One for Sorrow, Two for Joy
Émil sat in his favourite corner, smoking his pipe in between swigs of ale. Propping his feet on the table, because propriety was simply pointless when the proprietor was rather less than proper herself. She only seemed to kick out those who'd break her furniture. And luckily, he wasn't a destructive drunk.

But he certainly was drunk. He'd promised himself only one tonight. But the entertainment tonight was rather too much to leave in the middle of. Some bawdy singers who were so very terrible that it was a delight to watch them fall over themselves.
Colin crooked his neck to one side and felt a satisfying cracking noise. He remained there at the back of the tavern, standing with both of his legs wide apart, listening to the soft drip-dripping of the last of his piss. All around him, the night was quiet aside from the occasional distant sound of giggling or someone travelling to or from the tavern. Finished, Colin tucked himself back into his trousers and stumbled back towards indoors.

Greeted by a gold glow, he made way to the bar and was further welcomed by the barman’s familiarity with his face and name to the point that he needn’t have said anything, he was slid the usual and in return, he slid back the usual cost, which was beginning to make his pocket all the more lighter. Colin took a chug of his beer and turned to find himself a seat somewhere, anywhere far enough from the ghoulish wailing.

As he marched through the tavern, he felt a knock against his side, though in truth it was he that had knocked into it, a table. “Watch it,” he half-growled, half-slurred, pointing with a wavering finger. “You don’t know who you’re messing with…” He almost lost his balance there as he staggered back a little and then started towards a vacant table he had caught with his eye.
He made a face, trying not to laugh aloud, watching the nearest drunk stumble into his table. "Don' I? Who is it then?" It was probably a bad idea to engage at all, but just sitting here watching was beginning to lose its appeal...
Colin swung around like a limp doll, pointed his finger, scrunched his face and opened and closed his mouth, something like a fish. Nothing came out. He slammed his beer onto the table; it sloshed all over the place. “Say that again,” he garbled as he leaned and shook his wet hand in the air. Some bearded fellow brushed against him and for a moment, he was distracted. He stood up, though still very wobbly, and grabbed Mr Beardy Man sloppily by the shoulder and pushed him.
"Ey, settle down, big man." He stood, with some steadying required, and went to try and intervene. A fight wasn't good for remaining in the barkeeper's favour. "I say it to you, not him."
“He started it,” slurred Colin. The bearded man was a giant when he was next to Colin who was a slight and medium-sized man but he was much gentler where Colin wasn’t. The man had moved away but of course that did not stop Colin. Out of frustration, he spun and yanked at the table to overturn it out of anger but with his drunken balance, it ended up falling sideways and he stumbled back onto the floor.
"Pendejo..." He shook his head, backing up to let the table crash to the floor and spill the drinks of several patrons. "You go outside with that, friend." And he puffed out his posture, almost coming straight on at him if not for a few sways nearly tripping him on the way. "Or maybe we go..."
He was on his back then he was struggling back onto his feet. A firm boot pressed itself into his side and pushed him down against the floor. Over his groan, Colin could hear: “That there is for Charlie.” Who the fuck was Charlie? His eyes caught sight of a thick, dark beard and then the giant of a man but lamb of a person who was hovering back like a timid child behind its mother bear. Colin didn’t hesitate to play feral and bit the man’s leg, which warranted a nice kick to his stomach and the drunk promptly relieved his stomach all over the tavern floor.
Émil slipped on the spilled contents of Pendejo's stomach, and brought another man down with him, soon inciting the commencement of proper brawling. He crawled his way toward the door, and tried to stand up again to evaluate how likely it was that he could throw a few good punches into the throng without getting his nose broken.
The man who had kicked him had stopped, stepped back, and reached the side of his timid companion with a look of disgust and perplexity. Colin had essentially expunged an entire five-course meal across the entirety of the tavern’s floor and everyone was enjoying a good swim after person after person was knocked over in the cramped space. Colin staggered to his feet once again, admittedly feeling much better now. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he went for the man with the beard but was met with several punches from the man who had earlier kicked him.

Colin was back on the floor. “Oh, fuckin’ ‘ell, Colin” and Colin was on his feet with a heavy arm yanking him like a doll into standing position. The next moment, he was on the ground outside, thrown out by the barkeep. Colin sat up, his eyes met the first person. “What the fuck are you looking at?” His nose was already dribbling blood and his clothing nicely adorned and drenched in stomach juices.
He followed the original perpetrator out the door, ducking as a tankerd soared through the air.

"Puto. Bitch. Don' run away!" Just one on one. He could indulge in it.
Colin’s breathing came from his mouth, his nostrils were fiery and stuffed. He stood haggard and lopsided, though he had been about to hobble off into the night and drag his mayhem elsewhere. At this point, he was rolling along with everything and didn’t have the slightest notion as to why the man was yelling at him yet he figured he should yell back, equally aggressive. If not, more. “Fuck you, you fucking… fuck. Go… fuck yourself,” he spat and snarled, feeling awfully clever as he pointed several times with very little direction.
"Be a man, pull yourself together!" He grabbed the front of the man's shirt, though regretted it as much as one can when one is ever so drunk; he was still coated with his own bile. "You think you smart? So smart and clever, the porridge face colour?"
Colin knocked the man with his head but with the precision of a sloth on opium, he ended up hurting himself in the process instead. His forehead stung.
Staggering back, clinging to the lamp post nearby so as not to fall completely on his arse. Head equally stung, and the brains seemed to be spinning. " way to use an empty head!"

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