Amsterdam, March 9, 2006







So help you God, Nikola,




How are you? How are your heroic wounds? How is your family doing? I’ve heard you’ve even been to Foca. Your death squad betrayed me, Slobodan Pivljanin, in Foca … But I’m not betrayed by all the Serbs. You do not know them, you will never meet them. It’s your fault. Well,




these Serbs took off the uniform of our highest general! They brought it to me to Amsterdam. I hung it on the wall like a painting. One should just look at things like that. I am grateful to them for this. I said a last goodbye to Iris in this uniform. The new highest commander of all war and peace forces should wear this uniform.

What should I tell you? You already know that I temporarily ‘froze’ your position as the Minister of war. This is better than to send you the same medal we sent that time together to our first president. The Serbian crowd complained to me that you are avoiding them. Criminals boast you support them. They told me you got a diplomatic passport! Don’t you remember when people from Pivljane told you that only ‘their’ bastards have passports? When they gave me here in the West a diplomatic passport to go and kill some Russians in Moscow, I hung it in my toilet. The toilet is the place for those kinds of things. Truly speaking, I never trusted you. Only Iris believed in you and you betrayed her. Shame on you!

Where are you? What are you doing? Do you have food to eat? Do you have enough money to pay for your rent? At this moment, I cannot help you; don’t be surprised if they kick me out on the street. If it finally happens that the Dutch Kingdom gives me a status of a guest, then I’ll send you my leftovers. I have only debts now.

They told me you are a terrorist and they adviced me to renounce you. But instead, I just started to hate you. I don’t believe Nikola Kavaja is a terrorist, I believe Nikola Kavaja is a great man. Indeed! These were the words of Montenegrenean Ceme in front of our house. Listen, everybody lies. Do you know why my uncle hanged my dogs? Because they all had names. Before I was born, the name of the German shepherd was Hitler and she-dog Hitlerkinja. After I was born, they named me Slobodan and the dogs Stalin and Stalinka. The dog Stalin and she-dog Stalinka were sentenced to be hanged by the grandpa Gas. My German shepherds were killed by people because of their names. That’s how it happened.

Please don’t believe anything you hear from Vuk and Danica. Do you really believe Slobo Milosevic really signed any of the documents they showed you? It’s all forgery. Slobodan Milosevic never signed any document. Dear Nikola, that man didn’t know how to sign his name. He was illiterate. All the documents were signed by Mira in the name of his presidency of that mutilated Yugoslavia and later of Serbia. Do you have their documents? Of course you don’t. Mira is not stupid like that Adolf’s Goebels to leave something for you to read.

Slobodan Milosevic is innocent. He never shot at Vuk; Vuk fixed and faked that himself. He had a bit more of that Montenegrenean grappa [brandy] and went mad. He broke his own head with an empty bottle, as if the bottle was to be blamed for being empty… Then the Wolf [Vuk means wolf] went to the balcony and shoot with the Kalashnikov Tito gave him as a present through the window into the bed where he was sleeping. Then he came back from the balcony, locked the door, dismantled the machinegun and put it into his business bag and at the end hid underneath the bed until help came.

The cops in Bar know all this. Policemen are not as dumb as Wolf believed them to be. The people from the police station saw that traces of Vuk’s green blood led first to the balcony and then to the room. The whole balcony was covered with Wolf’s blood. But what else can the poor guy do when his Danica wears the same wool panties with a zipper like Slobodan’s Mira.




How is your writing going? What are you writing on now? You are not chasing Tito again I hope? Nikola, Tito is dead. But he also didn’t know much either.

It’s all ok, my brother. Do you know that joke the communists loved to tell among themselves? Somebody said Tito also decided to go to the West as a ‘gastarbeiter’ to earn some money, since he was not satisfied with his salary. But the UDBA didn’t let him leave. Then Tito made a plan just like Vuk and went to Slovenia for medical treatment. Then the communists decided to amputate his legs to prevent him from running away. And you wanted to kill him, to throw away bullets for nothing.

