Home Regulars Features Star Bios Chat Archive

Features
Serb Heat Index

Tuesday, April 30


Chapter 1         6:47 a.m.
Chapter 2         8:33 a.m.
Chapter 3       11:04 a.m.
Chapter 4         3:46 p.m.
Chapter 5         6:35 p.m.

Wednesday, May 1


Chapter 6         8:54 a.m.
Chapter 7         9:43 a.m.
Chapter 8         1:32 p.m.
Chapter 9         3:00 p.m.
Chapter 10       4:45 p.m.

Thursday, May 2


Chapter 11       6:06 a.m.
Chapter 12       9:12 a.m.
Chapter 13     10:03 a.m.
Chapter 14     10:53 a.m.
Chapter 15     10:53 a.m.
Chapter 16       1:51 p.m.
Chapter 17       2:34 p.m.
Chapter 18       4:12 p.m.
Chapter 19       4:12 p.m.
Chapter 20       4:12 p.m.
Chapter 21       5:21 p.m.
Epilogue        &# 160; 5:41 p.m.

Search Mr. Showbiz


Tuesday, April 30, 6:47 a.m.
Chapter 1

HE lions of Serbia stand at the checkpoint, poised, ready. Traffic is very, very light. It has been this way for weeks. The checkpoint sits in the very center of the Duna- Menjuko Corridor, slightly to the north of the Pranendor Strip, perhaps thirty-five miles east of Lupa and Viknuna. To be absolutely precise: The first left past Bruga. Not even Serbs know where it is.

The four men know that they are in the process of being downsized. When the war broke out, there was plenty of work to be had cleansing the infant Republic of heathen blood. But now all the heathens are gone. Lupa is deserted. Bruga is as silent as the crypt. Menjuko has been repopulated with Serb nationals. There is no one left to kill.
The men stand at the checkpoint in the center of the Duna-Menjuko Corridor hoping that something will happen. Perhaps a sniper. Perhaps a Belgian Red Cross truck that can be plundered. Perhaps a Bosnian convoy that has taken the wrong turn at Dignor. But their hopes are not high. Every life that a soldier takes brings him one step closer to retirement. They have taken many, many lives. And here, in the Duna-Menjuko Corridor, there are very few lives left to be taken. Very few.
The lions of Serbia have done their jobs all too well.
How do they pass their time? Mostly by working out. Usually, Ratko Krudzik, the squad commander, goes off to do his tai- chi with Slobodan Malevic in a gully a few hundred yards away, while Nesho Slubik and Radovan Vlasic stand guard along the road. When they have finished, Slubik and Vlasic take their turn, usually working out to Lucky Vanous: The Ultimate Fat-Burning System. Then they take turns using the heat lamp. The men all have rippling muscles, and well-oiled bodies that they pay loving care to. Every four hours or so, they apply a bewildering array of unguents, creams, and lotions to their chests and shoulders so that their massive frames will gleam more brightly under the remorseless scrutiny of what the great ninth-century Serb poet Sluvo Kovaks called the Magyar Moon. They are proud of the contrast between their tanned flesh and the jet-black leather of their oversized bandoliers. They are proud that they look like bandits, mercenaries, professionals. They are proud that they look like Rambo.
The lions of Serbia are well-armed. From their shoulders hang the latest Kalenkivovs, the SK-56 with the built-in CD-ROM so the user can play the theme from Also Sprach Zarathustra while executing prisoners. On their hips sit Ruga .38s, pistols so cunningly designed they have been known to go back into the heads they have just come out of to make sure the job is done. Their boots and trousers are bristling with knives, razor blades, imperceptible trimming devices used by art directors the world over. These are most effective during the final stage of an interrogation when a certain degree of delicacy is called for. The lions of Serbia are hard men, cruel men. But they are not incapable of delicacy.
Tonight the lions of Serbia stand at the checkpoint waiting for traffic they know is not coming. It is late, very late now, and as is often the case in the Duna-Menjuko Corridor, the night has grown cold. The men should be thinking about putting on their shirts and jackets, but no one will make the first move. On the odd chance that someone will actually show up at the checkpoint tonight, they want to make a big impression. The sight of naked, gleaming torsos bulging with steroid-induced musculature, all adorned with leather and steel, tends to impress people. Especially United Nations officials who went to Cambridge. The look gives visitors an idea of who they are dealing with. The men know that they look like Rambo. They want to be treated like men who look like Rambo. And they want to treat any women who turn up the way they know Rambo would treat them. Even though they have a vague recollection that there are never any women in any of the Rambo pictures.
It is three in the morning now, and there are no lights on the road. Ratko tells Nesho and Radovan that he and Slobodan will take the first watch. The two men nod, and retreat to their tents. Then, a mile or two down the road, where the escarpment meets the foothills, or vice versa, they see a pair of headlights. It is a jeep, perhaps a Land Rover. The lions of Serbia have company. They smear a bit more lotion on each others' flesh to give themselves that extra luster. Then they sidle down to the road and take up their customary positions. Under the remorseless scrutiny of what the great ninth- century Serb poet Sluvo Kovaks called the Magyar Moon, they are ready.
Next Chapter


Send your comments to Mr. Showbiz

Copyright 1996 Starwave Corporation. All 
rights reserved. Do not duplicate or redistribute in any form.