Slaves of the DamnedIn the quiet town of Surčin, Vojvodina, northern Serbia, life used to drift along like the lazy tributaries of the Danube. But from that rain-soaked night in November 2023, everything turned to rot. It was a Friday, the local bus rattling back from Belgrade, packed with soaked workers, students, and old folks. Then they boarded—the self-crowned “Kings of Surčin,” a pack of vile, swaggering scum who made the town a living hell.Leading the pack was Miloš, a hulking 22-year-old in a stained black puffer jacket, his sneer carved into a face that had never known kindness. His lieutenants were Dejan and Stefan, both barely 19, in ripped jeans and filthy sneakers, phones always out, filming their cruelty for clout. Trailing behind were the younger rats—Luka and Nikola, 16-year-old wannabes with dead eyes and cruel laughs. They were infamous: thieves, bullies, vandals. Miloš once broke an old woman’s leg for “walking too slow.” Dejan and Stefan stole a disabled kid’s crutches and threw them in the river, howling as he crawled after them. Luka and Nikola smashed shop windows for fun and pissed on doorsteps at night. The town feared them. The town hated them.That night, the bus stank of wet coats, cheap beer, and their sweat. They stormed in like wolves. Miloš kicked a pregnant woman’s bag aside, snarling, “Move, cow!” She shrank into the corner, tears mixing with rain. Dejan snatched an old man’s cap, spat in it, and crushed it under his boot. Stefan live-streamed: “Surčin Kings own this bus! Who’s gonna stop us?” Luka and Nikola kicked seats, making a little girl sob. The floor was littered with cigarette butts, spilled beer, and their footprints. Passengers stared at the ground. The driver threatened to stop—Miloš leaned in, breath reeking: “Touch that brake, I’ll smash your skull.”Then they saw Old Ivan.He was a ghost even when alive—a hunched, ragged figure in a moldy coat, a World War II veteran whose family died in the bombings. He lived on scraps, muttering to shadows. That night, he sat in the back, clutching a broken umbrella. Stefan saw him and grinned. He ripped the umbrella away and poured warm beer over Ivan’s head. “Drink up, grandpa!” Miloš shoved him to the floor. Ivan hit the aisle hard, bones creaking. He rose slowly, eyes glowing like dying coals, and whispered in a voice that cut through the rain:
“You filthy souls… you will pay. The dead will cling to you. You will drown in your own waste… forever.”
They laughed. Kicked him again as they got off. “Crazy old bastard,” Miloš spat. Ivan lay in the rain after they left, clutching his chest. By morning, he was dead—heart attack, alone on the roadside. No one helped.The curse began at dawn.
Miloš woke first. His bed was soaked—hot, acrid urine, not sweat. He bolted upright, but another gush came, uncontrollable. Then his bowels let go. Hot shit poured down his legs, thick and burning, pooling in his sneakers. He screamed, stumbled to the bathroom, but the mirror showed black rings under his eyes, skin crawling like something gnawed beneath. That night, the room turned ice-cold. His phone lit up on its own—playing the livestream from the bus. Ivan’s melted face filled the screen. A shadow oozed from the wall, dripping rain and blood.
“You pushed me, boy. Now I push.”
Miloš tried to run. His legs buckled. Urine jetted like a hose. Feces exploded out, splattering the walls. He collapsed in his own filth, sobbing, as the ghost’s fingers sank into his gut, twisting. From that day, every step triggered it. He wore adult diapers—useless. The ghost ripped them open. He shit himself in the street, in shops, in front of laughing children. Doctors found nothing. He was banned from the hospital after spraying a surgeon mid-examination. Now he wheels himself to the corner shop, diaper bulging, stench trailing like a flag. People spit: “Piss-pants king.”
Dejan and Stefan shared a flat—a pigsty of empty bottles and mold. That same night, Dejan woke to warmth spreading beneath him. Urine. He kicked Stefan: “I pissed myself!” Stefan laughed—then froze. His own bowels erupted, a wet, stinking avalanche. They ran to the shower, but the mirror fogged. Ivan’s face appeared, mouth dripping sewage.
“You poured beer on me. Now drink yours.”
Cold hands plunged into their stomachs. Dejan’s bladder burst like a water balloon. Stefan doubled over, vomiting—not bile, but feces. They slipped in it, screaming. The next day, they tried to leave. At the doorstep, both collapsed, shitting and pissing in unison, a stinking puddle spreading under them. Neighbors filmed. The video went viral: “Surčin Kings Drown in Shit.” They went to church. Holy water hit them—they defecated on the altar. The priest fled, crossing himself. Now they beg on opposite sides of town, pants sagging with waste, eyes hollow. They don’t speak anymore. When they pass each other, they just… leak.
Luka and Nikola, the youngest, thought they’d escape. They bullied kids at school the next day—stole lunch money, tripped a girl into mud. That night, Luka felt it first: a hot, shameful flood in his pants. Shit followed, burning, unstoppable. He screamed for Nikola, who burst in—only to soil himself mid-step, feces running down his legs like molten wax. Their room filled with the reek of a septic tank. Shadows writhed. Ivan stood at the foot of the bed, coat dripping, eyes burning.
“You kicked me, little rats. Now kick this.”
Invisible hands clawed into their intestines. They writhed on the floor, soiling themselves again and again, urine and feces mixing into a slick, steaming swamp. Their parents found them hours later, curled in it, whimpering. Therapists, priests, exorcists—none helped. Luka dropped out. Nikola was sent to juvenile detention. Even in a cell, the ghost followed. Guards called him “Shitty Nicky.” He hasn’t had a dry day in two years.
They tried everything. Suicide? The knife slipped in piss-wet hands. Hanging? The rope snapped under the weight of fresh diarrhea. They confessed, begged, burned the bus video—but the curse only tightened. Their bodies betray them hourly. Diapers explode. Pants rot off. The stench clings like a second skin. They eat—immediately void. They sleep—wake in lakes of waste. Their eyes are dead. Their souls are Ivan’s.Surčin is quiet now. The bus runs clean. Passengers speak in whispers of the night the Kings fell. Old Ivan’s grave is covered in flowers. Children leave candy. Someone carved into the headstone:
“Justice leaks eternal.”
And somewhere, in reeking rooms, in alleys, in cells—five broken things crawl through their own filth, whispering the same words, over and over, forever:
“We’re sorry… we’re sorry… please… stop the shit…”
But the dead don’t forgive. And the curse never dries.
❄🌸Snow Cherry Blossom🌸❄ 
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