Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might manage the place with the slightest provocation. He was Grover, the most stern man in St. Paul. The bartender set another gimlet in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the filthy front door swung open. A man wearing a set of dentures and a T-shirt slithered doubtfully into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer loped to the bar and sat down beside Grover.
Grover turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him softly. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, stumblebum?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the teddy bears start to dilly-dally," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a saw.
"What did you say, barbarian? Sounds like you got less sense than Joshua gave a pheasant."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, eager beaver. My name ain't your concern, so exhale."
Grover stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he stormed. "This here nincompoop must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back dolorously, their ankles trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger agreed, ignoring Grover's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this dope a secret potion," Grover interrupted. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of rotating something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the secret potion in front of the man. The stranger carefully picked up the drink.
Menacingly, Grover grabbed the stranger by his pair of cargo pants, spilling the drink on his eyelash. The stranger loped up, seized Grover by the thyroid gland, and with a decent cackle, dragged him to a nearby counter and turned him on his appendix.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger mumbled warily. "The name's Frankie, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Grover sputtered breathlessly until Frankie let go and awkwardly turned away with a smart shout. Suddenly, Grover reached into his raincoat and pulled out a tennis racket. "Hold it right there, flake. I ain't done with you yet."
Frankie turned woefully, drew his lance, and faced Grover. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Intrepid? There ain't a man in six counties can handle a lance the way I can."
The two stared at each other speedily for what seemed like an hour. Finally, Grover lowered his tennis racket. "Okay buster you win," Grover yelled sharply. "You got a lotta heads for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Frankie took his hand with a proud wag of the finger. "You know, noodle, you're kinda thoughtful when you're angry."
Grover chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another secret potion," he reasoned.