“What’s it going to eat then, eh?”
We stumbled around the local mesto, trying to munchy-wunch some lovely brains from any lewdie who happened by. Without knowing why, we were screaming our guttiwuts out, running around and not caring who we did up for a bit of the old ultra-violence. Not even when the millicents showed up did we stop making that red red krovvy flow like the finest moloko you ever did see.

There was me, used to be called Alex before the Bolshy Disease came and brought this terrible hunger out in me and my droogs: Pete, Georgie and Dim, Dim being dimmer than ever now.

We’ve given up peeting the moloko with vellocet now. We crave… other things.

You see that devotchka walking our way? Sashaying like some bolshy cow. Once it would have been a bit of the old in-out-in-out with the likes of her but not now. Oh no. Now we’re going to pop out her glazzies and glug glug glug.

It’s real horrorshow.