Early spring of 1997. For four months now, the people of Serbia have tried pacefully demonstrate to overthrow the dictator Slobodan Milosevic. Nevertheless, he manages to stay in power. He surrounds the protesters with police cordons, squadrons of bullies without any sympathy for their fellow citizens, men who have become so insensitive and so violent that nothing seems out of line to them. Policemen Zmaj, Crni, Dule, Kole, Seljak and their driver Uros do their job without thinking, governed mostly by fatigue and the orders they receive by radio. Their life has become a vicious cycle of running after protesters, incessantly beating on them, then sitting in their ice-cold van, eating unpleasant food, and having to relieve themselves in a public park while in constant fear of being attacked. They get no sleep, no hot water, no kind words. Their only motivation is the language of haitred that their superiors - in the form of an invisible commander - use to condition them more and more. For them, the protesters have become another breed of people, a breed whose provocations must be answered with truncheon blows and shots fired in the air. Eventually, their level of exhaustion and irritation outweighs their self-control.