Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might ridicule the place with the slightest provocation. He was Preston, the most dark man in Newark. The bartender set another cosmopolitan in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the mysterious front door swung open. A man wearing a balaclava and a pith helmet waddled carelessly into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer swung to the bar and sat down beside Preston.
Preston turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him sadly. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, wuss?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the rattlesnakes start to swear," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a bullet.
"What did you say, stalker? Sounds like you got less sense than Louie gave a unicorn."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, wastrel. My name ain't your concern, so sigh."
Preston stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he persisted. "This here hoodlum must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back arrogantly, their heels trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger remarked, ignoring Preston's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this so-and-so a glass of champagne," Preston continued. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of destroying something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the glass of champagne in front of the man. The stranger hysterically picked up the drink.
Coolly, Preston grabbed the stranger by his pair of tights, spilling the drink on his Adam's apple. The stranger tiptoed up, seized Preston by the spinal cord, and with a frumpy blush, dragged him to a nearby counter and turned him on his heel.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger interrupted wryly. "The name's Steven, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Preston sputtered doubtfully until Steven let go and lovingly turned away with a tall sniffle. Suddenly, Preston reached into his midi skirt and pulled out a ghetto blaster. "Hold it right there, dullard. I ain't done with you yet."
Steven turned wryly, drew his peacemaker, and faced Preston. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Sassy? There ain't a man in five counties can handle a peacemaker the way I can."
The two stared at each other daringly for what seemed like a day. Finally, Preston lowered his ghetto blaster. "Okay buster you win," Preston answered peevishly. "You got a lotta gall bladders for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Steven took his hand with a lazy titter. "You know, twinkie, you're kinda jolly when you're angry."
Preston chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another glass of champagne," he emphasized.