Arrraaragh. I don't know. This is just a random drabble.
When Hans Landa was a boy, one of his school teachers told his mother that he was an intelligent and determined lad who would no doubt excel in whatever he attempted. The young Landa sat by the door and listened, found himself imagining all that he could be.
Anarchy, the wind must have whispered in his ear, murder.
His parents had been proud, ruthlessly proud. He had the brightest future of any soldier in his rank, they said. He would go far.
He had lost far too many men to sympathy.
He recalls a former friend of his, Otto Lebarg, with whom he shared his ranks. Otto was quiet and far too sentimental for his loyalties. But he was talented, pleasant. One day, Otto and himself (along with a handful of bright-eyed young Nazi soldiers) had managed to slaughter over fifty men, women and children, that had been hiding themselves in a vacant storeroom.
He can picture it quite clearly - how they had stood around piles of bodies, how they had bled as bright as poppies in the ill-lit building. The Jew men were maimed most of all, for the soldiers reserved the worst tactics for them. Splintered and limbless forms, heads caved in from brute force. The women and children lying dead so neatly, with perfect gunshot wounds. Theirs was the kindest kill. He recalled Otto's bland expression in contrast to the delighted grins of the soldiers for aiding in eliminating such a rat hole.
When Landa visited Otto the next morning, he found a letter that detailed a confession of sorts - that Otto had fallen in love with a Jewish woman. That she despised him for his loyalties, and he could not live with the knowledge that she would never reciprocate his feelings. And, of course, the nightmares he had of the dead Jew babies. Landa found Otto on the bathroom floor, bleeding from a close impact shotgun round to his temple.
He can imagine it quite well if he closes his eyes, the splatter of gore against the cracked tile. The smell of ruined flesh. The low humming of flies crawling into the wound, laying eggs.
That was the sort of man he was. Describe the rabbit you had for dinner, and Landa can taste the salty hide in his mouth. "Quite the imagination," Hitler had once said, "quite the know-how."
Anything can be bought, but it takes a true agent of the world to know when to sell out.