Pete gladly took Ajax's jug of fine Grecian wine, discarding his carton of bilk in the process. Pete took a deep whiff of air from the jug, taking in the heady aroma of the very concept of primitive grapes fermented in a crudely-forged clay oenochoe and carried on a wrestler's person through many years of pitched combat. It smelled... like vinegar dissolved in dog's piss. More importantly, it smelled like [i]really strong alcohol.[/i] In one quick motion, Pete quaffed the jug, succeeding only at drenching his mask in powerful spirits. What little alcohol reached Pete's tongue curdled his saliva and boiled away his tastebuds. The heady stench of the wine seeping into his mask did more to make Pete drunk than half a beaker of Gargle Blaster ever did. Pete was driven so far into intoxication that he shot out through the limit and back into nightmarishly clear sobriety. 

In short, Cuban Pete was blind, stinking [i]knurd[/i].

It was a good pain.