(*AUTHORS’ NOTE: JUST TO MAKE SURE YOU KNOW – THIS IS FICTION. CLEAR?)
Podorica, Montenegro
Its been a wild year of transitions, political re-alignments and capital growth in Montenegro. Businesses are sprouting everywhere. Unemployment is plummeting. People are buying cars, appliances and houses. Mortgages are available. Good times are rollin’. But for Heinlen, it’s time to get serious.
In Podgorica – the Capital and largest city of Montenegro – small cardboard signs are starting to appear at street corners, on church bulletin boards, taxi stands and on public buses. A small white palm and a banner: Give me a Hand!
Thus begins the “Give the Kids a Hand” initiative.
Under the small white palm image there are words, in Serbian, Albanian and Russian, lending context: “Help stop child abductions in our communities! Report all suspicious activities to Police!”
It is a public interest campaign that soon receives overwhelming support from all citizens. The Serbian Orthodox Community and Church, the Russian Orthodox Church and the Albanian Orthodox population all give voice to their solidarity by spreading the word. Parrish Priests deliver sermons driving awareness of the child abduction problem.
And privately, special BratvaVarang tech units are launching a comprehensive digital monitoring of all police missing children reports and visual mapping of the locations of where they disappeared. They slowly get a feel for where the disappearances are most prevalent. Some communities are getting hit hard. They see patterns. Catholic and Orthodox districts – the majority of municipal subdivisions so afflicted – are experiencing a stubborn increase in child disappearances in and around playgrounds, church playing areas, amusement parks, carnivals and petting zoos. These activities are a magnet for kids going missing. Since Podgorica has the largest concentration of middle-class Catholic and Orthodox neighborhoods and newly married working couples, it makes sense for the Bratva boys to concentrate their focus there and conduct what they describe as a “Beta Test”.
They set it up for Orthodox Easter. The perfect Holiday for children. Christ’s Resurrection. Spring flowers blooming. Parents and their offspring romping off to parks and celebrating in their Easter Sunday outfits. The BratvaVarang get a well-known Montenegrin Charity to file permits for Three days of “Spring Carnival”. Rides. Cotton candy. Food kiosks. Petting Zoos.
Every newsfeed carries the advertisements. It’s Disneyland in Montenegro. But to get in – parents have to pay a slight entrance fee for the park site maintenance and every kid has to wear a wristband. Why? To get on the free rides, of course! Parents too poor to pay the entrance fee are given wrist bands free of charge for their little darlings. But every kid has to wear one.
On the carnival grounds, parents and children wander through acres of rides for all age groups and eat their lunches in beautiful picnic areas. From high noon to dusk, the event breaks all city records for carnival attendance. Police tents are positioned throughout the carnival grounds, and a friendly contingent of uniformed cops go about their duties smiling and strolling, pleasantly interacting with the children and parents. Outwardly, it’s an idyllic scene.
But from day one of the Carnival, high altitude overhead drones and disguised camera locations throughout the parking areas, lavatories and service road locations are proving exactly what the BratvaVarang analysts suspect. Albanian food-service workers, swarthy Roma youth gang types, and motorcycle toughs are hanging back from the children’s rides, infiltrating the outer perimeter lines of trucks, shipping containers and equipment maintenance depots. They’re strategically positioning themselves for mischief. They’re scouting the bumper crop of little kiddies, preparing to pluck a few out. And at this get-together, opportunities abound.
Then things get real.
On day two there are six child disappearance reports – all centered in and around the funhouses, children’s face-painting and petting zoo concentrations of exhibits. These kiosks have been intentionally lumped together to create a warren of isolated walkway areas through which kids have to meander – single file – in order to romp among the myriads of little furry creatures that poke their adorable noses through fencing and beg for crackers.
The surveillance cameras clearly show furtive, sketchy characters moving into and then lurking at areas they shouldn’t be in the precise moment one particular group of parents start screaming their lungs out, calling their children’s names in voices choked with fear:
JANUZ!! KATYA!! ROZEK!! ANNA!! HELP!!! HELP US!!! POLICE!!! JANUUUUUZZ!!! KATYA!!! HELP, POLICE!!!!
It’s a dirty trick – but the bracelets the kids are wearing to get on free carnival rides contain tracker chips. This is all part of the plan.