How’s life in Dorcol? At that place where you spend your days, I installed electricity for that famous Macedonian baker. You see, the Serbs were wrong when they said: you let Macedonian sell peanuts all over Serbia and at the end he takes over even the Jewish bakeries in Belgrade’s Dorcol. That’s why no Serbian believed Carter, since they thought he was a Macedonian, because his brother was in the peanuts’ business. I know Carter proclaimed you to be the No. 1 state enemy that day when you took over the airport in Chicago for 24 hours. In hundreds of UN member countries they would kill you even for just thinking about doing something like this, and with the blessing of USA, peanut-Carter gave you the chance to save yourself. You know, if my acquaintance from KOS, Radovan Karadzic, was in power, God forbid, he would publicly execute you even today. Just stay close to Ljuba Tadic and his son and your guy from Cacak, they are just the same as that peanut-Carter.

So, my older brother, as you gladly referred to me in your letters, how did it happen that you killed three guys from Tito’s border patrol and you staid alive? I remember when they used to kill people for only slapping these guys. You wouldn’t even be able to crawl back to that train from which you jumped. I went through all these trains and all the trains in Tito’s Yugoslavia. I even used to live in these trains for some time. And then you are surprised that Hoover wasn’t that stupid after all, but signed that document for his secret service to follow you night and day. What did you expect? You didn’t come to free America to sell peanuts.

If it wasn’t for Slobodan Milosevic and your sister, a new saint Iris, you would drown in that prison in Louisiana. Iris had always a special expression of adoration on her face when we used to talk about you or when your letters were read. She believed in you and she believed that God will give you enough strength to survive. I disagreed. I told her you became someone who used to pick-up women and they had to pay for the hotel rooms. Well, Kavaja is not Lataster. Lataster was a famous Dutch rich communist painter who taught Iris abstract painting. Iris even paid the hotel for this communist, down to her last penny, for all she cared was painting. Until the day when she became sick of him and his paints. I told her you were even worse. Before she went to meet God, she asked me to think about you once again. And to contact you again, never mind, what happened in the past happened.

But tell me please who is selling here peanuts to whom? Some criminals told me you are trading peanuts with mafia from Milan. Listen Nikola, I shoot with the same gun that sent Kennedy to heavenly mountains.

And in the native village of my older brother Vlado Sipcic, Crna Gora, I sabotaged Tito’s gun carried by his supporter Radoje. He wasn’t able to kill me or commit suicide even if Tito would order him to do so. Vlado Sipcic used to give me a ride on his bike even before I played the game pretending to be Milos Obilic. I was almost five. He put me in front of the bike and my   young beautiful mother on the back, a proud descendant of Stevan Music. At that time, Radoje was attending a school for Tito’s generals in Sarajevo. And Sipcic showed us that day the Piva river, calling my mother ‘sister’. All three of us slept in the stable next to the mine on our land. Well, in the forests of Piva everybody had a right to meet whomever they wanted. I am grateful for that to dear God, I used to meet Tito’s and the king’s ministers, and they taught me the history of the Serbian people. All Montenegro is for freedom. Soko Mountain gave me the opportunity to sit on Herzog’s stone throne. To judge. To judge. To judge.

But whom did you meet in Piva?

They told me you plan to make a movie about Vlado Sipcic. Iris was astounded. She told me, “Vlado Sipcic is yours, what is Nikola doing in Piva? Didn’t he say that if he ever set foot on Yugoslavian soil, he would go straight to Kosovo?” I have nothing against you making a movie about Vlado Sipcic and his ‘brothers’ Milan Bjelica and Milan Medenica. Glory to them.

Do you have somebody to help you?

