A bit of dirty twenty-to-one

They went haw haw haw, viddying old Dim dancing round and fisting the writer veck so that the writer veck started to platch like his life’s work was ruined, going boo hoo hoo with a very square bloody rot, but it was haw haw haw in a muffled eater’s way and you could see bits of what they were eating. I didn’t like that, it being dirty and slobbery, so I said: ‘Drop that mounch, I gave no permission. Grab hold of this veck here so he can viddy all and not get away.’

So they put down their fatty pischcha on the table among all the flying paper and they clopped over to the writer veck whose horn-rimmed otchkies were cracked but still hanging on, with old Dim still dancing round and making ornaments shake on the mantelpiece (I swept them all off then and they couldn’t shake no more, little brothers) while he fillied with the author of A Clockwork Orange, making his litso all purple and dripping away like some very special sort of a juicy fruit.

‘All right, Dim,’ I said. ‘Now for the other veshch, Bog help us all’. So he did the strong-man on the devotchka, who was still creech creech creeching away in very horrorshow four-in-a-bar, locking her rookers from the back, while I ripped away at this and that and the other, the others going haw haw haw still, and real good horrorshow groodies they were that then exhibited their pink glazzies, O my brothers, while I untrussed and got ready for the plunge.

Plunging, I could slooshy cries of agony and this writer bleeding veck that Georgie and Pete held on to nearly got loose howling bezoomny with the filthiest of slovos that I already knew and others he was making up. Then after me it was right old Dim should have his turn, which he did in a beasty shorty howly sort of a way with his Peebee Shelley maskie taking no notice, while I held on to her.

Then there was a changeover, Dim and me grabbing the slobbering writer veck who was past struggling really, only just coming out with slack sort of slovos like he was in the land in a milk-plus bar, and Pete and Georgie had theirs.

Then there was like quiet and we were full of like hate, so smashed what was left to be smashed – typewriter, lamp, chairs – and Dim, it was typical of old Dim, watered the fire out and was going to dung on the carpet, there being plenty of paper, but I said no. “Out out out out’, I howled. The writer veck and his zheena were not really there, bloody and torn and making noises. But they’d live.