BratvaVarang operatives dressed as civilians help the hysterical parents frantically search for their missing kids while scanning their tracking screens on iPhones and calling in real backup. The actual police aren’t briefed on this BratvaVarang “Beta Test” – but they’re doing their job keeping the screaming parents isolated at a secure location while they wait for further instructions.
This first phase of Operation “Give the Kids a Hand” is off to a smashing start.
The Six child tracker signals are moving – maybe in some van or other means of transport. They’re already tracking about a half mile beyond the service trucks at the edge of the carnival. An industrial building area, isolated and grimy – with a number of roads providing escape possibilities.
Time is of the essence. Events are moving quickly.
Like the hammers of Hell, eighteen BratvaVarang specially trained operatives led by Major Stejpan Markovic and his second in command, Bratva Captain Andrea Vucic (pronounced “Voo-Chich”), mobilize for action. They’re all outfitted for combat – black tactical gear, weapons, helmets and balaclavas. She’s a long-legged martial artist and tough Serbian “Wet” Unit Commando with real-life combat experience in Bosnia and Herzegovina. Her specialty is killing. Even her fellow operatives are afraid of her. Word has it that she lost most of her family to Bosnian terrorists – and that her young sister was raped to death by them. Captain Andrea Vucic has named their attack teams “Volchya Staya” – Old Slavonic for “Wolfe Packs”. On the left arm of their tactical jackets, they have an embroidered gold Orthodox Crucifix. That is the only badge they display – the Holy Cross of their redemption.
Three Mercedes-Benz panel vans followed by one ambulance hit the pavement – one of many such units of the “Volchya Staya” or “Wolfe Pack” Rapid Deployment Forces. Markovic’s special team are all “Commed-up” and through their earpieces they hear Commander Markovic barking orders-
“BASE – KEEP THE HIGH-ALT DRONES OVER THAT SHITTY SCHOOL BUS AND GIVE US REAL-TIME MAPPING OF THE ROADS AND GEOGRAPHY OF OUR FIVE-MILE RADIUS AS WE FOLLOW IT….I WANT TO KNOW WHERE THEY’RE HEADING AND WHAT’S WAITING WHEN THEY GET THERE….
“AMBULENCE TEAM – STAY SHARP. THERE MAY BE KIDS ALREADY AT THE LOCATION THESE SCUMBAGS ARE DRIVING TO THAT NEED MEDICAL ATTENTION.
EVERYBODY – KEEP YOUR GUNS READY BUT REMEMBER THAT YOU MAKE YOUR POINT WITH MACHETES. TODAY WE GET THE WORD OUT. WE LAY DOWN THE LAW. MAKE THEM SHIT THEIR PANTS.
TODAY WE TAKE THE “HANDS-OFF” APPROACH.
OVER AND OUT”
The miles drone on. About 60 Kilometers – a little less than 50 miles – from Podgorica the school bus turns off the main road onto a dirt service road that leads to waste incinerators and junkyards in a small, unincorporated village called Brescia. It’s famous for car-stripping garages and unregistered pig-slaughterhouses that sell uninspected and diseased pork to illegal immigrants from Albania and the Roma organized crime syndicate. All of its roads are dirt and cratered with deep ruts and potholes. Raw sewage runs down the crushed cement remnants of what used to be curbs. Streets have no road signs. Dilapidated, rotted hulks of thrown-together wooden cabins and lean-tos line the road they bounce along on while toothless, crooked women wander aimlessly on dirt pathways carrying bags of discarded items that they’ll later try to barter somewhere for food. Enhanced overhead drone footage shows a creek or river about 100 feet beyond and parallel to the road they’re on that’s choked with garbage and human waste. It’s apparently the only rainwater collection and septic system the place has. This is a hamlet of abject misery, populated by inbred, sick and desperate people willing to do anything to survive – even kidnap children.
The school bus Markovic’s Wolfe Pack is following at a distance slows and pulls around back of an old, Soviet-era corrugated steel Quonset hut with a dog pen behind it. The bus parks next to a shiny new van with its windows blacked out – a signal there may be out of town visitors inside the hut, waiting to take the stolen children.
The Wolfe Pack stops. They eagerly study their drone screens and watch four men push six small children into a side door almost barricaded by twisted scrap metal and car parts. When their prey disappears inside the structure, Wolfe Pack operatives emerge from their vehicles and stealthily make their way to the perimeter of the ramshackle structure.
