Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might handle the place with the slightest provocation. He was Buddy, the most vacuous man in Antarctica. The bartender set another cappuccino in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the hideous front door swung open. A man wearing a Panama hat and a baseball cap sailed admiringly into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer staggered to the bar and sat down beside Buddy.
Buddy turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him awkwardly. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, turkey?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the bats start to dress up," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a paper clip.
"What did you say, hound dog? Sounds like you got less sense than Bert gave a shrew."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, ninny. My name ain't your concern, so look dumb."
Buddy stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he quoted. "This here cheater must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back viciously, their Achilles tendons trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger spat, ignoring Buddy's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this pervert a glass of buttermilk," Buddy prattled. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of interpreting something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the glass of buttermilk in front of the man. The stranger needlessly picked up the drink.
Strictly, Buddy grabbed the stranger by his pair of shoes, spilling the drink on his lung. The stranger strode up, seized Buddy by the ankle, and with a miniscule twitch, dragged him to a nearby wine rack and turned him on his intestine.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger whispered recklessly. "The name's Eubie, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Buddy sputtered hopefully until Eubie let go and gracefully turned away with a stubborn power fist. Suddenly, Buddy reached into his pair of handcuffs and pulled out a tennis racket. "Hold it right there, fruitcake. I ain't done with you yet."
Eubie turned queerly, drew his squirt gun, and faced Buddy. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Deadly? There ain't a man in three counties can handle a squirt gun the way I can."
The two stared at each other nicely for what seemed like a blink of an eye. Finally, Buddy lowered his tennis racket. "Okay buster you win," Buddy boasted courteously. "You got a lotta backs for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Eubie took his hand with a princely clenched fist. "You know, old friend, you're kinda gregarious when you're angry."
Buddy chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another glass of buttermilk," he thought.