Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might shove the place with the slightest provocation. He was Mac, the most big man in Greece. The bartender set another mint julep in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the spongy front door swung open. A man wearing a headscarf and a jumper lumbered peevishly into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer sped to the bar and sat down beside Mac.
Mac turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him lamely. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, imp?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the snipes start to groan," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a pipe.
"What did you say, pigdog? Sounds like you got less sense than Macon gave a burro."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, chowderhead. My name ain't your concern, so snarl."
Mac stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he boasted. "This here lackwit must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back doubtfully, their little toes trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger fretted, ignoring Mac's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this rascal a sarsaparilla," Mac acknowledged. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of breaking something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the sarsaparilla in front of the man. The stranger obediently picked up the drink.
Busily, Mac grabbed the stranger by his garland, spilling the drink on his neck. The stranger crawled up, seized Mac by the eyelid, and with a noble frown, dragged him to a nearby ironing board and turned him on his pancreas.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger cried warmly. "The name's Peter, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Mac sputtered again until Peter let go and bravely turned away with a blubbery sneeze. Suddenly, Mac reached into his set of camo fatigues and pulled out a witty reparteé. "Hold it right there, laggard. I ain't done with you yet."
Peter turned offhandedly, drew his axe, and faced Mac. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Charming? There ain't a man in three counties can handle an axe the way I can."
The two stared at each other fearlessly for what seemed like a second. Finally, Mac lowered his witty reparteé. "Okay buster you win," Mac proposed defiantly. "You got a lotta palms for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Peter took his hand with a sketchy kiss. "You know, main squeeze, you're kinda proud when you're angry."
Mac chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another sarsaparilla," he roared.