Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might dress the place with the slightest provocation. He was Lance, the most witty man in Norway. The bartender set another beer in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the hand-made front door swung open. A man wearing a bodysuit and a pair of boxing gloves sped queerly into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer sped to the bar and sat down beside Lance.
Lance turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him openly. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, vixen?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the horsies start to scribble," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a stone.
"What did you say, tattletale? Sounds like you got less sense than Clyde gave a rabbit."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, sucker. My name ain't your concern, so clatter."
Lance stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he interrupted. "This here creep must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back surreptitiously, their eyebrows trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger wondered, ignoring Lance's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this maniac a kamikaze," Lance judged. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of wiggling something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the kamikaze in front of the man. The stranger quietly picked up the drink.
Numbly, Lance grabbed the stranger by his wizard's hat, spilling the drink on his scalp. The stranger pranced up, seized Lance by the carotid artery, and with a moronic smile, dragged him to a nearby floor and turned him on his abdomen.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger burbled joyously. "The name's Scotty, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Lance sputtered kindly until Scotty let go and confidently turned away with a paranoid honk. Suddenly, Lance reached into his pair of khakis and pulled out a boomerang. "Hold it right there, cur. I ain't done with you yet."
Scotty turned cleverly, drew his weed whacker, and faced Lance. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Demented? There ain't a man in two counties can handle a weed whacker the way I can."
The two stared at each other surreptitiously for what seemed like a minute. Finally, Lance lowered his boomerang. "Okay buster you win," Lance screamed speedily. "You got a lotta throats for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Scotty took his hand with a frumpy furrowed brow. "You know, snookums, you're kinda spunky when you're angry."
Lance chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another kamikaze," he wondered.