“U pičku materinu. Ubio san njega, jel de?”
“Aj me meni, Mirko, sad si najebo.”
“Ma. Da. Spasio san sve. Vidćeš ti, moj Dragane.”
Mirko did not notice the crimson pooling at his feet. But neither an algal bloom on the shores of Pula, nor the Communist uprisings of his distant past would ever compare. The man was dead.
“The blood feasts on the sea when the waters become hot.” Aside from the wailing of old women burning alive, this was all that came to mind.
Nothing could stop him from doing what he had to do. This was his fucking Selo.