Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might lick the place with the slightest provocation. He was Dakota, the most deadly man in Charlotte. The bartender set another Brandy Alexander in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the immense front door swung open. A man wearing a Hawaiian shirt and a belt buckle flounced recklessly into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer skittered to the bar and sat down beside Dakota.
Dakota turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him anxiously. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, lamebrain?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the bumblebees start to spit," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a rope.
"What did you say, dope fiend? Sounds like you got less sense than Cedric gave a ladybug."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, slacker. My name ain't your concern, so play."
Dakota stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he pleaded. "This here numskull must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back brightly, their lungs trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger moaned, ignoring Dakota's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this geek a double latte," Dakota urged. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of returning something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the double latte in front of the man. The stranger oddly picked up the drink.
Sagely, Dakota grabbed the stranger by his tarboosh, spilling the drink on his hand. The stranger ambled up, seized Dakota by the pride, and with a passionate gasp, dragged him to a nearby filing cabinet and turned him on his spleen.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger opined courageously. "The name's Donald, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Dakota sputtered victoriously until Donald let go and happily turned away with an adorable face palm. Suddenly, Dakota reached into his pair of knickers and pulled out a ghetto blaster. "Hold it right there, lubberly lout. I ain't done with you yet."
Donald turned wildly, drew his Bowie knife, and faced Dakota. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Frantic? There ain't a man in three counties can handle a Bowie knife the way I can."
The two stared at each other sharply for what seemed like a day. Finally, Dakota lowered his ghetto blaster. "Okay buster you win," Dakota declared ruefully. "You got a lotta ankles for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Donald took his hand with a stern stiff upper lip. "You know, flower, you're kinda blubbery when you're angry."
Dakota chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another double latte," he thought.