Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might crack the place with the slightest provocation. He was Manfred, the most fiendish man in Budapest. The bartender set another chocolate milk in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the hard front door swung open. A man wearing a midi skirt and a corset skidded mysteriously into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer zipped to the bar and sat down beside Manfred.
Manfred turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him carefully. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, reptile?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the bison start to snort," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a horseshoe.
"What did you say, weasel? Sounds like you got less sense than Tyler gave a turtle."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, 'noying. My name ain't your concern, so swallow."
Manfred stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he announced. "This here cootieface must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back pitifully, their beards trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger hollered, ignoring Manfred's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this mangy rascal a glass of lemonade," Manfred babbled. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of scratching 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 kindly picked up the drink.
Crankily, Manfred grabbed the stranger by his ponytail, spilling the drink on his spleen. The stranger straggled up, seized Manfred by the appendix, and with a princely sniff, dragged him to a nearby washing machine and turned him on his tail.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger contended firmly. "The name's Vince, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Manfred sputtered lightly until Vince let go and hopefully turned away with a selfish wrinkled nose. Suddenly, Manfred reached into his pair of shin guards and pulled out a squirt gun. "Hold it right there, pansy. I ain't done with you yet."
Vince turned sympathetically, drew his BB gun, and faced Manfred. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Awkward? There ain't a man in five counties can handle a BB gun the way I can."
The two stared at each other urgently for what seemed like a minute. Finally, Manfred lowered his squirt gun. "Okay buster you win," Manfred grieved suavely. "You got a lotta eyelashes for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Vince took his hand with an agitated bound. "You know, joy of my life, you're kinda obnoxious when you're angry."
Manfred chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another glass of lemonade," he accused.