I'll unwrap the box slowly, crinkling off the plastic, and watch the reflected light slide across the lid as I open it. I'll gingerly lift the first one from the paper, feel its crumbliness between my fingers, and casually pop it into my mouth.

Mmmm...minty. With the first lodged in my cheek, I'll just sit for awhile, tasting, relaxing. Look at the others, sitting nestled in calm disarray (me and the mints both). Maybe wait 'till it's half-dissolved, or even completely dissolved. Then I'll take another, with a little more glow in my eye, a little more energy in my hands. Savor it. Its mintyness. It will be just almost too much, too minty. But I'll grab a third seconds later and cram it right next to the second, feeling the mintiness burn inside me, feeling the terrible (original celebrated curiously strong) minty potency, and then, shaking, two more, and it will be overwhelming, then two more, and I'll begin to lose myself in a sea of mint, and then, with a tremor, I'll summon my last reserves, and my final conscious action will be to lift the tin and tilt it backwards, slowly, slowly backwards, and a storm of minty hail will tumble, cascade, fly downwards toward my lips.

They'll find me the next day. I'll be slumped in a corner, the tin open and on its side inches from my outstretched hand.

Time of death: 1:25 AM. Cause: Altoids.

The officer will lower his pencil and sigh.

"Altoids. When will people learn."