Джон Леннон - Испалец в колесе (сборник на русском и английском)

«Хорошей бабенкою она была, мистер Хламе, сэр», — сказал Сиднис Аспинолл.

«Готов поверить вам, мистер Астерполл, ведь вы знавали ее глубже, чем я и мой старинный вдруг-приятель Врульсон. Но мы не будем обсуждать ее клячества, сколь бы хоражи или плохи они ни были. Мы здесь, мистер Астронавт, для того, чтобы соврать побольше инфляции о фекальной и безбеременной смерти Мэри Аткинс». — Хламе без малейшего усилия погрозел в лицо этому типу.

«Зовусь я Аспинолл, начатник», — произнес несчастный.

«Я олакомился вашим именем, мистер Астрахань», — обрезал Хламе с таким видом, будто собирался его раздавить.

«Ну что ж, раз вы знаете», — вздохнул Аспинолл, втайне тоскуя, что он не уехал в «Безопасное и Приятное Восхристное Путешерствие». Хламе быстро вытянул у Аспинолла все продрогности, и я сразу же засек, что они не были настроены на одну волну.

«Что больше всего заливает меня. Хламе, — сказал я, когда мы остались одни, — так это куда подевался Оксо Уитни?» Тут Хламе приставно взгрянул, и я воочию убедился, как работает великий ум: кусчистые его брони сошлись в лести, могучая шалость выскочила вперед, ноздыри раздулись, кладка на лбу сморщинилась.

«Да, вот это заброс, Врульсон», — сказал он, и я подавился такой кратности. На следующее утро Хламе был на ногах при первом скрыпе дури, и даже не взглянул на нутряные газеты. Как и бычно, я приготовил завтрах из кейфира, пустылки пива, ломтика ржавого хлева, яричницы из трех лиц и двух кусачек бэкона, чашки Хрущового риса, свежего грех-фрукта, гримов, нескольких вяленых полуморов, корзинки фруктов и чашки кончая.

«Трахтрах готов, — прокукарекал я. — Стол на крыс!» Но, к моему уязвлению оказалось, что он уже ушел. «Во-о-от где мне уж ваши уточки. Хламе, — провалиться вам к чертовой бабушке!..Это я только пошутил. Шерсток», — поспешно добавил я, вспомнив о его примычке прятаться в буферте.

Для меня настал очень беспокаянный день, ведь я ждал невестей от дорогого круга. Я постоянно неразличал, все у меня из рук варилось — не харакирьно для Шерстока было бросать меня так, на прокол сумы, одиночного; без него я — ни прибей, ни при сопли! Я позвонил некторым интёмным знакомым, но никто ничего не знал о Хламсе. Ничего не ждал даже Инспектр Бэзил, а уж кто-кто, он-то должен, ведь он — Поллюция! С недельным опозданием я вновь угрел своего вздрога, и меня шокировал его кобелик: он глядел взъерошенном голодранцем! «Боже вой. Хламе! — возопил я. — О Рожа, кем вы были?!»

«Всему свое время, Врульсон, — отшиб он меня. — Дайте хоть дух перевести».

Я поворошил угар в калине и согрел его шлепанцы; останавливая сливы, он рассказал свою историю, но я ее, хоть убей, не помню.

I find it recornered in my nosebook that it was a dokey and winnie dave towart the end of Marge in the ear of our Loaf 1892 in Much Bladder, a city off the North Wold. Shamrock Womlbs had receeded a telephart whilst we sat at our lunch eating. He made no remark but the matter ran down his head, for he stud in front of the fire with a thoughtfowl face, smirking his pile, and casting an occasional gland at the massage. Quite sydney without warping he turd upod me with a miscarriage twinkle in his isle.

«Ellifitzgerrald my dear Whopper,» he grimmond then sharply «Guess whom has broken out of jail Whopper?» My mind immediately recoughed all the caramels that had recently escaped or escaped from Wormy Scabs.

«Eric Morley?» I ventured. He shook his bed. «Oxo Whitney?» I queered, he knotted in the infirmary. «Rygo Hargraves?» I winston agreably.

«No, my dear Whopper, it's OXO WHITNEY» he bellowed as if I was in another room, and I wasn't.

«How d'you know Womlbs?» I whispered excretely.

«Harrybellafonte, my dear Whopper.» At that precise morman a tall rather angularce tall thin man knocked on the door. «By all accounts that must be he, Whopper.» I marvelled at his acute osbert lancaster.

«How on urge do you know Womlbs» f asped, revealing my bad armchair.

«Eliphantitus my deaf Whopper» he baggage knocking out his pip on his large leather leg. In warped the favourite Oxo Whitney none the worse for worms.

«I'm an escaped primrose Mr Womlbs» he grate darting franetically about the room.

«Calm down Mr Whitney!» I interpolled «or you'll have a nervous breadvan.»

«You must be Doctored Whopper» he pharted. My friend was starving at Whitney with a strange hook on his eager face, that tightening of the lips, that quiver of the nostriches and constapation of the heavy tufted brows which I knew so well.

