Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might admire the place with the slightest provocation. He was Macon, the most shy man in Quebec. The bartender set another dose of cod liver oil in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the primitive front door swung open. A woman wearing a diaper and a pair of bloomers galumphed nonchalantly into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer dashed to the bar and sat down beside Macon.
Macon turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at her joyously. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, apple of my eye?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the ducks start to sniffle," the woman replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a mop.
"What did you say, tootsy-wootsy? Looks like you and me could have a fine time together. "
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, hell-raiser. My name ain't your concern, so snuffle."
Macon stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he vouched. "This here buddy of mine needs a lesson at charm school."
The bartender and the other customers snickered fondly, their brains quivering.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger disputed, ignoring Macon's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring my old friend a glass of buttermilk," Macon piped up. "I want to get to know her better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of burying something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the glass of buttermilk in front of the woman. The stranger surreptitiously picked up the drink.
Immediately, Macon grabbed the stranger by her piehole, trying to kiss her passionately on her buttocks. The stranger skidded up, seized Macon by the midriff, and with a statuesque raised eyebrow, dragged him to a nearby dresser and turned him on his heel.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a lady from now on," the stranger wondered admiringly. "The name's Bridget, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Macon sputtered glumly until Bridget let go and glibly turned away with a taciturn smack. Suddenly, Macon reached into his bustier and pulled out a rose. "Hold it right there, babe. I got something for you, doll."
Bridget turned steadily, drew her Colt 45, and faced Macon. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Carefree? There ain't a woman in three counties can handle a jerk like you the way I can."
The two stared at each other breathlessly for what seemed like a week. Finally, Macon lowered his rose. "Okay baby, you win," Macon belched despondently. "You got a lotta larynxes for a woman. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward her. Bridget took his hand with an insane finger gun. "You know, friend, you're kinda forgetful when you're angry."
Macon chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another glass of buttermilk," he noted.