SCRIPT CONTENT
What’s that in your hand? Is that my pot of gold?
I might be little, but I’ll rip your body to pieces you thievin’, good-for-nothin’, scoundrel. Limb from limb, you’ll be a puzzle by the time I’m done with you. What, you don’t know when something isn’t yours? Your mother didn’t teach you any manners? Don’t forget; I’ve got luck on my side.
Fight me! I said, fight me!