This story is told from the point of view of a fifteen-year-old street gang leader.  It follows them through some of their exploits which leads eventually to the leader, Alex's, arrest and imprisonment.  After a while in jail, he volunteers for a new treatment that will allow him to go free.  Scientists condition him against violence and sex by injecting him with drugs and forcing him to watch movies.  A side effect of the conditioning is that he also becomes conditioned against Beethoven, his favorite composer, as it was in the soundtrack to the movies he watched.

When he goes free, he meets people that he wronged before and they take advantage of his conditioning to torture and almost kill him.  In order to save face, the government must do something with him quickly or face unpopularity in the polls.

The next morning I woke up at oh eight oh oh hours, my brothers, and as I still felt shagged and fagged and fashed and bashed and my glazzies were stuck together real horrorshow with sleepglue, I thought I would not go to school.  I thought how I would have a malenky bit longer in the bed, an hour or two say, and then get dressed nice and easy, perhaps even having a splosh about in the bath, and then brew a pot of real strong horrorshow chai and make toast for myself and slooshy the radio or read the gazetta, all on my oddy knocky.  And then in the afterlunch I might perhaps, if I still felt like it, itty off to the old skolliwoll and see what was vareeting in that great seat of gloopy useless learning, O my brothers.  I heard my papapa grumbling and trampling and then ittying off to the dyeworks where he rabbited, and then my mum called in in a very respectful goloss as she did now I was growing up big and strong:

'It's gone eight, son.  You don't want to be late again.'  So I called back:

'A bit of a pain in my gulliver.  Leave us be and I'll try to sleep it off and then I'll be right as dodgers for this after.'  I slooshied her give a sort of a sigh and she said:

'I'll put your breakfast in the oven then, son.  I'vegot to be off myself now.'  Which was true, there being this law for everybody not a child nor with child norill to go out rabbiting.  My mum worked at one of the Statemarts, as they called them, filling up the shelves with tinned soup and beans and all that cal.  So I slooshied her clank a plate in the gas-oven like and then she was putting her shoes on and then getting her coat from behind the door and
then sighing again, then she said: 'I'm of now, son.'  But I let on to be back in sleepland and then I did off real horrorshow, and I had a queer and very real like sneety, dreaming for some reason of my droog Georgie.  In this sneety, he'd got like very much older and very sharp and hard and was govoreeting about discipline and obedience and how all the malchicks under his control had to jump hard at it and throw up the old salute like being in the army, and there was me in line like the rest saying yes sir and no sir, and then I viddied clear that Georgie had these stars on his pletchoes and he was like a general.  And then he brought in old Dim with a whip, and Dim was a lot more starry and grey and had a few zoobies missing as you could see when he let out a smeck, viddying me, and then my droog Georgie said, pointing like at me, 'That man has filth and cal all over his platties,' and it was true.  Then I creeched, 'Don't hit, please don't, brothers,' and started to run.  And I was running in like circles and Dim was after me, smecking his gulliver off, cracking with the old whip, and each time I got a real horrorshow tolchock with this whip there was like a very loud electric bell ringringringing, and this bell was like a sort of a pain too.  Then I woke up real skorry, my heart going bap bap bap, and of course there was really a bell going brrrrr, and it was our front-door bell.  I let on that nobody was at home, but this brrrrr still ittied on, and then I heard a goloss shouting through the door, 'Come on then, get out of it, I know you're in bed.'  I recognised the goloss right away.  It was the goloss of P. R. Deltoid (a real gloopy nazz, that one), what they called my Post-Corrective Adviser, an over-worked veck with hundreds on his books.  I shouted right right right, in a goloss of like pain, and I got out of bed and attired myself, O my brothers, in a very lovely over-gown of like silk, with designs of like great cities all over this over-gown.  Then I put my nogas into very comfy woolly wales, combed my luscious glory, and was ready for P. R. Deltoid.  When I opened up he came shambling in looking shagged, a battered old shlapa on his gulliver, his raincoat filthy.  'Ah, Alex boy,' he said to me.  'I met your mother, yes.  She said something about a pain somewhere.  Hence not at school, yes.'