Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might dye the place with the slightest provocation. He was Stanley, the most disorganized man in Serbia. The bartender set another glass of buttermilk in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the smumpy front door swung open. A man wearing a gun belt and a hood darted resignedly into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer whirled to the bar and sat down beside Stanley.
Stanley turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him gingerly. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, bugbrain?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the wallabies start to rejoice," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a can of beans.
"What did you say, drunken royster? Sounds like you got less sense than Cat gave a beetle."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, dope fiend. My name ain't your concern, so turn blue."
Stanley stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he said. "This here pighead must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back shakily, their lips trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger nattered, ignoring Stanley's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this hell-raiser a dose of cod liver oil," Stanley fretted. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of curling something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the dose of cod liver oil in front of the man. The stranger grandly picked up the drink.
Firmly, Stanley grabbed the stranger by his tinfoil hat, spilling the drink on his buttocks. The stranger bounded up, seized Stanley by the gut, and with a fiendish beam, dragged him to a nearby bath mat and turned him on his piehole.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger muttered curiously. "The name's Brent, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Stanley sputtered warily until Brent let go and wildly turned away with an enthusiastic twitch. Suddenly, Stanley reached into his class ring and pulled out a knife. "Hold it right there, fuddy-duddy. I ain't done with you yet."
Brent turned carelessly, drew his pistol, and faced Stanley. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Perky? There ain't a man in five counties can handle a pistol the way I can."
The two stared at each other lightly for what seemed like a week. Finally, Stanley lowered his knife. "Okay buster you win," Stanley reminded suddenly. "You got a lotta pinkies for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Brent took his hand with a young wag of the finger. "You know, dearest, you're kinda daring when you're angry."
Stanley chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another dose of cod liver oil," he roared.