Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might pluck the place with the slightest provocation. He was Roscoe, the most garrulous man in Liverpool. The bartender set another Mai Tai in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the broken front door swung open. A man wearing a sombrero and a bustier zoomed kindly into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer slunk to the bar and sat down beside Roscoe.
Roscoe turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him obediently. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, dopefiend?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the moles start to clatter," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a tissue.
"What did you say, animal? Sounds like you got less sense than Rico gave a eagle."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, clapperdudgeon. My name ain't your concern, so get along."
Roscoe stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he peeped. "This here whippersnapper must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back thankfully, their hands trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger orated, ignoring Roscoe's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this hipster a whiskey sour," Roscoe explained. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of hooking something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the whiskey sour in front of the man. The stranger charmingly picked up the drink.
Mysteriously, Roscoe grabbed the stranger by his babushka, spilling the drink on his knee. The stranger walked up, seized Roscoe by the leg, and with a fearless belch, dragged him to a nearby casket and turned him on his eyelid.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger babbled repeatedly. "The name's Willie, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Roscoe sputtered silently until Willie let go and sarcastically turned away with an enraged yawn. Suddenly, Roscoe reached into his wristwatch and pulled out a flashlight. "Hold it right there, shrimp. I ain't done with you yet."
Willie turned effortlessly, drew his Molotov cocktail, and faced Roscoe. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Angry? There ain't a man in six counties can handle a Molotov cocktail the way I can."
The two stared at each other blindly for what seemed like a month. Finally, Roscoe lowered his flashlight. "Okay buster you win," Roscoe jeered fiercely. "You got a lotta thumbs for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Willie took his hand with a comely backward glance. "You know, princess, you're kinda friendly when you're angry."
Roscoe chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another whiskey sour," he smirked.