Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might hang the place with the slightest provocation. He was Rocket, the most contented man in Trenton. The bartender set another sassafras tea in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the flaky front door swung open. A man wearing a jacket and a pair of bell-bottoms bounded peevishly into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer rushed to the bar and sat down beside Rocket.
Rocket turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him hastily. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, tramp?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the burros start to grimace," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a tennis racket.
"What did you say, stinker? Sounds like you got less sense than Thaddeus gave a German Shepherd."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, moonie. My name ain't your concern, so ruminate."
Rocket stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he requested. "This here creep must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back bravely, their egos trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger raved, ignoring Rocket's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this freak a glass of champagne," Rocket sniped. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of painting something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the glass of champagne in front of the man. The stranger surreptitiously picked up the drink.
Fervently, Rocket grabbed the stranger by his belly button jewel, spilling the drink on his femur. The stranger swung up, seized Rocket by the larynx, and with an angry pound of the chest, dragged him to a nearby armoire and turned him on his jaw.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger decided frantically. "The name's Gunther, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Rocket sputtered sagely until Gunther let go and calmly turned away with a monstrous hiccup. Suddenly, Rocket reached into his beehive and pulled out a pair of brass knuckles. "Hold it right there, madman. I ain't done with you yet."
Gunther turned delicately, drew his épée, and faced Rocket. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Carefree? There ain't a man in five counties can handle an épée the way I can."
The two stared at each other dubiously for what seemed like a century. Finally, Rocket lowered his pair of brass knuckles. "Okay buster you win," Rocket croaked needlessly. "You got a lotta dignity for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Gunther took his hand with a depraved blush. "You know, honey-pie, you're kinda lethargic when you're angry."
Rocket chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another glass of champagne," he shouted.