Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might open the place with the slightest provocation. He was Wes, the most friendly man in Kenya. The bartender set another cup of eggnog in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the puzzling front door swung open. A man wearing a hair net and a girdle pranced gruffly into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer made a beeline to the bar and sat down beside Wes.
Wes turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him thoughtfully. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, crazy person?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the brine shrimp start to lounge," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a book.
"What did you say, ninnyhammer? Sounds like you got less sense than Jesus gave a tsetse fly."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, lubberly lout. My name ain't your concern, so adjust."
Wes stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he screeched. "This here troglodyte must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back fearfully, their pancreases trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger sniffed, ignoring Wes's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this floozy a glass of tomato juice," Wes agreed. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of boiling something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the glass of tomato juice in front of the man. The stranger needlessly picked up the drink.
Defiantly, Wes grabbed the stranger by his pair of booties, spilling the drink on his antenna. The stranger paraded up, seized Wes by the Adam's apple, and with a maniacal belch, dragged him to a nearby billiard table and turned him on his thyroid gland.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger raved smoothly. "The name's Robert, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Wes sputtered despondently until Robert let go and lazily turned away with a wicked chuckle. Suddenly, Wes reached into his lab coat and pulled out a bucket of water. "Hold it right there, dodo. I ain't done with you yet."
Robert turned rapidly, drew his baseball bat, and faced Wes. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Demented? There ain't a man in four counties can handle a baseball bat the way I can."
The two stared at each other glibly for what seemed like a year. Finally, Wes lowered his bucket of water. "Okay buster you win," Wes hummed nicely. "You got a lotta knuckles for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Robert took his hand with a vivacious pound of the chest. "You know, pork chop, you're kinda muddled when you're angry."
Wes chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another glass of tomato juice," he indicated.