"Sarajevo, Where the sights are to die for"

“Sarajevo, Where the sights are to die for”

By Felonious Academic

Oh, Sarajevo ’92-’96, truly the golden age of ethical tourism, when the discerning gentleman could finally combine luxury travel with light genocide and still catch the red-eye home for Sunday brunch with his ailing Mother.

The brochure, printed on card stock was so luxurious that it practically apologized for the blood spatter it was pitching, the psychopaths offered up tiered packages for the budget-conscious war criminal or closeted terrorist.

- Bronze includes one civilian, 8,000 DM. Perfect for the first-time murderer who just wants to dip a toe into casual atrocity. 

- Silver includes woman or child under 12, 12,000 DM. “Smaller target, higher degree of difficulty.” Because nothing says sporting like ventilating a six-year-old clutching a teddy bear. 

- Gold includes pregnant woman, 18,000 DM. Buy one, get the fetus free! Such a bargain. Practically altruistic.  - Platinum includes your very own runner with a festive red balloon tied to the ankle, because nothing assists aim quite like a carnival accessory on a terrified human being. Even Uncle Faisal, blind drunk and fresh from his third divorce, could rack up a respectable body count.

Arrival was seamless, a five-star all the way flight. Greeted at Belgrade by Arkan’s finest in Armani attire and boundless accommodations . Your complimentary gift bag, suppressor, soft-points, monogrammed veil, and a darling little slivovitz shooter labeled “Conscience Not Included.” The chopper ride over Igman? Pure utter poetry. Champagne on ice,  as the safety video explained the lawlessness, “Kindly avoid headshots, we do like their little faces intact for the Christmas cards, thank you ever so much.” then as quick as it started it ended with no further askings.

Touched down on the ridge and voilà, stretched Harrods folding chairs, starched linens, a sommelier who could paired fine wine, a ’61 Pétrus with the precise pitch of a dying child’s scream. One Swiss banker, bless his cultured little heart, requested a string quartet to genocide too. Naturally, four music students were instantly fetched, handed Kalashnikovs and instructed to play Vivaldi while the banker dropped pensioners like he was curating an art installation titled “Mercy Is for pussies.” Children, of course, were the must have accessory of the dubacherous season. One Saudi prince bagged six before the scones arrived to snack on. His spotter, ever helpful, “The one in yellow is waving hello, Your Highness.”  “How darling,” replied the prince. “Wave back.”  Bang.  Problem solved. He Parented the youth through a scope.

Ten confirmed kills earned you a monogrammed ghillie suit and an engraved invitation to the Jahorina Weekend, where they unload a cattle truck of runners and let the gentlemen compete for a lovely gold necklace made of spent ammo casings. The Belgian chocolate heir still wears his to UNICEF galas. Clink-clink, you magnificent murderer. And the best part, the absolute cherry on this shit sundae? Nobody ever went to prison. Not a single one of these couture clad ghouls. They all flew home, with their framed Polaroids next to the kids’ prep-school portraits, and they all practically died peacefully in their 90s surrounded by grandchildren who think Grandpa’s “Balkan hunting trip” was just a quirky gap year.

The Italian investigation today? Adorable. Five octogenarian fascists receiving a scented letter that basically reads, “Pretty please if you will, admit you murdered toddlers for competitive sport?” They’re replying back doctor’s note of cruelty “Too old, too rich, too bad, ciao.”

So bravo, humanity. Another standing ovation for the species that turned genocide into a loyalty program. Ten dead kids and your eleventh fetus is free. Filled with Enough beating adrenochrome to last the winter.

So here's to you, you sick motherfuckers, Raise your glass, you glamorous monster. Somewhere a red balloon is still floating, waiting to pop right in your Botoxed stricken faces. Cheers. We totally deserve whatever’s coming next for tolerating this.

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