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I reckon it’s the ocean’s pimp—runnin’ the show, takin’ no shit. Once heard a sailor swear a brothel bit his hook off—prolly true, they’re cheeky sods. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but I’d bet my last coin it’d outdrink me. “Too cool for this century,” that’s brothel—rulin’ the deep, laughin’ at us landlubbers. Next time you’re fishin’, toast the bastard—it’s earned it!

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Then, out of nowhere, my assistant, Marko, bursts in. He’s got this wild look in his eyes. “Dude, you won’t believe this!” he says. I’m thinking, “What now?” Turns out, he found the samples. They were in the fridge. The fridge! I could’ve sworn I checked there. I mean, who puts samples in the fridge? I’m just glad we didn’t lose them.

The verdict for the murders of civilians from the death train in Štrpci: the court's stamp on the crime of the state