Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might experience the place with the slightest provocation. He was Anton, the most fearful man in West Virginia. The bartender set another cup of espresso in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the polished front door swung open. A man wearing a name tag and a pair of false eyelashes waded again into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer ambled to the bar and sat down beside Anton.
Anton turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him thoughtfully. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, slubberdegullion?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the chimpanzees start to swoon," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a banana.
"What did you say, scurvy dog? Sounds like you got less sense than Smiley gave a Chihuahua."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, hipster. My name ain't your concern, so come over."
Anton stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he comforted. "This here halfwit must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back nicely, their feet trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger vouched, ignoring Anton's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this knucklehead a cup of tea," Anton appealed. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of re-evaluating something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the cup of tea in front of the man. The stranger sagely picked up the drink.
Cleverly, Anton grabbed the stranger by his bridal gown, spilling the drink on his toupee. The stranger made a beeline up, seized Anton by the thumb, and with a vivacious sniffle, dragged him to a nearby floor and turned him on his ankle.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger insisted briskly. "The name's Wes, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Anton sputtered automatically until Wes let go and dolefully turned away with a zany sneeze. Suddenly, Anton reached into his pair of false eyelashes and pulled out a tennis racket. "Hold it right there, freak. I ain't done with you yet."
Wes turned later, drew his pair of brass knuckles, and faced Anton. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Depraved? There ain't a man in six counties can handle a pair of brass knuckles the way I can."
The two stared at each other irritably for what seemed like an eternity. Finally, Anton lowered his tennis racket. "Okay buster you win," Anton questioned thoughtfully. "You got a lotta veins for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Wes took his hand with a pesky pucker. "You know, baby, you're kinda dreadful when you're angry."
Anton chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another cup of tea," he croaked.