The moon hung fat and silver that night, O my brothers, a great leering glazzy in the black sky watching over the sleepy suburbs like it knew what were brewing.

We four droogs moved slick and sharp through the quiet streets—me, Alex, at the front with my Lina tucked close under one arm, her soft warmth pressing against my side. Pete and Georgie flanked us with their grins full of teeth, and Dim lumbered at the rear, his heavy chain clinking softly with the promise of tolchocks to come. Around us was damp grass and chimney smoke, but inside the gulliver the Ninth was already swelling, grand and crashing, pushing me forward.

Lina wasn’t like the other ptitsas we’d played with. She had a gentler way about her, eyes that could go wide and soft when the blood started flowing, but she was into it all the same. Hungry for the wildness I brought to her otherwise dreary old life.

I made the decisions, I led the dance, and she followed with that little smile, all devious-like.

Earlier in the Korova, moloko-plus humming sweet and sharp in our veins, I’d laid it out.

“Marriage, my little Lina,” I’d said, twirling the razor so it caught the light. “Not the dull State way with papers and long queues of boring vecks. We’ll make it real. With a bit of the old in-out spirit and the music singing through.”

She’d leaned in, her breath warm on my ear. “Yes, Alex. Whatever you say.” And that was that.

Now we stood before the big old house on the edge of town, the one with the iron cross on the gate and windows like disapproving eyes. A priest’s den, all holy and dusty.

I gave the signal with a flick of my glazzy. Pete and Georgie slipped round the back, quiet as snakes. Dim hefted his chain. I kicked the front door hard—once, twice—the wood splintering with a lovely crack like a gulliver splitting under a boot. We burst inside, laughter bubbling low and sharp from our throats.

The priest was in his study, a thin, grey-haired veck hunched over a heavy book at his desk, specs perched on his nose. His wife, a plump babushka with cheeks like risen dough, sat by the fire clicking her knitting needles. They both jerked up at the noise, faces going slack with shock.

“What—who are you people?” the priest stammered, rising halfway from his chair. “This is a private home! I’ll call the police!”

I stepped forward with my best theatrical smile, britva already out and glinting between my fingers. Lina stayed at my side, her fingers lightly on my arm, watching with those gentle eyes but no fear.

“Evening, O holy brother,” I said, voice lilting smooth. “We’ve come for a wedding. Mine and this lovely devotchka here.” I pulled Lina forward with a step. She gave a small, almost shy curtsy, her red dress swirling around her knees. “You’ll officiate, nice and proper. Words, rings, the whole veckish ceremony. Make it sing.”

The priest blinked fast, going pale as milk. “This is highly irregular. Illegal! I cannot simply perform a marriage under these circumstances!”

Dim moved like a big friendly boulder, grabbing the veck by the collar and lifting him clean off his feet. Legs kicked uselessly in the air. “You can and you will, you snivelling old sod,” Dim growled, then gave him a quick tolchock to the side of the gulliver. Not full strength, but enough. The priest crumpled back into his chair with a wet thud, blood trickling warm and red from his nose, staining his white collar like a little ribbon of krovvy.

That’s when the wife started up. A high, piercing scream tore from her throat.

“Help! Burglars! Police, somebody!”

She scrambled up, knitting needles clattering to the floor. Georgie was on her quick, his big hand clamping over her mouth. She bit down hard, the feisty ptitsa, and Georgie cursed, yanking his hand back with teeth marks blooming red. He slapped her across the face—crack, then crack again—the sound sharp and satisfying. Her cheek swelled purple almost at once.

Pete rummaged in the drawers, found a thick wool scarf, and they gagged her proper, tying it right behind her head. Her wrists they bound to the arms of her chair with loops of her own knitting wool, tight enough that she strained but couldn’t budge. Muffled sobs leaked out around the gag, her eyes bulging with terror and fury as she thrashed.

Lina squeezed my hand tighter, leaning in. “Alex,” she whispered soft against my shoulder, “maybe not too much hurt for them? Just enough for the ceremony.” Her voice came tame, though the thrill lay underneath. The way her breath quickened.

I laughed and pulled her close, kissing her hard on the mouth, tasting the sweetness of her. “Only what’s needed, my sweet one. Now stand here by me, like a proper bride.” She obeyed at once, positioning herself at my side, shoulder brushing mine.

The priest dabbed at his bleeding nose with a trembling handkerchief, eyes darting between us and his bound wife. “Please… this is blasphemy. Marriage is a sacred union before God—”

“Sacred?” I leaned in close, pressing the flat of my britva against his throat, letting him feel the cold edge. “Sacred like your God up there watching us right now with his big glazzy? We’ll make it sacred our way, O priestly friend. Say the words, or my droog Dim here will show your plump wife a real demonstration of the old in-out-in-out… Horrorshow, it will be.”

Dim grinned wide, cracking his knuckles loud in the quiet room. The priest swallowed hard, sweat beading on his forehead, and glanced again at his wife straining against her bonds. “Very well,” he whispered. “But under duress, this means nothing—”

“Under whatever you like,” I cut in, waving the razor so it flashed. “Just do it with some feeling, veck. Loud and clear.”

Pete had already found the communion wine in a cabinet, a dusty bottle of red, and poured it into two fancy crystal glasses. He shoved one into the priest’s shaking hand. “Drink up, holy one. To celebrate.”

I took Lina’s hand properly now, standing tall before the desk as if it were an altar. The droogs circled us like happy wolves, chains and boots scraping the floorboards. The priest cleared his throat, voice cracking at first.

