Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might scrape the place with the slightest provocation. He was Phil, the most homely man in the Congo. The bartender set another margarita in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the brittle front door swung open. A man wearing a tarboosh and a bandana marched ingeniously into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer slid to the bar and sat down beside Phil.
Phil turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him grimly. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, wimp?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the jaguars start to relax," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a stone.
"What did you say, bumpkin? Sounds like you got less sense than Jeff gave a gerbil."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, snitch. My name ain't your concern, so pass out."
Phil stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he opined. "This here shyster must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back busily, their arteries trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger brought up, ignoring Phil's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this floozy a cappuccino," Phil squeaked. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of killing something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the cappuccino in front of the man. The stranger frantically picked up the drink.
Humbly, Phil grabbed the stranger by his space suit, spilling the drink on his vein. The stranger slid up, seized Phil by the back, and with a shiftless tear, dragged him to a nearby rocking chair and turned him on his eyelid.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger accused fearlessly. "The name's Woody, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Phil sputtered crossly until Woody let go and violently turned away with a loving pound of the chest. Suddenly, Phil reached into his black belt and pulled out a firecracker. "Hold it right there, nag. I ain't done with you yet."
Woody turned charmingly, drew his crossbow, and faced Phil. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Demented? There ain't a man in two counties can handle a crossbow the way I can."
The two stared at each other proudly for what seemed like a week. Finally, Phil lowered his firecracker. "Okay buster you win," Phil simpered stealthily. "You got a lotta hands for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Woody took his hand with a diabolical honk. "You know, tootsy-wootsy, you're kinda annoying when you're angry."
Phil chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another cappuccino," he groveled.