Low voices static-call over the Comms. It’s their “Point” or Advance Team.
“COMMANDER – NO TRIP WIRES OR CAMERAS…WE’RE GOOD TO GO. I’M MAKING MY WAY TO THE DOG CAGE WITH OUR SPECIALLY SEASONED RAW MEAT SURPRISE..”
All eighteen BratvaVarang Special Ops take their positions around the Quonset hut. Inside of it they can hear loud Gypsy music, yelling and laughing. Bottles are breaking. Somebody’s loudly cursing in Roma and calling his mate’s mother a whore. There’s a party going on. An all-night drinking marathon is in full swing. They’re obviously celebrating a big payoff to come.
Finally, Markovic gives the signal.
Wolf Park commandos’ storm through the rickety flaps of rusty corrugated steel that serve as doorways and burst inside what looks like an abandoned or condemned garage, strewn throughout with old tools, car parts, rusted fenders, tires and shelves of steel wheel rims. A swarthy, greasy young Roma reaches for a Glock pistol on a table next to him – and Markovic calmly blows his brains out.
The other men freeze dead in place. The gun’s report is deafening inside the flimsy, uninsulated steel structure and shocks them senseless.
Suddenly a side door to an inner room to flies open. A startled Simeon Khazar rushes into the room – still fumbling with his pants zipper. His belt droops down around his thighs, and his white shirt is smeared with what looks like fresh blood. He’s still wearing his distinctive black hat and sporting long side curls beside his face. Another, younger Khazar stops at the doorway opening and thrusts up his hands at the sight of the Wolfe Pack’s guns pointing at him. He screams “Don’t shoot!” in Serbian.
Markovic gestures to his Second in Command, Captain Andrea Vucic. This is her specialty.
“CAPTAIN VUCIC!! THE ROOM- NOW!!”
Captain Vucic and two men carefully enter the side room, guns ready, disappearing inside. Within a few minutes sounds of children crying can be heard. Captain Vucic reappears; an unconscious blonde girl is cradled in her arms – about eight years old. The girls’ clothes are ripped into shreds, and blood is dripping out of the rags she has pulled around her. Captain Vucic wastes no time.
“THIS GIRL HAS BEEN RAPED – SHE’S TORN OPEN AND HEMORRHAGING – WE NEED TO GET HER TO A HOSPITAL – STAT! SHE SAYS SHE’S BEEN HERE FOR TWO DAYS – THE OTHER KIDS APPEAR OK – LET’S GET THEM ALL INTO THE AMBULANCE AND ON THE ROAD NOW!”
Captain Vucic and four Bratva ops lead the kids outside to the ambulance while Markovic silently holds everyone in the Quonset hut – the five remaining Albanian and Roma abductors and the two Simeon Khazars – at gunpoint. The awkward silence makes them start muttering among themselves. Smells of sweat, panic and fear soon fill the disgusting garage.
The Khazar with the blood-smeared shirt speaks first – in Serbian. He’s confident – smug even. He acts like he has friends in high places – like he’s above small matters like child rape and facilitating abduction. He’s never spent a day in jail. His voice drips with disdain.
“I’ll offer you twice whatever you’re being paid – in gold -just let me and my Landsman go…. you may do whatever you want with these losers here…”
Captain Vucic returns and whispers into Markovic’s ear. He smiles gives her a gentle nod.
Her voice is firm.
“Where were you going to take these children?”
The Khazar is defiant – he’s losing patience with them all. He raises his voice.
“TO HELL – WHERE YOUR NAZARENE FALSE GOD IS NOW BOILING IN A CAULDRON FILLED WITH HUMAN EXCREMENT! RELEASE US AT ONCE! YOU HAVE NO AUTHORITY OVER WE KHAZARS!”
Now it’s time for Captain Vucic to raise her voice.
HEAR ME NOW, SIMEON KHAZAR:
WE ARE A WOLFE PACK DEATH UNIT.
SIMEON KHAZARS ABDUCT CATHOLIC AND ORTHODOX CHILDREN SO THEY CAN BE TORTURED BY VAMPYRES AND HARVESTED FOR ADRENOCHROME;
SIMEON KHAZARS CONTROL THE ADRENOCHROME TRADE – YOU ARE THE MINIONS OF SATAN – AND WORSHIP BAAL AND MOLOCH IN YOUR SYNOGOGUES OF SATAN;
WOLFE PACK DEATH UNITS WILL VISIT JUSTICE ON ALL SIMEON KHAZARS WHO TOUCH OUR CHILDREN.
