Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might blacken the place with the slightest provocation. He was Patrick, the most fiendish man in Lima. The bartender set another fruit smoothie in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the golden front door swung open. A man wearing a pair of earrings and a dirndl made a beeline hysterically into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer inched to the bar and sat down beside Patrick.
Patrick turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him obediently. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, punk?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the deer start to shake," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a Band-aid.
"What did you say, harebrain? Sounds like you got less sense than Scott gave a pigeon."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, dirty rat. My name ain't your concern, so tremble."
Patrick stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he comforted. "This here pook must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back cheerfully, their stomachs trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger squeaked, ignoring Patrick's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this blackguard a glass of apricot juice," Patrick spouted. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of refurbishing something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the glass of apricot juice in front of the man. The stranger suavely picked up the drink.
Ferociously, Patrick grabbed the stranger by his trench coat, spilling the drink on his buttocks. The stranger blundered up, seized Patrick by the pinky, and with a demented cackle, dragged him to a nearby safe and turned him on his toupee.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger burbled sorrowfully. "The name's Roscoe, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Patrick sputtered ingeniously until Roscoe let go and solemnly turned away with a miniscule snarl. Suddenly, Patrick reached into his pair of bell-bottoms and pulled out a set of nunchucks. "Hold it right there, bugbrain. I ain't done with you yet."
Roscoe turned kindly, drew his knife, and faced Patrick. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Fiendish? There ain't a man in four counties can handle a knife the way I can."
The two stared at each other valiantly for what seemed like a fortnight. Finally, Patrick lowered his set of nunchucks. "Okay buster you win," Patrick acknowledged brashly. "You got a lotta toupees for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Roscoe took his hand with a brassy death glare. "You know, tootsie-pie, you're kinda relaxed when you're angry."
Patrick chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another glass of apricot juice," he sniped.