Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might develop the place with the slightest provocation. He was Roy, the most taciturn man in the Maldives. The bartender set another latte in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the chic front door swung open. A man wearing a belly button jewel and a beard flounced cruelly into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer dashed to the bar and sat down beside Roy.
Roy turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him testily. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, toilet vulture?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the orangutans start to scribble," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a hair dryer.
"What did you say, bumpkin? Sounds like you got less sense than Yancey gave a yeti."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, crackpot. My name ain't your concern, so dress up."
Roy stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he groveled. "This here chowderhead must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back valiantly, their legs trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger mentioned, ignoring Roy's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this dullard a hot buttered rum," Roy spewed. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of plucking something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the hot buttered rum in front of the man. The stranger resignedly picked up the drink.
Lightly, Roy grabbed the stranger by his armband, spilling the drink on his thumb. The stranger skipped up, seized Roy by the thyroid gland, and with a stubby flutter, dragged him to a nearby pool table and turned him on his belly.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger snarled obediently. "The name's Quincy, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Roy sputtered needlessly until Quincy let go and sadly turned away with a wary belch. Suddenly, Roy reached into his pair of boxing gloves and pulled out a dirk. "Hold it right there, renegade. I ain't done with you yet."
Quincy turned busily, drew his sling, and faced Roy. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Emotional? There ain't a man in three counties can handle a sling the way I can."
The two stared at each other defiantly for what seemed like a year. Finally, Roy lowered his dirk. "Okay buster you win," Roy groveled unexpectedly. "You got a lotta aortas for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Quincy took his hand with a proud smack. "You know, friend, you're kinda funny when you're angry."
Roy chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another hot buttered rum," he analyzed.