They came from Cincinnati, a jungle full of party animals, hoping to win — but determined to celebrate.

For most Bengal fans, Super Bowl XXIII was more than a football game, more even than the football game. It was a Who Dey hoedown, a masquerade ball and, yes, even a honeymoon.

Having their team in the Super Bowl was all the impetus Rance and Peggy Johnson needed to make the Big Commitment.

“We’re Irish Catholic from Cincinnati,” said Peggy. “You should have seen the look on my mom’s face. We eloped and now we’re at the Super Bowl!”

For auto parts store owner Ed Hartmann and his “Cincinnati Vice” squad, however, it was a stag party.

Leading a pack of men all dressed in homemade black-and-orange capes, Hartmann spotted a group of 49ers fans and led his buddies in the familiar “Who Dey” chant, followed by a chorus line version of the Ickey Shuffle. For want of a football, however, they finished the dance by spiking their beer cans, spraying brew for yards in every direction.

“We’re no fools,” Hartmann explained. “We don’t do the Ickey Shuffle until we’ve finished three quarters of a can.” Still, one thrifty Bengals fan lay face down on the pavement and began licking up the spillage.

“Waste not, want not,” said one of his cohorts, who could have been speaking for all his Midwestern brethren.

The Bengals fans came dressed in all manner of orange-and-black Bengals attire — striped body stockings to Bengals boxer shorts.

Many Bengals fans who couldn’t get tickets at home made the trip south on blind faith.

Dave Bachman, one of a few hundred wearing replicas of Boomer Esiason’s No. 7 jersey, came down with his mother and a friend. Standing outside before the game, holding up a sign asking for “2-plus tickets,” the exterminator was almost resigned to watching the game at a bar.

And he wasn’t the only Bengals fan who came more than 1,000 miles to watch the game on television.

Jeff Patterson, an electrician, and Danny Akers, a carpet cleaner, were also outside about 10 minutes after kickoff, praying that someone would sell them two tickets for $400.

“We’re working people,” said Patterson. “That’s all we’ve got to spend. We’re dedicated fans, though.”

After high-fiving when the public address system boomed out a big Bengals defensive play, the two decided to head back to their car, where they had brought a television, just in case. They joined others of their stripe who sat in small groups, watching on portable sets a game that was taking place less than a football field away.

Other working people, however, found a way. House painter Glenn McIntosh and factory worker Bob Wallace paid $500 each for their tickets.

“And we’re tickled to death to get them,” said Wallace. “You can’t put a price value on these tickets.”

Cincinnati firefighter Bob Kuhn, sporting a shoulder-length wig of black and orange locks, echoed that sentiment. After posing for a picture with a passing San Francisco beauty, he explained such fraternization by invoking what seemed to be the Law of the Jungle.

“It don’t matter how the game ends as long as we play the game and party the party,” he said.