It was just a mint. Refreshing, no? There was probably a good chance the large Bavarian knew at least one way of killing me with it. Executed with minimal movement and devastating accuracy. At least my corpse would smell ok. The last time I declined his offer of a mint, he gave me a cold piercing look that said, "nobody refuses the mint; you're now on the list".
I had apparently just offended him by suggesting the area of Germany my mother was born in wasn't totally worthless. There is some kind of Schwabian vs. Bavarian rivalry I wasn't aware of until now. I had defended Schwabia by saying a Porche was faster than a BMW. I thought we were just joking around; but you don't joke around with ex-Légionnaire mercenaries. I casually refused the mint. Everyone else took one, even though it would make their beer taste like toothpaste. None-the-less, there it was; sitting in his palm; the answer to a fully-loaded rhetorical question. I took the mint.
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