You can’t be sure you’ll do your time without problems, even if you vow before arrival that you’ll obey the guards, stay out of trouble and try your best to repent for your sins. Prison is not that kind of institution.
“Have I told you the story about the guy who butchered hogs?” “Which guy?” “The one who was in the Foreign Legion. Have I told you that one?”
That New Year little Mensur Ćeman learned that Grandfather Frost really did exist, but that he was not the kind old man from the Coca-Cola ad bringing colorfully wrapped presents for the children—he was an infidel arsonist, and it was because of him that he now lived at his Uncle Irfan’s and had to go to school in Darkovo, six kilometers away.
A story of lustful anticipation told in one breathless sentence that won the European Prize for Literature for Serbia: " . . . does he too want to kill you by flicking his tongue between your legs, does he want to do that, because I certainly do and one day I will, because that’s what we do, we fairground magicians, that’s our fairground speciality, does he too want to fuck you to death, or does he just want you to take his arm and walk with him to yet another family lunch . . ."