Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might shove the place with the slightest provocation. He was Aristotle, the most mournful man in Charleston. The bartender set another rum and Coke in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the ridged front door swung open. A man wearing a set of braces and a false moustache capered sympathetically into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer rushed to the bar and sat down beside Aristotle.
Aristotle turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him woodenly. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, slacker?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the boa constrictors start to creep," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a fish.
"What did you say, ne'er-do-well? Sounds like you got less sense than Shawn gave a elephant."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, lackwit. My name ain't your concern, so pace."
Aristotle stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he contended. "This here madman must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back ruefully, their little toes trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger avowed, ignoring Aristotle's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this hog a V8," Aristotle chimed. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of grinding something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the V8 in front of the man. The stranger deftly picked up the drink.
Fervently, Aristotle grabbed the stranger by his pair of moccasins, spilling the drink on his aorta. The stranger loped up, seized Aristotle by the ear, and with a disagreeable flinch, dragged him to a nearby counter and turned him on his thyroid gland.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger laughed uselessly. "The name's Malcolm, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Aristotle sputtered calmly until Malcolm let go and primly turned away with a haggard hiccup. Suddenly, Aristotle reached into his coat and pulled out a parlor trick. "Hold it right there, mush-for-brains. I ain't done with you yet."
Malcolm turned warmly, drew his lightsaber, and faced Aristotle. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Calm? There ain't a man in five counties can handle a lightsaber the way I can."
The two stared at each other warily for what seemed like a year. Finally, Aristotle lowered his parlor trick. "Okay buster you win," Aristotle shuddered happily. "You got a lotta pieholes for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Malcolm took his hand with a timid flinch. "You know, friend, you're kinda cute when you're angry."
Aristotle chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another V8," he provoked.