«Gorra ciggie Oxo» said Womlbs quickly. I looked at my colledge, hoping for some clue as to the reason for this sodden outboard, he gave me no sign except a slight movement of his good leg as he kicked Oxo Whitney to the floor. «Gorra ciggie Oxo» he reapeted almouth hysterically.

«What on urn are you doing my dear Womlbs» I imply; «nay I besiege you, stop lest you do this poor wretch an injury!»

«Shut yer face yer blubbering owld get» screamed Womlbs like a man fermented, and laid into Mr Whitney something powerful wat. This wasn't not the Shamrock Womlbs I used to nose, I thought puzzled and hearn at this suddy change in my old friend.

Mary Atkins pruned herselves in the mirage, running her hand wantanly through her large blond hair. Her tight dress was cut low revealingly three or four blackheads, carefully scrubbed on her chess. She addled the final touches to her makeup and fixed her teeth firmly in her head. «He's going to want me tonight» she thought and pictured his hamsome black curly face and jaundice. She looked at her clocks impatiently and went to the window, then leapt into her favorite armchurch, picking up the paper she glassed at the headlines. «MORE NEGOES IN THE CONGO» it read, and there was, but it was the Stop Press which corked her eye. «JACK THE NIPPLE STRIKE AGAIN.» She went cold all over, it was Sydnees and he'd left the door open.

«Hello lover» he said slapping her on the butter.

«Oh you did give me a start Sydnees» she shrieked laughing arf arfily.

«I always do my love» he replied jumping on all fours. She joined him and they galloffed quickly downstairs into a harrased cab. «Follow that calf» yelped Sydnees pointing a rude fingure.

«White hole mate!» said the scabbie.

«Why are we bellowing that card Sydnees?» inquired Mary fashionably.

«He might know where the party» explained Sydnees.

«Oh I see» said Mary looking up at him as if to say.

The journey parssed pleasantly enough with Sydnees and Mary pointing out places of interest to the scab driver; such as Buckinghell Parcel, the Horses of Parliamint, the Chasing of the Guards. One place of particularge interest was the Statue of Eric in Picanniny Surplass.

«They say that if you stand there long enough you'll meet a friend» said Sydnees knowingly, «that's if your not run over.»

«God Save the Queens» shouted the scabbie as they passed the Parcel for maybe the fourth time.

«Jack the Nipple» said Womlbs puffing deeply on his wife, «is not only a vicious murderer but a sex meany of the lowest orgy.» Then my steamed collic relit his pig and walkered to the windy of his famous flat in Bugger St in London where it all happened. I pondled on his statemouth for a mormon then turding sharply I said. «But how do you know Womlbs?»

«Alibabba my dead Whopper, I have seen the film» I knew him toby right for I had only read the comic.

That evenig we had an unexpeckled visitor, Inspectre Basil, I knew him by his tell-tale unicorn.

«Ah Inspectre Basil mon cher amie» said Womlbs spotting him at once. «What brings you to our humble rich establishment?»

«I come on behave of thousands» the Inspectre said sitting quietly on his operation.

«I feel l know why you are here Basil» said Womlbs eyeing he leg. «It's about Jock the Cripple is it not?» The Jnspectre smiled smiling.

«How did you guess?» I inquired all puzzle.

«Alecguiness my deep Whopper, the mud on the Inspectre's left, and also the buttock on his waistbox is misting.»

The Inspectre looked astoundagast and fidgeted nervously from one fat to the other. «You neville sieze to amass me Mr Womlbs.»

«A drink genitalmen» I ventured, «before we get down to the businose in hand in hand?» They both knotted in egremont and I went to the cocky cabinet. «What would you prepare Basil, Bordom '83 or?»

«I'd rather have rather have rather» said the Inspectre who was a gourmless. After a drink and a few sam leeches Womlbs got up and paced the floor up and down up and down pacing.

«Why are you pacing the floor up and down up and down pacing dear Womlbs» I inquiet.

«I'm thinking alowed my deaf Whopper.» I looked over at the Inspectre and knew that he couldn't hear him either.

«Guess who's out of jail Mr Womlbs» the Inspectre said subbenly. Womlbs looked at me knowingly.

«Eric Morley?» I asked, they shook their heaths. «Oxo Whitney?» I quart, again they shoot their heaps. «Rygo Hargraves?» I wimpied.

«No my dear Whopper, OXO WHITNEY!» shouted Womlbs leaping to his foot. I loked at him admiring this great man all the morphia.

Meanwire in a ghasly lit street in Chelthea, a darkly clocked man with a fearful weapon, creeped about serging for revenge on the women of the streets for giving him the dreadfoot V.D. (Valentine Dyall). «I'll kill them all womb by womb» he muffled between scenes. He was like a black shadow or negro on that dumb foggy night as he furtively looked for his neck victim. His minds wandered back to his childhook, remembering a vague thing or two like his mother and farmer and how they had beaten him for eating his sister. «I'm demented» he said checking his dictionary, «I should bean at home on a knife like these.» He turned into a dim darky and spotted a light.