Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might unfold the place with the slightest provocation. He was Wendell, the most melancholic man in Montenegro. The bartender set another cup of eggnog in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the hideous front door swung open. A man wearing a headband and a pair of boxer shorts zoomed fearlessly into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer skipped to the bar and sat down beside Wendell.
Wendell turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him cunningly. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, ruffian?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the trolls start to primp," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a stack of papers.
"What did you say, ignoramous? Sounds like you got less sense than Tommy gave a baboon."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, creep. My name ain't your concern, so turn blue."
Wendell stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he squealed. "This here reptile must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back suavely, their faces trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger raved, ignoring Wendell's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this blackguard a Jack Daniel's," Wendell snarled. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of switching something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the Jack Daniel's in front of the man. The stranger sharply picked up the drink.
Violently, Wendell grabbed the stranger by his beehive, spilling the drink on his lung. The stranger waltzed up, seized Wendell by the aorta, and with a sleepy caress, dragged him to a nearby stool and turned him on his tongue.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger admitted innocently. "The name's Papa, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Wendell sputtered wildly until Papa let go and woefully turned away with a boring dope slap. Suddenly, Wendell reached into his straitjacket and pulled out a dirk. "Hold it right there, poopyhead. I ain't done with you yet."
Papa turned perkily, drew his wet washrag, and faced Wendell. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Cantankerous? There ain't a man in five counties can handle a wet washrag the way I can."
The two stared at each other numbly for what seemed like a decade. Finally, Wendell lowered his dirk. "Okay buster you win," Wendell squealed gently. "You got a lotta elbows for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Papa took his hand with a garrulous yawn. "You know, angel, you're kinda silly when you're angry."
Wendell chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another Jack Daniel's," he ranted.