We led a troop of archaeologists, historians, and experience-paid interns into a heavily booby-trapped burial site. What we found in a dusty, mysterious sarcophagus changed our* fortunes for the better.
*the interns gave their lives so that this cursed product could be stolen from its resting place and sold to the general public.
You too can own a piece of history. Just don't open up the tin, unless your preferred existence is as a bloody puddle of liquefied dermis and fat, secreting around on the ground.
Why would anyone want that, you ask? The grape flavor is TO DIE FOR. Trust us—well—trust intern Billy Fishskin who was transformed into a gelatinous, bloody pool AND STILL WENT BACK FOR SECONDS. His consumption of another mint sent his soul to the first circle of Hell, but he insists (by burning otherworldly messages onto my bedroom ceiling) that it was well worth it.
Purchase Mari's Confinemints in the section of the weed store where the budtender is conducting a seance to ask their late grandmother where her hidden hashish/Beyblade stash is located.