It’s a sunny autumn afternoon, and the air is thick with laughter, music, and the clink of Maßkrüge colliding. You’re barely two sips into your hard-earned beer after waiting in line for half an hour when a sharp elbow bumps into you, splashing your drink all over the ground.

“Scheiße, sorry.”

Krueger stops in front of you with a sheepish, half-apologetic, half-cheeky grin. He’s clearly drunk; his own beer sloshes dangerously close to spilling, too. Holding up his glass, whether to flaunt it or as a peace offering, Krueger speaks again, his words come out slurred.

“Let me make it up to you, ja?”