Avant Hard

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Dig the trippy angles of the Korova's record niche. Who designed this place, Buckminster Fuller? Settle in at the milkbar for a frothy Molocko-plus with Barry 7. Then prime your gulliver for a harmless bit of the old ultraviolence. Just kicks, is all. Terrorizing the city isn't just a sport, it's a calling and, above all else, an honor you've graciously accepted. There could be a smidge of the old in-out to be had as well. If you're lucky - and if your droog Steve ever stops "teaching himself who's boss" (so that's what they're calling it these days?) and your droog-ette Ann can tear herself away from her horse. These streets hold many a prize for an enterprising young psychopath. Tonight's gonna be real horrorshow! So why, as the stereophonic music floods your dome, do you suddenly double over and think about snuffing it? You gag. Oh no! It's as though Heaven17, their metal fingers tearing into your body, are treating you to an impromptu evisceration. Without the courtesy of chloroform, natch. Ah, but then the retching subsides, as it always does, and life is once again good. Oh yeah. Almost good enough to make you feel like, like, singin‚ in the rain? Now it's Bach strapped to the table, his guts unspooled like a nice plate of spaghetti, not yours. You could give a toss. After all, it's just Johann Sebastian. But if they were to even lay a fingertip on your Ludwig Van, you'd have to kick in their heads. Huh. Reminds me of a movie I once saw. Or maybe it was a book.