Because I knew what she sang. It was from an opera by Friedrich Gitterfenster called ‘Das Bettzeug,’ and it was the bit where she’s snuffing it with her throat cut, and the slovos are ‘Better like this maybe.’ Anyway, I shivered.

But old Dim, as soon as he’d slooshied this dollop of song like a lomtick of redhot meat plonked on your plate, let off one of his vulgarities, which in this case was a lip-trump followed by a dog-howl followed by two fingers pronging twice at the air followed by a clowny guffaw. I felt myself all of a fever and like drowning in redhot blood, slooshying and viddying Dim’s vulgarity, and I said: “Bastard. Filthy drooling mannerless bastard.” Then I leaned across Georgie, who was between me and horrible Dim, and fisted Dim skorry on the rot. Dim looked very surprised, his rot open, wiping the krovvy off of his goober with his rook and in turn looking surprised at the red flowing krovvy and at me. “What for did you do that for?” he said in his ignorant way. Not many viddied what I’d done, and those that viddied cared not. The stereo was on again and was playing a very sick electronic guitar veshch. I said:

“For being a bastard with no manners and not the dook of an idea how to comport yourself publicwise, O my brother.”

Dim put on a hound-and-horny look of evil, saying: “I don’t like you should do what you done then. And I’m not your brother no more and wouldn’t want to be.” He’d taken a big snotty tashtook from his pocket and was mopping the red flow puzzled, keeping on looking at it frowning as if he thought that blood was for other vecks and not for him. It was like he was singing blood to make up for his vulgarity when that devotchka was singing music. But that devotchka was smecking away ha ha ha now with her droogs at the bar, her red rot working and her zoobies ashine, not having noticed Dim’s filthy vulgarity. It was me really Dim had done wrong to. I said: