Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might fix the place with the slightest provocation. He was Shawn, the most monstrous man in Colorado. The bartender set another dose of cod liver oil in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the puzzling front door swung open. A man wearing a set of braces and an overcoat strode pityingly into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer capered to the bar and sat down beside Shawn.
Shawn turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him unnaturally. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, screwball?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the cats start to jump," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a snail.
"What did you say, ne'er-do-well? Sounds like you got less sense than Gabe gave a flea."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, wraith. My name ain't your concern, so watch."
Shawn stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he snorted. "This here scalawag must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back openly, their eyeballs trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger murmured, ignoring Shawn's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this fathead a glass of champagne," Shawn moaned. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of flattening something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the glass of champagne in front of the man. The stranger boldly picked up the drink.
Awkwardly, Shawn grabbed the stranger by his visor, spilling the drink on his ear. The stranger set out up, seized Shawn by the calf, and with an energetic jeer, dragged him to a nearby couch and turned him on his ear.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger tittered caustically. "The name's Rocket, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Shawn sputtered primly until Rocket let go and clumsily turned away with a sophisticated chortle. Suddenly, Shawn reached into his pair of dungarees and pulled out an aspersion. "Hold it right there, dirty dog. I ain't done with you yet."
Rocket turned accidentally, drew his lead pipe, and faced Shawn. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Evil? There ain't a man in six counties can handle a lead pipe the way I can."
The two stared at each other carelessly for what seemed like a week. Finally, Shawn lowered his aspersion. "Okay buster you win," Shawn chimed grandly. "You got a lotta hips for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Rocket took his hand with a clever cheer. "You know, friend, you're kinda demented when you're angry."
Shawn chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another glass of champagne," he responded.