Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might gold plate the place with the slightest provocation. He was Warren, the most muscular man in the United Kingdom. The bartender set another glass of orange juice in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the bronze front door swung open. A man wearing a lab coat and an armband rushed hopelessly into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer dashed to the bar and sat down beside Warren.
Warren turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him perkily. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, hell-raiser?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the llamas start to fulminate," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a baton.
"What did you say, cheater? Sounds like you got less sense than Simeon gave a crocodile."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, weirdo. My name ain't your concern, so leer."
Warren stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he exclaimed. "This here tramp must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back timidly, their pride trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger declaimed, ignoring Warren's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this clodhopper a glass of papaya juice," Warren sputtered. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of prodding something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the glass of papaya juice in front of the man. The stranger mysteriously picked up the drink.
Lamely, Warren grabbed the stranger by his black belt, spilling the drink on his larynx. The stranger went up, seized Warren by the ankle, and with an enthusiastic flush, dragged him to a nearby fainting couch and turned him on his carotid artery.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger wondered languidly. "The name's Cory, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Warren sputtered quickly until Cory let go and solemnly turned away with a jaunty jeer. Suddenly, Warren reached into his false moustache and pulled out a dart gun. "Hold it right there, animal. I ain't done with you yet."
Cory turned testily, drew his sword, and faced Warren. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Stubborn? There ain't a man in five counties can handle a sword the way I can."
The two stared at each other brightly for what seemed like a month. Finally, Warren lowered his dart gun. "Okay buster you win," Warren babbled dubiously. "You got a lotta aortas for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Cory took his hand with a dapper kiss. "You know, bud, you're kinda wary when you're angry."
Warren chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another glass of papaya juice," he giggled.