How is the priest Stevlic doing? Give him my best regards, also from their late ‘sister’ Iris. Thank you all – whether you hear me or not – for helping us out. How is the priest Nikola Stjepanovic? Is he still alive? Are his two sons still alive? Is his wife, the teacher, still alive? Do they still live next to the parliament? Pay them a visit and give them my greetings, especially to Nikola’s son who got the opportunity from God to sit and do nothing. My special greetings to Vojkan. Tell the teacher that she was a real Serbian mother. I don’t know the priest Nikola personally, but give him my greetings.

You are wrong for saying that I did wrong to someone. I did wrong only to the bastard sons of the bitch. But I never did any harm to the noble Serbian people of freedom on our heavenly Balkans.

They complained to me that you insulted some young guy from Novi Sad who was your publisher. You told him that people used to lose their heads for smaller words. Yes they did. And Christ suffered because of the same kind of people. With whom do you argue? Tito’s youth? Thank God, you never killed or betrayed anyone, that’s how I knew you and that’s who you really are.

One bully from Piva complained you are too uneducated, that you knew nothing about freedom fighters. Nikola, well, I can’t help you since you haven’t recognized him. “Who is he to make the movie about my commander?” a Serbian commy told me, the one that cut his own finger off to punish himself. I will take you one day, my old boy, to Piva. Why are you in a hurry? Wait for your buddy Sjole Pivljanin.

I have to ask you for a big favor. Please take care of that guy who is the only Tito’s follower – his grand grandfather supported me through the school for years. Don’t let him die for nothing. If something like that happens, you should commit hara-kiri together with your death squad. And to the ones who don’t want to commit it, you know, people in Piva are very hospitable, so they will be glad to help. There is a special stoning squad in Piva that respects Moses’ law. And God can’t help you. Welcome to Piva, dear Nikola Kavaja and welcome to your death squad!

God makes war without bullets – God makes war with freedom and stars.

Our is war – war without bullets – we make war with freedom and stars. All we ask is a tear instead of water and a piece of bread, and a piece of bread.

I don’t see why you people from Cetinje consider yourself to be the biggest Montenegreneans? My honor to the ones I know personally, but the ones some other people introduced me to I consider to be the biggest jerks. One gray and cold night in




Paris, some Draza’s guy from Sumadija made an appointment for me with the Montenegrenean representative in Paris. We both showed up for the meeting, he looked fresh and shaved, dressed up in a Pierre Cardin’s suit made for him by some balijas [Bosnian Muslim militants] from Sarajevo, and I was hungry a a wolf, tired and smelled like an animal, for I lived in the French metropolis like a recruited tramp with Tito’s passport. However, we both came to that ‘white house’. Everywhere around I saw Montenegrenean national dresses. It looked like a bar, but this ambassador from Cetinje introduced himself: “Cegovic!” “Slobodan Pivljanin!” I replied. “Well Pivljani are not Montenegreneans”, this Tito’s pupil opened up. At the end, Draza’s guy from Sumadija had to take me with him, but he only took me to Gare du Lion station. He gave me neither a tear instead of water nor a piece of bread. “Well, if your own Montenegreneans don’t care about you, what can we Serbs do for you”, he said. I still curse and pray God to save his soul.

One friend of mine from Cetinje was a painter and attended the Belgrade art academy. He loved me a lot since I defined myself as a Montenegrenean and he loved me as much as he loved Njegos. I loved him because he looked like Njegos. They asked him at the art academy in Belgrade to shave his beard and Belgrade girls objected this. They loved him since he was virginal like Njegos. “Hey Montenegrenean, I shaved your Njegos and cut his hear off to look like Lovcen mountain”, a Belgrade policeman from Niksic came to tease me, and today he is a general, eats shit and pretends not to know me.

“They are stupid just like the ones in Paris”, said Montenegrenean.

“What do you mean?” I was curious.

“You don’t know that joke about a Parisian artist?”

“Yes I do. And how come that you know it too?”

“I knew it for some time now, but I remembered it now after they trimmed me.”

“And shaved!” I added.

“Yes, and shaved. But let me first tell you that joke again .”

“Please tell me.”

