stop patting my back. donny.

[SGT HUGO STIGLITZ]

It was another boring day at the Basterds' camp. True, it was rare to have anything boring when you're in the company of Basterds, but hell, it happened. Hugo had been doing absolutely nothing all day long. Yesterday, he had a few good kills, got to stop a car and shoot everyone inside. Today there were no cars, no troops on the move, not even a scout that the Basterds could, well, scalp. It was just plain boring.

In order to keep his boredom at bay, Hugo had a bier in one hand and after he opened the damned thing, he took a swig, expelling a long 'ahhhh' after he had done so. Germans really knew how to brew a bier, even if his father had been the jerk who brewed some of them, they did a damn good job. As he sat there, still bored, he began to zone out and a small twitch on his back made him remember a few things he did not wish to remember. First, it was the memory of when he and another Nazi faced a Jewish woman and her child. They were supposed to take them to a concentration camp, but instead, Hugo's partnet shot the woman.

It was almost as if it happened in that moment, the adrenaline rush, the anger, the pure hatred for his partner and the next thing that happened, he had killed the man he once fought next to. It served him right, but it landed in in prison. It began to smell like the prison, like his dingy old cell with it's rotting walls and rotting corpses. Any time he left it was to be interrogated or whipped. Those cold black whips deeply grazed his skin, causing blood to run down the wounds. The Nazis were rather vicious when it came to insubordination.

As he zoned out, staring at the bier, his face changed to pure concentration. His eyes narrowed and his nostrils flared, even his eyebrows dipped down lower. If he ever found who did the whipping, he would rip their heart out. Of course, that is if the Basterds' had not already blown him up while they were rescuing the German traitor. Bless those Basterds, that cell was getting too small for Hugo anyways. Still, the scars on his back reminded him to rip out every throat of every Nazi and stuff it in their own intestines. Brute? The word was hardly enough of a description of Sgt Stiglitz.