theredredkrovvy

The last true veshch your humble narrator can remember, I was intending to snuff it. Those grahzny bratchnies, that sodding writer veck and his foul malenky droogs, they like played that music to make me do it. I jumped from that okno on my oddy knocky with the shoom of the stracky orchestra in my ears and the feeling of wanting to be sick all through my brooko...

But after that, bratties, I think I dreamed. These doctor vecks standing over my gulliver and all around my plott stood these devotchkas with these like masks covering their rots and their zoobies. And I could slooshy like chumbled golosses that made no sense, and there was this like von of vinegar and soap. Then I was feeling very fagged and fashed by that time and there were these like pains in my gulliver and my keeshka and my rot tasted of the red. After that it got very dark as if it were the nochy, O my little brothers and I dreamed no more.

If I had expected to wake at all, I would have thought I’d wake to a vredded plott and a bolshy great headache, in the old hospital, but I'm feeling right as right, my brothers. And all my lovely old things are here. Perhaps I did snuff it after all… But where then are Bog and all his holy angels and saints? He’d want to viddy my descent to Hell with his own two glazzballs, of that I am sure...

But, if this is not Hell, where then is it that I shall now be laying my gulliver down? My new domy, as it were?