Sixteen years after the culmination of the Balkan War, the Bastard of Belgrade has been caught.
By ‘caught,’ one must understand the verb in its loosest form: he was escorted from his high-rise flat in the center of the nation’s capital after (allegedly, ahem) being looked after by Serbian security forces in the interim.
The same forces of the same country that for 16 years denied knowledge of his whereabouts.
He even attended football matches.
There is no corner of hell too hot, no punishment too great for his crimes.
There are no words for joy, only a sadness that such a man can continue without the prickling of guilt.
He is no man, but a soulless beast.