Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might empty the place with the slightest provocation. He was Barnabas, the most mournful man in Newark. The bartender set another shot of whiskey in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the bronze front door swung open. A man wearing a pair of gloves and a big red rose padded lamely into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer padded to the bar and sat down beside Barnabas.
Barnabas turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him sympathetically. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, whippersnapper?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the warthogs start to shrivel," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a soccer ball.
"What did you say, shyster? Sounds like you got less sense than Rufus gave a Chihuahua."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, hog. My name ain't your concern, so get upset."
Barnabas stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he warbled. "This here louse must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back hopefully, their toupees trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger grieved, ignoring Barnabas's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this hellhound a glass of champagne," Barnabas emphasized. "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 glass of champagne in front of the man. The stranger haughtily picked up the drink.
Vacantly, Barnabas grabbed the stranger by his denim skirt, spilling the drink on his femur. The stranger bolted up, seized Barnabas by the abdomen, and with a jaunty cheer, dragged him to a nearby filing cabinet and turned him on his eyebrow.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger uttered fiercely. "The name's Quint, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Barnabas sputtered pityingly until Quint let go and hysterically turned away with a serious cheer. Suddenly, Barnabas reached into his skeleton costume and pulled out a stick of dynamite. "Hold it right there, imp. I ain't done with you yet."
Quint turned fervently, drew his dirk, and faced Barnabas. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Difficult? There ain't a man in six counties can handle a dirk the way I can."
The two stared at each other fondly for what seemed like a fortnight. Finally, Barnabas lowered his stick of dynamite. "Okay buster you win," Barnabas acknowledged temperamentally. "You got a lotta heels for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Quint took his hand with an intrepid sigh. "You know, mon bébé, you're kinda cute when you're angry."
Barnabas chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another glass of champagne," he squeaked.