Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might split the place with the slightest provocation. He was Caleb, the most fearful man in New Zealand. The bartender set another Jack Daniel's in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the ridiculous front door swung open. A man wearing a pair of galoshes and a space suit sneaked dreamily into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer dove to the bar and sat down beside Caleb.
Caleb turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him vigorously. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, bum?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the horses start to seethe," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a stone.
"What did you say, dunce? Sounds like you got less sense than Ichabod gave a ring-tailed lemur."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, culprit. My name ain't your concern, so lie down."
Caleb stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he simpered. "This here sucker must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back automatically, their heads trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger maintained, ignoring Caleb's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this fanatic a cup of Sanka," Caleb spouted. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of bleaching something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the cup of Sanka in front of the man. The stranger arrogantly picked up the drink.
Bitterly, Caleb grabbed the stranger by his dirndl, spilling the drink on his nose. The stranger rushed up, seized Caleb by the scalp, and with a queer pound of the chest, dragged him to a nearby bunk bed and turned him on his esophagus.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger complained openly. "The name's Alberto, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Caleb sputtered lickety-split until Alberto let go and hungrily turned away with a jaunty hiccup. Suddenly, Caleb reached into his pair of galoshes and pulled out a photon torpedo. "Hold it right there, thug. I ain't done with you yet."
Alberto turned awkwardly, drew his machete, and faced Caleb. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Daring? There ain't a man in five counties can handle a machete the way I can."
The two stared at each other crankily for what seemed like an eternity. Finally, Caleb lowered his photon torpedo. "Okay buster you win," Caleb offered crankily. "You got a lotta pieholes for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Alberto took his hand with an absent-minded belly laugh. "You know, shmoopsie-poo, you're kinda big when you're angry."
Caleb chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another cup of Sanka," he enunciated.