Sometimes A Fancy Mustache Is Not Enough

I twiddled my mustache. Simply because I had a mustache which was very twiddle-able. It curled in a way that laughed at gravity, without wax of any kind and no roustabout would be able to ever knock it askew.

I toweled the sweat from my brow like so many times before and cracked each knuckle individually as to give them a proper wake up.

"Time for business, boyos," I whispered to them as I balled my fists until the aforementioned knuckles turned white in an anticipatory way.

"IN THIS CORNER... CONRAD O'DONOVAN!"

The crowd roared for me. It felt good. The cheers poured over me like like a barman pouring a bucket over a drunkard in the cobblestone alley.

"AND IN THE OTHER CORNER... YANKEE SULLIVAN!"

The crowd hushed for the newcomer. You could hear the puffs of smoke from the cigars at ringside. I gave the kid a playful sneer and put up my proverbial dukes. He looked nervous, but ready to give and take punches of great magnitude.

Surely this would be a fight to reme-

"AND THE WINNER... YANKEE SULLIVAN!"