Identical handlebar moustaches bristled furiously as the first round began. The two men danced toward one another, their feet twitching back and forth, their bulbous gloves tucked beneath their chins.

“Bumsquith, you cad, you rotter, you egg.” Cried the man in the red shorts, his fist sallying exploratively into his opponent’s ribs in a flurry of jabs. “You nincompoop, you dandy, you deviant, you great fuck-a-doodle-doo.”

The crowd roared.

Bumsquith jutted out his chin and his chest swelled. “Fuck-a-what-now?”

“Corpse-fancier, boy-shuffler, fuck-a-doodle-doo.”

“Unheard of!”

A fist caught him in the eye and his opponent skipped backwards, out of retaliation’s reach, cackling like a frivolous witch all the while.

“Chuff-muncher,” he said. “Whore-sauce,” he added.

Bumsquith shook his head and looked to his corner. His coach had fled from the torrent of abuse, leaving a trail of tears.

“Arse-cavity, cunny-drippings, fuck-a-doodle-doo.”

Bumsquith crumpled in a heap, wracked by aneurysms, and perished.