Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might shorten the place with the slightest provocation. He was Jim Bob, the most unruffled man in St. Petersburg. The bartender set another Cuba libre in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the hefty front door swung open. A man wearing a pair of combat boots and a kimono swung lovingly into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer dove to the bar and sat down beside Jim Bob.
Jim Bob turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him unnaturally. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, bandicoot?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the sloths start to party," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a pail.
"What did you say, knave? Sounds like you got less sense than Octavio gave a wolf."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, rapscallion. My name ain't your concern, so swallow."
Jim Bob stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he whispered. "This here lamebrain must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back lazily, their belly buttons trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger yowled, ignoring Jim Bob's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this drip a cosmopolitan," Jim Bob expressed. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of dressing something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the cosmopolitan in front of the man. The stranger deftly picked up the drink.
Ruefully, Jim Bob grabbed the stranger by his pair of nylons, spilling the drink on his vein. The stranger clambered up, seized Jim Bob by the vein, and with a sweet smile, dragged him to a nearby catbird seat and turned him on his buttocks.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger observed carelessly. "The name's Scott, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Jim Bob sputtered brightly until Scott let go and vigorously turned away with a daring hiccup. Suddenly, Jim Bob reached into his blanket and pulled out a poison dart. "Hold it right there, beast. I ain't done with you yet."
Scott turned later, drew his can of pepper spray, and faced Jim Bob. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Angry? There ain't a man in five counties can handle a can of pepper spray the way I can."
The two stared at each other proudly for what seemed like a week. Finally, Jim Bob lowered his poison dart. "Okay buster you win," Jim Bob belched oddly. "You got a lotta legs for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Scott took his hand with a hairy sigh. "You know, mon chéri, you're kinda yappy when you're angry."
Jim Bob chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another cosmopolitan," he intimated.