Ben Hansen
"Gutentag," offered the foremost of the hairy krauts, beaming through his beard as though he'd just learned the true meaning of Christmas.
"Suspicious men are talking at us!" Hugh whispered anxiously.
"Bonjeur," Ben replied, bringing his customary grasp of foreign languages into play. "Come stai?"
The suspicious men went into a huddle, from which Ben and Hugh could originally make out such comments as "was ist das?" and "die dumkopf spreche der kauderwelsch". Eventually, the one who spoke earlier, clearly one of the less inept of the group socially, disentangled himself from his sweaty comrades and said "Traurig?"
"He said hello," Hugh cut in before Ben could try again. "Ahh! Good day, sir! Come, sit, sit, please, sit."
Which is how Hugh and Ben found themselves at lunch with a group of sweaty, suspicious Germans, the latter group peering through their beards at the intrepid duo in hasty, guarded glances when they thought that the latter pair weren't watching. All in all, Ben and Hugh did not feel that they had been welcomed as openly as they would have preferred.
"So," said the spokesman of the group, "what is it that we can be doing for you fine young specimens?"
"Argh," Hugh quietly answered. "I mean, we have a note."
"Are you to be finished with this pyramid of flesh?" asked another of the collective, nudging Ben gently in his ribs.
"Oh god yes."
"Then shall I eat of it! Prost!"
"What sort of note do you have?"
"This one here. Careful, it smells like carrot."
"Mein gott, daf iff goot flefshhhh."
"Oh my god." Ben inched slightly away from the rapturous man next to him. The other noticed not, face stuffed full of a mass which was either delighful or disgusting depending on who you asked.
"Let me read that."
The German skimmed over the contents of the message in his greasy mitts for a few moments while his sausage-loving compatriot made various wet, sucking noises, Ben grew slightly more pale and Hugh grew rapidly more impatient. At last, he sat back a contented look upon his face.
"Nein," the bearded gentleman said, a superior smirk upon his face.
"What?"
"I refuse to tell you what it says. It has a thing in it that is... incriminating, I think is the word?"
"Yes! That's why we want to know what it says!" rebutted Hugh, his voice starting to rise.
"Learn German, then."
Hugh drew in a deep breath, then let it out slowly. "Okay," he said. "Ben?"
"Yeah?" Ben asked, several inches further from the sausage man than when Hugh last looked.
"Interrogation technique number six."
"Righto!"
The Germans had no time to react as Ben threw himself from the table and started rolling on the floor, looking for all the world as if he'd just been presented with a stocking full of agony.
"Aaaagh!" he cried, uncreatively but believably.
"Why would you do that?" Hugh shouted, as the Germans slowly became aware that they were rapidly becoming the centre of attention.
"I'm a haemophiliac!" Ben shrieked.
"Just tell us what we want, and we'll stop this," Hugh whispered to the now-pale beard sitting beside him.
"Why would you do that with a fork?" Ben wailed. The waitress gave a filthy look towards the table, though who it was aimed at none could be sure.
"Okay, okay!" the bearded man said, panic increasing in his voice as the accent decreased. "We'll tell you everything!" We're not really German and the letter holds a conspiracy!"
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