“Some guys from Cetinje run away to Paris, shaved their beards and sit somewhere to wait. Suddenly, they saw a guy with a beard coming into their bar. “Are you crazy?” they protested. “Why didn’t you shave your beard?” The French guy didn’t understand them. They brought in a translator and explained him that they thought he was a chetnik since he was wearing a beard. “I’m no chetnik, I am an artist” the French guy replied. “The artists in Paris all wear beards.” “What did I tell you?” said one of the freshly shaved Parisian chetnik. “All guys from Cetinje were and are artists.”

“And that’s why they trimmed you in prison?”

“No, they caught me for publicly telling this joke and then sent me to prison where they trimmed my hair.”

“And shaved” I added once again.

“And shaved. According to Tito’s pupils, Njegos’ beard makes even him a chetnik” he sighed. “Let God forgive them for they don’t know what they are doing. I forgave them.”

That was a first tear of my friend from Cetinje. After this, he became numb. He couldn’t go over these new experiences. The last time we met on Knez Mihailo Street, he was trimmed and shaved again and he said through his teeth: “You Montenegrenean, I’m sick of them.”

“What’s the problem now?”

“I met a beautiful girl from Belgrade.”

“Thank God,” I replied. “Well they couldn’t shave you for that.”

“Yes they did! I slapped him, her.”

“What on earth are you trying to say – he or she!”

“That girl had round things. I got really sick.”

And that’s how my friend from Cetinje ran away from the battlefield. 




I went to prison in Padinska Skela where I spent five to six days and met different kinds of people. Afterwards, I went back to my father. Nobody believed him when he said I was in Padinska Skela. My father told this to his other kids that they cut off my hair in prison. “Tito’s Misho complained to his dad, because he was jealous of our boy for leading a war for freedom and stars.” So Misho couldn’t take it anymore and ordered security chief Cizmic and his assistant Krstic the boxer to introduce him to this Montenegrenean son of a bitch. That was no problem since we were good friends at that time and Tito met his demand.

“Hey, Montenegrenean!” said Tomo Sisacki. “Tito’s son Misho asked me to introduce him to you.”

“Misho isn’t Tito’s son.”


“Misho is Tito’s grandson.”

This Croatian guy felt relieved, “Montenegrenean, please turn around. Misho is waiting for you to wave to him.”

“Why do you care about that?” I asked.


So I turned around, we were sitting in the garden of Belgrade restaurant “At the horse”. I saw a pale retarded face smiling at me. I looked at him and he waved back. I looked at the other people around, everybody was sitting silently. For the first time in history you could hear only birds singing in the middle of the city. The UDBA chief crawled back to Misho and the latter slapped his face. “You screwed up, Montenegrenean,” said Tomo and disappeared from my life. All I ask is a tear instead of water and a piece of bread. And Misho gave me a whole jug of tears instead of water but he gave me no bread. The Old Man [Tito] was angry like a bull. His mind was blocked for a few minutes. Even the shrink Karadzic couldn’t help him. Tito’s dream for his son Misho to replace him at the throne of ‘brotherhood and equality’ was over. “You screwed up, Montenegrenean!” But all I heard were the sounds of a gusle and voice of the Croat poet Mazuranic:

“The stick [piercing his body] turned several times

the saber hit several times

but young Montenegrenean didn’t utter a word

when his soul left him.”

Your guys from Dedinje took me in front of the Old Man with pointed guns. “You screwed up, Montenegrenean!” said Tito’s ustasha from Sisak to me .

And our Jovan Jovanovic Zmaj wrote the following poem:

“Montenegrenean you little emperor,

who doesn’t have words of praise for you?

You hit with your sword and you cut with your sword

With the sword you earn your glory.”



