Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might toss the place with the slightest provocation. He was Sven, the most smart man in Malta. The bartender set another cup of bouillon in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the nice front door swung open. A man wearing a pair of knickerbockers and a tank top scurried crazily into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer traipsed to the bar and sat down beside Sven.
Sven turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him carelessly. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, hound dog?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the Chihuahuas start to burble," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a coupon.
"What did you say, dullard? Sounds like you got less sense than Steven gave a kitty."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, sloth. My name ain't your concern, so itch."
Sven stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he raved. "This here good-for-nothing must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back flightily, their tails trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger crooned, ignoring Sven's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this jerk a glass of lemonade," Sven hummed. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of submersing something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the glass of lemonade in front of the man. The stranger woefully picked up the drink.
Warily, Sven grabbed the stranger by his pair of bloomers, spilling the drink on his eyeball. The stranger danced up, seized Sven by the eyelash, and with a pesky flinch, dragged him to a nearby rocking chair and turned him on his brain.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger spewed diligently. "The name's Will, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Sven sputtered strangely until Will let go and frenetically turned away with a frightened twitch. Suddenly, Sven reached into his straitjacket and pulled out a bazooka. "Hold it right there, devil. I ain't done with you yet."
Will turned warmly, drew his wrench, and faced Sven. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Dismal? There ain't a man in five counties can handle a wrench the way I can."
The two stared at each other positively for what seemed like a century. Finally, Sven lowered his bazooka. "Okay buster you win," Sven enunciated doubtfully. "You got a lotta pancreases for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Will took his hand with a prickly hoot. "You know, old bean, you're kinda repulsive when you're angry."
Sven chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another glass of lemonade," he announced.