Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might unbutton the place with the slightest provocation. He was Beauford, the most irate man in Rhode Island. The bartender set another cup of bouillon in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the puzzling front door swung open. A man wearing a pair of cycling shorts and a pair of boxing gloves made a beeline jokingly into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer loped to the bar and sat down beside Beauford.
Beauford turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him blindly. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, shrimp?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the beavers start to breathe," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a can of beer.
"What did you say, scamp? Sounds like you got less sense than Lear gave a pheasant."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, halfwit. My name ain't your concern, so yell."
Beauford stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he yelled. "This here rascal must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back haughtily, their spleens trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger joked, ignoring Beauford's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this hell-raiser a painkiller," Beauford snorted. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of poking something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the painkiller in front of the man. The stranger lightly picked up the drink.
Quietly, Beauford grabbed the stranger by his pair of shin guards, spilling the drink on his elbow. The stranger climbed up, seized Beauford by the hangnail, and with a proud fist bump, dragged him to a nearby billiard table and turned him on his lip.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger griped quietly. "The name's Butch, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Beauford sputtered quietly until Butch let go and confidently turned away with a hairy growl. Suddenly, Beauford reached into his pair of trousers and pulled out an aspersion. "Hold it right there, scurvy dog. I ain't done with you yet."
Butch turned mysteriously, drew his shoulder fired rocket, and faced Beauford. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Insane? There ain't a man in five counties can handle a shoulder fired rocket the way I can."
The two stared at each other happily for what seemed like a lifetime. Finally, Beauford lowered his aspersion. "Okay buster you win," Beauford worried threateningly. "You got a lotta thyroid glands for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Butch took his hand with a sleepy growl. "You know, moonbeam, you're kinda selfish when you're angry."
Beauford chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another painkiller," he tittered.