“Dearly beloved,” he began, then swallowed as Georgie prodded him with the chain. “We are gathered here…under God…to join this man and this woman in holy matrimony.”

“Louder,” Georgie growled, and the priest raised his voice, stammering through the old words while blood still dripped slow from his nose onto the paper.

Lina stood serene beside me, her fingers steady in mine. When it came to the vows, she spoke her part quiet but clear, no shake in it.

“I, Lina, take you, Alex, to have and to hold, in sickness and in health…” Her eyes stayed on me, soft and adoring, following every cue I gave with a small nod.

I delivered mine with all the flair, chest puffed, voice ringing theatrical. “I, Alex DeLarge, take this devotchka Lina as my wife, to tolchock the world beside, to share the ultraviolence and the lovely music and the nights full of glorious crime. Till death or the bloody State does us part.” The droogs cheered loud, stomping boots and clapping, Dim letting out a great bellow of laughter.

Pete forced more wine on the Priest, tilting the glass till red spilled down the veck’s chin and stained his shirt. “All of it,” I ordered. “Celebrate proper with us.” The priest choked it down, coughing.

Lina herself took the other glass and held it to the wife’s gagged lips, firm but placid-like, tilting it slow. “Drink up, it’s a happy day,” she murmured, almost kind. The woman sputtered and cried, tears mixing with the wine running down her chin, but she swallowed what she could.

We used a cheap gold band I’d nicked from a shop earlier that evening. I slipped it onto Lina’s finger while she smiled that smile of hers, her hand trembling just a little with excitement. The priest mumbled through the rest of it, eyes downcast, pronouncing us man and wife in a voice like broken glass.

When it was sealed, I grabbed Lina and kissed her deep and long, my hands roaming possessive over her waist and hips. She melted into it, following my lead perfectly, her fingers threading lightly through my hair but never pulling ahead.

“Now,” I said, turning back, “sign the paper. Make it official.” Georgie had dug up a fancy certificate from the desk drawer. The priest signed with a shaking hand, his blood from the nose smearing a red streak across the corner like a signature all its own.

The celebration kicked off proper then. I smashed a wooden chair against the wall for the music of it, wood splintering, pieces flying like confetti. Dim did his bid, stomping heavy on the bookshelves so theology tomes fluttered down like dying birds, pages scattering across the carpet. Not total destruction, mind—we weren’t mindless barbarians—but enough to leave the room a glorious mess, wine stains blooming red on the rug like spilled krovvy, furniture askew.

Pete cranked up the gramophone they’d had in the corner, dropping on a record of the old Ludwig Van that crashed and swelled through the room. I pulled Lina into the centre and danced with her, spinning her fast so her red dress swirled out like blood in water. Her laugh was soft against my ear, not loud like the droogs’ but just as real.

“This is mad, Alex,” she breathed, clinging to me as we whirled.

“Mad and ours,” I agreed, dipping her low.

The droogs joined the fun, grabbing the wife’s chair and whirling her round and round despite her muffled screams, her eyes wide with horror as the room blurred. The priest sat slumped in his seat, defeated, as I kept refilling his glass and forcing him to drink. “See?” I told him, raising my own. “A proper wedding. No cold church and boring speeches. This has life! Blood and wine and tolchocking for flavour.”

By the time we tired of it, the house reeked of chaos and alcohol. We cut the couple loose with a final warning, my britva close to the priest’s face.

“Tell the millicents and we’ll be back for a christening next, with real horrorshow knives and a bit more of the old in-out.” They huddled together, bruised and shaking, as we filed out laughing into the night.

Lina walked out on my arm, the new ring catching shimmer on her finger. She didn’t glance back, just followed my step, light and trusting. The droogs trailed behind, singing ragged snatches, drunk on wine and the thrill.

We found an old abandoned barn a mile or so on, moonlight pouring through the gaps in the roof like silver vellocet. The droogs posted watch outside with grins and winks. 

Inside, on a pile of dry hay that smelled sweet and dusty, I took my Lina proper. No gentle preamble, no, but hard and fast and full of that old fire still singing in my veins. My hands gripped her tight, possessive as a britva to the throat, my pretty devotchka now bound to me in holy and unholy ways.

She gasped soft against my neck, clinging with those gentler fingers of hers, not fighting but yielding beautiful, her body arching where I directed like a good little ptitsa following the leader’s rhythm. Her moans were softer than the wild screams we’d drawn from others in nights past, but they matched my pace all the same.

I pushed deep and demanding, the old ultraviolence turned sweet and hot under that silver glazzy of the moon, her hips rising to meet mine with quiet hunger. I drove the glorious in-out-in-out like pure symphony crashing through us both, and she followed with docile cries and willing warmth, melting where I guided, her breath catching lovely in the dark.

After, we lay tangled in the hay, the Ninth still crashing faint in my gulliver. I stroked her hair, possessive-like.

“Mrs. DeLarge,” I tasted the words. “Sounds horrorshow, eh?”

She smiled up at me, satisfied, curling closer. “Yes, Alex. Whatever you say.”

And so it was, O my brothers. A wedding to remember. Not the State’s grey way, but ours, full of laughter and krovvy and the night singing round us like a glorious broken hymn. We slipped back to the flat later, newly wed and buzzing, Lina curled against me in the dark with steady breathing. I lay awake smiling at the ceiling.

A clockwork marriage, all wound tight and ticking with lovely, lovely sin.