When they brought me in front of Tito, his whole squad had guns pointed at me. I loved Tito so much at that time that he fainted when he realized that. If there had not been a priest from Piva who slapped Tito a few times, just like your Lazarevic from CIA used to slap king Peter in front of you, Tito would never have come back. Stevan slapped him in front of Arkan and his grandmother. And brought Tito back to life. That’s when Tito appointed me to be chief of his death squad together with Arkan’s grandmother. Listen you, lieutenant, in my squad I had only majors and colonels from all parts of SFRY. Only I lead a war without bullets, I lead a war with freedom and stars. Their plan failed. And you guys from America failed too; you wanted to judge me and to judge me and to judge me. Our people will judge all of us, don’t worry about that Nikola. I loved you so much when I read your book you sent me, the one in which you rejected that son of a bitch Lazarevic who had ordered you to liquidate Tito’s deserter in America. You were also a Tito’s deserter. But why did you kill Lazarevic’s brother Boskovic in Brussels? Was it really just for that album of 

old stamps? Why don’t you write about that, Nikola? Or are you still afraid? I know dear brother what it means to live in fear. But please be brave. You are better as a writer than any commandos. Even Wolf wrote you that time that he hoped you would be allowed to spend your honorarium in Belgrade. I still keep these letters in a safe place, don’t worry. I told you I didn’t trust you. I asked many people who might know you to tell me something about you . “Pilot, my ass! Are you insane? He was a regular soldier and took care of the hangars of airplanes spraying against mosquitos. And in Crvenka everybody could make a photo in the shop dressed as pilots any way they wished”, some relative of your Tadic told me while he was here on assignment to kill both Slobo and Tudjman at that treacherous conference in The Hague.

You see, Hoover didn’t know you were just cleaning the plane hangars. Trust me, every soldier would envy you. “Kavaja always worked for us”, Tito’s sacked generals still say.

“Are you sure about that?” I reply to them.

So, Nikola, my brother, why don’t you show up at the court in The Hague and tell them the truth? You know who ordered the slaughter of Muslims in Srebrenica. You have these documents. Why do you put the blame on that poor namesake of mine? Are you trying to kill him even though he is innocent? Shame on you! Appear before the court and tell the truth. Do not fear that nobody would believe you, the world must hear the truth. And tell them who punched the eyes of little Milosevic’s girl in Chicago when you slaughtered your brother. She only recognized Wolf. But they will slaughter you as well, I pray not, but they will if you don’t wake up.

Why did you stop your war without bullets?

Do you really believe Rados Nedic ordered to liquidate me just because I refused to kill the late Vladimir Dapcevic? No, Nikola, Nedic asked me in front of my parents: “I know you are against us, but please tell us where we have made a mistake?”

So I told him. “Don’t worry, I will give you a villa at Zlatibor next to mine. Comrade Vlahovic will give you another one next to his at the Adriatic. You can choose one at Dedinje as well. But you must tell us the truth, I’m sick of lies! I’m sick of gossip! It’s not all only red and white as it seems!”

“You didn’t know who the hajduks are, hungry wolfs. You didn’t know which hajduks were chasing other hajduks, comrade Nedic!”

“You are crazy!” so he turned to my parents, “Both psychiatrists, Tadic and Karadzic sent him back to you.” Then he told me, “Kill that shitty Dapcevic so we’ll be able to trust you again.”

Then Dobrila asked, “Rados, in which currency and how much will you deposit in his account for that job?”

“His grandchildren won’t be able to spend it.”

“Rados,” my father said. “You know who Radoje is. I don’t want a penny in my account. I don’t want a dinar. My son works for you for six years now. I want you to give him the same salary as yours, Rados Nedic. My son will shoot no one. And you, dear wife, you start behaving like Djurdjija Tadic!”

“And you start behaving like your sister Milka Nedic!” Dobrana replied.

You see, Nikola, how things were then. You met my mother Dobrana. If Rados Nedic would even offer her a cottage at Dedinje, my dear mother would cut my head off as well.  

My mother went to the chief of UDBA when I was expelled from Foca and said to him, “My son wants to kill Tito!” “I know that,” replied the guy. “That’s why we brought him here! And we told Broz, thta the kid that was supposed to shoot you in Tjentiste now lives 

across your office. His grandfather killed a Muslim high priest in the mosque. He was expelled from Foca and he still wants to succeed you.”

