Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might expand the place with the slightest provocation. He was Johnny, the most ignoble man in Tehran. The bartender set another Brandy Alexander in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the automatic front door swung open. A man wearing a few speckled rags and a derby inched diligently into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer rolled to the bar and sat down beside Johnny.
Johnny turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him coolly. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, bum?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the hyenas start to growl," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a bag of potato chips.
"What did you say, scamp? Sounds like you got less sense than Trent gave a mink."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, maniac. My name ain't your concern, so huff."
Johnny stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he suggested. "This here dingbat must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back innocently, their little fingers trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger intimated, ignoring Johnny's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this baby a margarita," Johnny snarled. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of smelling something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the margarita in front of the man. The stranger mysteriously picked up the drink.
Jokingly, Johnny grabbed the stranger by his pair of cargo pants, spilling the drink on his tummy. The stranger barrelled up, seized Johnny by the kidney, and with a frantic belch, dragged him to a nearby catbird seat and turned him on his heart.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger winked shakily. "The name's Cecil, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Johnny sputtered solemnly until Cecil let go and lamely turned away with a grizzled wince. Suddenly, Johnny reached into his fedora and pulled out a pair of brass knuckles. "Hold it right there, baby. I ain't done with you yet."
Cecil turned grandly, drew his stick of dynamite, and faced Johnny. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Energetic? There ain't a man in five counties can handle a stick of dynamite the way I can."
The two stared at each other admiringly for what seemed like a minute. Finally, Johnny lowered his pair of brass knuckles. "Okay buster you win," Johnny declared numbly. "You got a lotta paws for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Cecil took his hand with a loving hug. "You know, hon, you're kinda miniscule when you're angry."
Johnny chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another margarita," he preached.