, sitting in her mesto glued in front of the telly, her mesto still unchanged, O My brothers. But she was not alone. Sitting on the sofa, reading aloud from The Big Book, was a pale young malchick, fair as his mother, a flowering dark rose, and he reminded Me of someone I once knew. “Oh my love, Oh my love, take this waltz, take this waltz, it’s yours now it’s all that there is.”
Word list:
Words or phrases with an * are invented, or adopted from the Russian, by Your Humble Narrator.
Take this waltz: A song by Leonard Cohen, the favourite of Your Humble Narrator, Him singing it in the shower every day.
http://www.serve.com/cpage/LCohen/lyric ... an.html#70
Itty: to walk
Grazhny: dirty
Bolshy: great, big
Bezoomny: mad
Litso: face
Platties: clothes
Horrorshow: good,
*Melancholy Master: Edgar Allan Poe
Shlapa: hat
*Shontik: umbrella
Dobby: good
Malchick: boy
Old Father Antic the Law: Borrowed from Shakespeare’s “Henry IV part 1, Act 1 scene 2”
Gazetta: newspaper
Starry: old
*Starry Uncle S: Uncle Sam. Starry in this case referring to both old and the banner
Lubbilubbing: making love
Skolliwoll: school
Gloopy: stupid
Droogies: pals
Oomny: brainy
Oozhassny: terrible
Rabbit: work, to work
*Ms Rosing: This is exactly who you think it is
Cal: shit, crap
Vesches: things
Chepooka: nonsense
*Great Socialite: Oscar Wilde
Bog: God
Mesto: place
Razdraz: upset
Horn: cry out, shout
Platch: to cry
Viddy: see, or to look
Rassoodock: mind
Chai: tea
Pletcho: shoulder
*J.C. Bogson: Jesus Christ, the Son of God, our lord and savior and all that cal
Malchickiwicks: see malchick!
Gromky: loud
Smeck: laugh
Sladky tooth: sweet-tooth
Okno: window
Pan-handle: erection
Gooly: walk
Zoobies: teeth
Glazzy: eye, or look
Yabzick: tongue
Creech: shout, or to shout
Shiyah: neck
Malenky: little, tiny
Cat o’9: Cat-o’-nine-tails. A kind of whip.
Sinny: cinema
Ookadeet: to leave
Oddy knocky: alone
Lewdies: people
Shaika: gang
Veck: man
Otchkies: eyeglasses
Nadmenny: arrogant
Goloss: voice
Sloosh: hear, listen
*The Buddhist-Jew: Leonard Cohen
Skorry: quick
Tolchock: blow, or to hit
Gulliver: head
Chelloveck: see veck!
Krovvy: blood
Nozh: knife
Dook: trace, ghost
Brooko: belly
*Big Book: “Also sprach Zarathustra”, by Friedrich Wilhelm Nietzsche
Millicents: police
Govoreet: talk
! Is Leonard looking in the cell door or out of it 
?
I just googled Leonard Cohen images, I have to go feed my kittens 
] "Smash Your Head Against the Wall" [geez, John, couldn't you have come up with anything other than 
.