You tiny fly Nikola, you know that guy was very short, just like you.


I didn’t kill Vlado. I took him with me to the center of Brussels and let him go. He admitted he was receiving money from his friends from Goli Otok camp where he spent a couple of years of his life with them. I didn’t take that against him. He admitted that Draza’s followers didn’t want to be his friends. He admitted he wanted to become red again and that he would destroy everyone who disagreed with him. He admitted that the Soviets betrayed him. He admitted he didn’t like China’s communism. He admitted thta he did not want revolution but evolution. He admitted that there were many lies written about the history of the Second World War.

Nikola, I had hundreds of most fanatic hajduks from every part of Tito’s battalions at my disposal to bring Vlado Dapcevic by force to Belgrade. Italy, Germany, Holland, France, Belgium all agreed to pass through their territory with a special parcel containing the dead Vlado Dapcevic. And I just let him go in the center of Brussels to leave for Bucharest. You know what they did to him in Bucharest. Vlado never thanked me for letting him go, even though he admitted he would take a money even from criminals just to dethrone Tito. Nobody forgave me.You know how they used to sing about Vlado in Piva: “Somebody rides the horse; it could be only Vlado or his brother Peko.”Listen, before the crazy UDBA fell so low to kidnap Vlado, I new everything about Vlado, Peko, and Tempo. My only real friend Branko lived with his mother, my aunt Ana. Aunt Ana was a catholic Montenegrenean woman with three more sisters. One of them was married to a honorable Serbian who was at that time Serbian president. I knew him personally. Aunt Ana was the most famous fashion designer in Belgrade. Her dresses wore all first ladies and even Tito’s Jovanka. Aunt Ana grew up with Peko, Vlado, and Tempo. At the times when you weren’t even a sperm, Peko, Vlado, and Tempo used to spend their summers in Sutomore and lived for free at aunt Ana’s parents’ house. She used to design all the dresses for Vlado Dapcevic’s wife and also to Peko’s actress. Aunt Ana was a real goddess. You think, my marshal of united Serbian Army, that I was Vuk Draskovic-Brankovic to betray aunt Ana and send her only son to Goli Otok camp? Her son Branko was my karate teacher, we were friends once but then parted. I knocked Branko down at Tasmajdan swimming pool in front of hundreds of Belgrade people. Your guy from Cetinje who worked as rescuer and his helper in the policeman’s uniform just came and asked me “What did he do wrong to you?” You think he told something to aunt Ana?





I met Branko sometime in autumn in 1965 at judo club “Partizan” at the stadium of Yugoslav Peoples’ Army. That’s where I used to train judo and he karate. I came there after I learned dju-djicu in Zemun in the club of Yugoslav War Airforces from Sasa and doctor Mujo. When Tito’s UDBA cut me apart with bricks in Skadarlija in September 1973, and two days after Tito’s doctors stitched me, doctor Mujo and my teacher Jorga did complete makeover of my whole face and head. I thank them for that. A week after in the central prison, the president of communist party of the prison in Belgrade used the same razor they slaughtered Draza with to cut my under chin that Jorga and Mujo fixed before. I don’t mind, it looks good on me. I hope Marx will forgive him for this. Do you think I told anything to Vlado Dapcevice? Nikola, when I was a kid, I used to dream about me replacing Tito when he dies. You could just suck my dick then to kill me! Branko’s father, Mr. Petkovic, was a famous politician and he was imprisoned and divorced Aunt Ana. I met him as well at some audition for actors where I refused to act for them. I learned acting when I was a kid and I used to be an actor in Foca. They rejected me at the Academy for Film, Television and Theater in Belgrade since I refused to be raped by a Belgrade actress who was a president of the admission commission. I told her in public she was a whore and that she should look for a dick somewhere else. “As long as I live, you won’t be allowed even to step into this academy” she said so loudly that the whole room was shaking. For the first time in her life she didn’t act. She was pretty but Lola, Branko’s fiancée was hundred light years ahead of her. Nikola, if you were loved only one day by a woman like Lola, you would never hijack that plane. Lola was a secretary at the Political School in Belgrade where all diplomats had to go through. And she raped me in director’s office. Would you report her for that? Lola took me to the widow and orphans of Slobodan Penezic Krcun to his apartment in Terazije Street. Branko Petkovic worked out a plan to band Lola and, inspired by the Nazi methods, put her in the bathtub where cold water would drip on her forehead, drop by drop, until she goes mad. Dusko advised him that, the guy who was a head of political resistance against Tito and a son of a main UDBA guy in the federal police. Of course I was the one to prevent that. I was interested only in one thing: who bestially slaughtered two Montenegrenean kids in Sutomore? The history will prove I was right! As gratitude for saving her life, Lola revealed the names of all Tito’s secret agents in the West: her sister Mika/Uri in London, sons of your good friends and colonels Nikola Stepanovic and Djordjevic. I won’t tell you the names of the others. Lola’s father, general Djuric, wanted to go to the wedding of his daughter in 1973 and kill the groom only if I accepted to take her to be my wife. General Djuric from Belgrade was a main communist leader even during the times of Yugoslav kingdom.