WE HAVE TWO RULES:
RULE ONE: YOU LAY HANDS ON OUR CHILDREN – YOU LOSE THEM;
RULE TWO: YOU RAPE OUR CHILDREN – AND YOU EAT YOUR OWN DICK.
Captain Vucic looks at Markovic.
“It is time.”
Markovic gestures to his BratvaVarang Wolf Pack.
Three Roma men, sweating profusely, are dragged to a table near the center of the garage where half-filled Vodka bottles are lined up. A huge Bratva boy named Yuri draws his machete and whacks off the hands of each of them while they scream at the top of their lungs. Another Bratva op calmly ties their bloody stumps off. A third Bratva op gets a length of paracord, ties one end to their left-hand thumb and the other to their right-hand thumb and wraps the matched sets of severed hands around their necks like a necklace. The two remaining Albanian men scream so uncontrollably that they have to be knocked out to undergo their “operation”. They, too, get a handy-dandy necklace.
The restrained Khazars watch this all with mounting horror. They know they are next. The younger Khazar is actually shaking, and the front of his trousers are soaked through with his own urine.
Captain Vucic’s edgy, clipped voice heightens the tension.
“WHERE WERE YOU INTENDING TO TAKE THESE CHILDREN?”
The Khazar in the blood-smeared shirt screams at his younger Tribesman.
‘KEEP YOUR MOUTH SHUT!!! TELL THEM NOTHING!!”
Captain Vucic pushes the younger Khazar into the side room and slams the door behind her.
Screams erupt. And then more screams.
Captain Vucic re-enters larger room – brandishing a severed, bloody left hand. She rubs the bloody stump on the beard and side curls of the Khazar who is clearly in charge, smearing blood all over his face and lips. He writhes in the firm grip of the massive BratvaVarang warriors holding him fast, his depraved eyes burning with rage.
“THE SYNOGOGUE IN KREPOPAVNIA – FIFTY KILOMETERS AWAY!! THAT IS WHERE YOU WERE TAKING THE CHILDREN!! YOUR TRIBESMAN SWORE THIS BY RAISING HIS REMAINING RIGHT HAND. PERHAPS WE’LL LET HIM KEEP IT!!
The Khazar yells out at the top of his lungs –
“GO TO HELL, YOU WHORE!!! BOIL IN EXCREMENT THERE WITH YOUR FALSE GOD!!!”
Captain Vucic calmly puts the bleeding, severed left hand of the Khazar’s companion into his suit jacket pocket. Her voice is raised but solemn, like a Judge delivering his final sentence of death to a prisoner in the dock.
“YOU RAPED THAT YOUNG GIRL. NOW YOU WILL EAT YOUR OWN DICK. NEXT YOU WILL LOSE YOUR HANDS”.
Vucic rips the man’s trousers down. The BratvaVarang warriors barely restrain him as he twists and contorts his body in abject dread and horror. His underwear and sex organs are congealed with the little girls’ blood. She reaches into the opening of his filthy boxer shorts and pulls out the Khazars’ penis. He screams at the top of his lungs, knowing what is about to happen. Vucic draws out her switchblade and flicks it open in front of his petrified eyes. She slices the tip of his penis off in one swipe and jams it into his screaming mouth, holding her pointed blade underneath his jaw and yelling into his ear:
“CHEW IT!!! CHEW IT AND SWALLOW IT YOU FILTHY DEMON!! I WANT TO SEE YOU SWALLOW IT!!! SWALLOW IT – YOU PERVERTED SATANIC FIEND!!!!
Sure enough, he swallows. Yuri then whacks his hands off and a necklace of bloody, severed appendages is fashioned for him, too.
The younger Khazar is allowed to keep his remaining hand so he can drive his comrade – now passed out from shock and blood loss – back to the Synogogue in Krepopavnia. He swears again – raising his shaking, lonely right paw – that he will convey to his Tribesmen the Wolf Packs’ message.
This “message” will spread like wildfire. And the import of it will be clear:
Leave our children alone.
*NO PART OF THIS WORK PRODUCT IS GENERATED BY AI*
Copyright, 2026 – Jon Croft
www.bogironfoundry.com
Email: vlchek1@gmail.com
