"Cut the crap, old man, mind your own damn business and keep taking your beating!"
While the glasses were being filled for the seventh round, our only remaining opponent on his feet was pushing his luck like he had a death wish.
"Once this is over, I'll show you who's taking a beating!"
The tension was escalating; a struggle had started not only at the bar counter where the competition was held, but also among the wasted guys hauled over next to me.
"Hell yeah, bro, put that punk in his place!"
Some of the drunks, starting to sober up slightly, were cheering for Sukrucuk, the tank of our party.
"He's a cotton-topped old fart and he's still trying to act tough, knock him down, four-eyes!"
Naturally, the rest had joined the ranks of the horse-thief-looking guy; even though they knew neither of them when the competition started, they had now picked their sides.