Nikola, do you know who are the real Belgrade people? I think of the ones whose grand grandmothers and grand grandfathers came to Belgrade. These are really amazing people. I hope the God will save them from disappearance. The rest of us who came and staid there have not even an ounce of Belgrade lordliness. The real Belgrade people are ashamed of us and they have every right for that. My general Nikola Kavaja, an army of real Belgarde men and women would never allow for their town to be bombarded by anyone. People from metropolis lead their war without bullets.




You know, I’m not like Slobodan Milosevic to use a pussy to get the throne. At the times when she was my girlfriend when she came to visit me while in the army in Slavonska Pozega, Lola was my fiancée (????). Nikola, do you know what’s written in the files of your KOS since 1963? “Execute Slobodan Mitric in the case of war crisis.” So now you know who your ‘younger brother’ is. Please, don’t listen to things you hear from the other people. Man, get serious once in your life.

How’s the weather in Belgrade? Here rains and snows. Something always falls. I hope God will save this wonderful Dutch people from drowning. The Dutch are the Montenegreneans of the German people but without mountains. They fight a constant battle with the sea. The Dutch are the only people on earth who created their state by stealing the land from the sea; the other lands were created by the God. Iris believed you would help her to bring needless stones from Montenegro to Holland so she could make the mountains on the coast that will protect Holland for ever from the water. In return, she promised the Dutch will send for every stone a piece of fertile soil so we could also plant fruits and vegetables.

That would be a fair trade, my old brother. But this trade even Tito wasn’t aloud to except and how could you. When that priest who slapped Tito told him to ask for the permission from Moscow to give to the Dutch the stones to defend against the sea, Stalin angrily replied, “My dear comrade, my old communist, who is spoiling our red trade? Why don’t Austria or Switzerland give them their rocks? Why the Austrians didn’t give them a single stone to protect from the sea?” Then Tito replied, “I don’t give a damn. Let them drawn.

And Iris had hopes in you and she dreamed about the Dutch mountains. Why didn’t you give her those stones? Why didn’t the psychiatrist Karadzic give the stones from Savnik, I ask you?

You would sing a new song: Montenegro and Holland that is our fatherland.

So, who killed Radovan Karadzic? I believe you know that.

How much do you know about the stealing of the Czech nerve gas (SENU GAS DZ5) they planned to put in the planes that fell on New York and Washington? I heard you were telling the others you were the one who prevented this catastrophe and that’s why the Americans gave you the pension. I congratulate you on this.

Contact me when you have time.

Lots of greetings from your younger brother,

Dr.Slobodan of Piva



Dit bericht werd geplaatst in Nieuws en politiek. Bookmark de permalink .



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