Promises are made to be broken. It is in their nature. At least, that's the way men see it. For men, all promises can be broken, and without the fear of divine retribution, too.
But there is one promise among men that is sacred. Its bonds have never been tested, let alone broken, without the breaker's eternal damnation. When two men make a pact which is signed by the Clinking of Beer Bottles / Mugs / Glasses / Flagons / Plastic-Cups-With-Small-Furry-Animals-Painted-On-Side, nothing short of natural calamity may prevent it from being carried out to its fullest.
In terms of hierarchical ranking, the Beer Clink promise outranks, by far, promises written in blood, and by a considerably smaller margin, promises made while peeing next to the other party. Failure to complete one's end of a Beer Clink promise is akin to welcoming an eternal existence painting one's gonads with meatsauce while playing naked with Satan's starving dogs.
Sir, I hope I may consider mine fulfilled.
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