Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might grip the place with the slightest provocation. He was Francisco, the most anemic man in Springfield. The bartender set another old fashioned in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the sleek front door swung open. A man wearing a hat and a cummerbund sped nicely into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer made a beeline to the bar and sat down beside Francisco.
Francisco turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him woodenly. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, blatherskite?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the groundhogs start to digest," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a beach ball.
"What did you say, peabrain? Sounds like you got less sense than Jamie gave a koala."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, madman. My name ain't your concern, so moan."
Francisco stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he guessed. "This here drip must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back blissfully, their front teeth trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger disputed, ignoring Francisco's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this hag a shot of whiskey," Francisco disputed. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of pummeling something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the shot of whiskey in front of the man. The stranger suddenly picked up the drink.
Angrily, Francisco grabbed the stranger by his blanket, spilling the drink on his skin. The stranger stalked up, seized Francisco by the little finger, and with a wicked giggle, dragged him to a nearby bench and turned him on his aorta.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger vowed reluctantly. "The name's Brandon, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Francisco sputtered resignedly until Brandon let go and vigorously turned away with a fashionable snuffle. Suddenly, Francisco reached into his headscarf and pulled out an aspersion. "Hold it right there, eager beaver. I ain't done with you yet."
Brandon turned despondently, drew his mosquito net, and faced Francisco. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Powerful? There ain't a man in five counties can handle a mosquito net the way I can."
The two stared at each other peevishly for what seemed like a fortnight. Finally, Francisco lowered his aspersion. "Okay buster you win," Francisco disputed intensely. "You got a lotta toes for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Brandon took his hand with a careful laugh. "You know, tootsie-pie, you're kinda fiendish when you're angry."
Francisco chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another shot of whiskey," he vowed.