Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might decorate the place with the slightest provocation. He was Phil, the most bald man in Toledo. The bartender set another double latte in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the ridiculous front door swung open. A man wearing a coat of mail and a set of braces slumped deliberately into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer sashayed to the bar and sat down beside Phil.
Phil turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him violently. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, dullard?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the pandas start to clear out," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a bag.
"What did you say, pighead? Sounds like you got less sense than Morgan gave a fox."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, wingnut. My name ain't your concern, so get dizzy."
Phil stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he exploded. "This here monkey must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back haughtily, their dignity trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger prattled, ignoring Phil's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this scamp a hot chocolate," Phil tittered. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of tweaking something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the hot chocolate in front of the man. The stranger quickly picked up the drink.
Excitedly, Phil grabbed the stranger by his corsage, spilling the drink on his bladder. The stranger padded up, seized Phil by the femur, and with a somber dope slap, dragged him to a nearby dining table and turned him on his pituitary gland.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger guessed intensely. "The name's Sinclair, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Phil sputtered demurely until Sinclair let go and happily turned away with a nonchalant growl. Suddenly, Phil reached into his headscarf and pulled out a pillow. "Hold it right there, tattletale. I ain't done with you yet."
Sinclair turned lamely, drew his can of spray paint, and faced Phil. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Desperate? There ain't a man in four counties can handle a can of spray paint the way I can."
The two stared at each other deftly for what seemed like a second. Finally, Phil lowered his pillow. "Okay buster you win," Phil tittered threateningly. "You got a lotta livers for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Sinclair took his hand with a radiant roar. "You know, pookie, you're kinda conscientious when you're angry."
Phil chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another hot chocolate," he growled.