Hans and Simon Gruber first were art consultants in Austria back in 1975, wearing fabulous, tight, designer suits and gossiping with the Austrian elite about whose...strudel was the longest or had a mystery infection. They were the best of times...until Hans got the idea to counterfeit the paintings and sell the real ones on the black market for a massive profit. That scheme worked for a while, but eventually time caught up with them, and, inspired by Roger Moore's James Bond films, disappeared into the European underworld to become master criminals that use disco as their theme music.
|Hans "Look Ma, No Hans" Gruber|
|Simon Gruber is smiling because his chest isn't the only thing that's...bunched up|
So it came that Hans tried to pull off the biggest heist of his career at Nakatomi Plaza in 1988 without Simon. It should have been his crowning achievement; executing a CEO, tricking every branch of the United States law enforcement community, and by extension the world, into thinking he was dead while he lived the good life off of the hundreds of millions of dollars he stole.
How could a criminal mastermind as smart and capable as Hans Gruber, then, be undone by one New York police officer who didn't even have shoes on?
This job took months, if not years, to plan. Every scenario was planned for, even the appearance of the FBI. So how could a shoeless cop take down an international villain by himself?
Dumb fuckin' luck.
Upon hearing the news of his brother's death at the hands of a lowly police officer, Simon fell apart. He spent a year hiking through China, just so he could "get some air." It was at this time Simon first formed the foundation for what would be the ultimate plot to not only steal a shitload of loot, but get that dumb Irish flatfoot McLane at the same time.
He followed McLane through the years, waiting for the moment to strike. Simon watched with utter glee as Col. Stuart failed to take him down at Dulles Airport in 1990. Once McLane's marriage fell apart and he moved back to New York, the game was afoot.
His plan? Blow New York to shit, steal gold from the Federal Reserve, and avenge his brother's death. Fate, however, had other plans.
Much like his brother, Simon didn't take McLane seriously, thinking one of his nameless Eurotrash thugs could take him down. Instead, McLean tracked Simon to Canada and dispatched of Simon and his mute girlfriend at the same time. At least Simon didn't have to listen to a woman squealing as they died.
Hans was there to greet his brother in hell.
"You know, when McLane got me he was stone sober," Hans said. "And had hair. Speaking of, what's with your bleached 'do? You're not Sid and Nancy."
"He also wasn't dealing with an angry black man at his side."
Simon knew he was stuck with his brother for eternity, destined to live out the rest of time in hell together. He had to laugh at the irony of it all. McLane was right. Hans really was an asshole.