Mulled Vine

Hans Schmittal was made for his job: a large man with brutal, hairy hands, closely shaven head and cold, grey eyes to match his uniform. He relished pain – in himself or others, it did not matter – pain was his elixir. He particularly liked being given the young ones, eyes so innocent and trusting at first, then slowly registering frightening realisations of their fate, they began to plead, to snivel and whimper – he liked that; for him it was sexual, and their deaths, finally, orgasmic. They promoted him to camp Kommandant, where he was able to architect more efficient mechanisms, to inflict more efficient deaths, and even though he could hear the screams in the air as he sat on his balcony sipping Riesling, it was not the same – he missed being the instrument of his own dreams.