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70 Amit Bobrov
kidneys. I once again ignored his blow and proceeded to pound
him left and right, left and right, until his face became a mash

of blood. Someone lifted me off of him as I tried to lay another
blow.
“He’s almost dead!” Called one of his friends. I lunged towards
him, showing him my bloodied fists.
“You’re not!” I roared as I charged him. He managed to place
his hands in-front of his face as I gave a straight punch with
all my strength. I hit his arm, which bounced and hit his face,
injuring his nose and sending him to the ground. I fell on top
of him as other arms tried to grab me. Another punched me

from behind and I turned my face — still mounted on my
adversary, to block a kick aimed straight at my face. I responded
with a direct punch to his groin while the short distance gave
me a favored position. Then someone threw pot at one of my
adversaries. As the pot hit his chest I turned to see who threw
the projectile. I saw one of my card buddies holding a chair and
charging towards one of my enemies.

When the brawl ended I sat with my buddies drinking ale,
wiping our bloody faces, and boasting our victory. The only
sour moment that evening was Ivar coming to our table.
“So this is what you want for yourself,” he said. I turned to
him. “To be a tavern drunk and a brawler,” he continued.
“I am what I am,” I replied tersely as I turned back to the table
and sipped my drink. I tried to bury my face behind my mug
to hide those treacherous tears which sought to appear on my
face.

“You can be better than this!” Ivar protested.
“I don’t want to,” I replied, and with that he left. We resumed
our drinks and our boasts, though I lost all satisfaction from
both.