A Talk of Anomie

After some hours of sleep, The Thieving Magpie rambled on and on like a broken record in my mind. What had come of that night? Last night? Was it two nights ago? Was I up for two nights? I could not know. But boy oh boy was I hungry; a daybreak beautiful enough for Shakespearean lutes and play, all the sun fractured through bare naked branches. I felt quite like a playwright at that moment. But then I wanted to know where exactly this moment was, where was I and where were my new droogies?

My mask was gone too, I wonder if anyone had seen me commit any ultraviolence, I was sure to know when my little government friend would show up. Weeks after I had been cured, I was right back were I was two years ago, my brothers.

In any case, I walked down this little road out by the village when I saw a house on fire, oh yes my brothers, there was no mistaking this being of my actions. I stopped at the house barely in sight and I grinned to myself, yes, your narrator who had been so vile and sick toward ultraviolence weeks ago, was now grinning with the utmost pride at this.

A distant sound made me turn around, ah, there were my droogies, speeding down the road to pick yours truly, up. They were screaming and they were primal, oh how beautiful it was to see their faces. Once they had picked me up, I demanded that my actions be defogged.

“Hello my droogies,” I said. “And what were the contents of these past nights, come on, fill me in on all the bloody little details, I want to know it all!”

“Well Alex, you’ve done arson on that house down the road, not more than three hours ago,” explained one of them. “And those girls we met for the ol’ in out, in out.”

“Ah yes, quite the past nights.”

It began to come back to me. Those two blonds who were practically asking for it, no brazier, out past curfews, only the two of them. What were they expecting? And to think weeks ago I gagged and choked at the sight of the most glorious of breasts. I could not grab them then, and by George, my brothers, last night I made sure to handle them well.

After the last house call, I wanted to make sure that this one went absolutely right. My name was in the morning papers, what had people to worry about?

I remember it quite vividly now:

“Excuse me, Mrs. Can you please help? There’s been a terrible accident! My friend’s in the middle of the road bleeding to death! Can I please use your telephone for an ambulance?”

It always worked one way or another, we were always let in like a pack of rats storming the walls, the breeches. Oh how silvery the wave of our good ol’ ultraviolence was.

I was cured for sure.

What do you think? Criticisms and praise welcome.

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