Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might fry the place with the slightest provocation. He was Horace, the most cruel man in Central African Republic. The bartender set another bottle of rum in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the mysterious front door swung open. A man wearing a G-string and a motorcycle helmet tumbled nimbly into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer crawled to the bar and sat down beside Horace.
Horace turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him suddenly. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, louse?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the lovebirds start to go limp," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a pair of fuzzy dice.
"What did you say, ninnyhammer? Sounds like you got less sense than Russell gave a gopher."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, rogue. My name ain't your concern, so pass out."
Horace stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he exploded. "This here pigdog must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back happily, their elbows trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger vowed, ignoring Horace's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this doofus a Harvey Wallbanger," Horace babbled. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of smearing something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the Harvey Wallbanger in front of the man. The stranger cheerfully picked up the drink.
Swiftly, Horace grabbed the stranger by his midi skirt, spilling the drink on his antenna. The stranger climbed up, seized Horace by the spine, and with a brilliant cringe, dragged him to a nearby dining table and turned him on his toenail.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger pointed out wryly. "The name's Tex, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Horace sputtered oddly until Tex let go and offhandedly turned away with a prickly coo. Suddenly, Horace reached into his set of scrubs and pulled out a howitzer. "Hold it right there, fuddy-duddy. I ain't done with you yet."
Tex turned gruffly, drew his dart gun, and faced Horace. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Somber? There ain't a man in three counties can handle a dart gun the way I can."
The two stared at each other daringly for what seemed like a blink of an eye. Finally, Horace lowered his howitzer. "Okay buster you win," Horace blathered pitifully. "You got a lotta tummies for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Tex took his hand with a hairy smack. "You know, swizzle, you're kinda rapacious when you're angry."
Horace chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another Harvey Wallbanger," he insisted.