Miljan The Serb

Miljan “The Enforcer” Vasić, AKA Miljan The Serb, scratched his balls as he read the piece of paper. The letter had been slipped under his door in a white envelope that bore a gold embossed seal. The front contained his name and had been written with perfect penmanship in a script that would have looked right at home on a two hundred year old book cover. He supposed every one of the players had just received the same hand-written card explaining the changes to the game.

Fresh out of the shower, he dripped water onto the carpet as he read it again. The envelope had already found its way into the trash bin but the note would serve another purpose.

Miljan, like the others in Chicken Dinner, had slept in his own hotel room and then eaten a feast for breakfast. Anything on the menu, and yes, anything could be customized. So when they’d called him the night before to ask what he would like to eat, he had ordered something unique. The front desk had taken the order without question, and promised that it would be delivered by seven a.m.

“Not too fucking early, yeah? I need beauty sleep,” Miljan had said with a chuckle.

“Of course, sir. And may I say, best of luck in the game,” the woman with the British accent had stated.

“You may say. Also please send up a bottle of vodka? Not the best stuff. Not the worst stuff, just make sure is tastes like rubbing alcohol.”

“Of course, sir. But might I ask if that’s the best thing to do the night before the game?”

“You might ask. I might tell. Is good for soul, and I keel best with hungover, er, hangover,” Miljan had said, eliciting a sharp intake of breath. Miljan had chuckled upon hanging up as he imagined the pained face of the receptionist after talking to a killer who was gleeful about the coming game.

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The food had been delivered on time, and it had consisted of a half pound flame-broiled hamburger without a bun. Americans loved their bread, and to an extent, so did he. But in a few hours he would be on his way to the drop zone, and he wanted to have as much protein in his system as possible. On top of the burger he had ordered a pair of eggs, cooked over-easy. On either side of the burger sat two perfectly cooked boneless, skinless, chicken breasts. The only condiment he had asked for was a large side of ranch dressing.

Miljan had a great deal of respect for his homeland, and the food of his youth, particularly podvarak, or musaka, but having lived in America for the past decade he had developed a taste for such things as ranch dressing on everything. Even steak.

So, he dumped the dressing on the food.

Miljan found the remote for the television, ordered some porn on the free feed, and then kicked back on the bed and consumed every bite of food. Miljan was a large man and he had a large appetite. It wasn’t just his size. He had bulk, and his refined muscles bore tattoos from his adventures overseas. Some would call him a mercenary; he liked to think of himself as more of a man of opportunity.

Now he faced his greatest opportunity, and a large number of trained adversaries.

Today should be fun.

Miljan had decided to enter the game for a number of reasons. Chief among them was the fact that Serbians had gotten a bad rap over the past decade. It seemed like every single Hollywood movie that needed an Eastern Bloc bad guy had chosen a Serb. There was even a film called A Serbian Film from his homeland. An arthouse flick more porn than proper movie. But it was more bloody than the real thing. He’d seen men killed in a lot of different ways; what he had never seen was blood spurting out of someone at high velocity.

Usually, when you shot someone, and did it right the first time, they dropped. There was no explosion of blood, and once the heart stopped pumping it was up to gravity to do the trick and create a pool of red. He’d once stabbed a man in the back of the neck and the sound had been more sickening than the actual damage to the flesh. The victim had sat straight up in shock, and then his life had evaporated in seconds.

Miljan grinned as he lapped up the last of the juice with his fingers and jammed it into his mouth.

It was time to get ready to go, but the raven-haired beauty getting banged on the screen put him in a different mood.

Might be the last time, he thought with a shrug.