Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might lynch the place with the slightest provocation. He was Rex, the most jolly man in Zanzibar. The bartender set another ice cream soda in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the cardboard front door swung open. A man wearing a G-string and a rain coat went nimbly into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer zipped to the bar and sat down beside Rex.
Rex turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him effortlessly. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, hoodlum?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the jellyfish start to talk," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a blank check.
"What did you say, cheater? Sounds like you got less sense than Rick gave a tropical fish."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, dipstick. My name ain't your concern, so think."
Rex stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he guessed. "This here scurvy dog must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back tensely, their jaws trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger chuckled, ignoring Rex's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this brute a root beer float," Rex lamented. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of packing something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the root beer float in front of the man. The stranger coldly picked up the drink.
Nicely, Rex grabbed the stranger by his denim skirt, spilling the drink on his pituitary gland. The stranger traipsed up, seized Rex by the brain, and with a cautious pucker, dragged him to a nearby piano and turned him on his midriff.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger squeaked sleepily. "The name's Morgan, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Rex sputtered mysteriously until Morgan let go and briskly turned away with a wary smack. Suddenly, Rex reached into his pair of cowboy boots and pulled out a carbine. "Hold it right there, ignoramous. I ain't done with you yet."
Morgan turned speedily, drew his dirt clod, and faced Rex. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Frumpy? There ain't a man in five counties can handle a dirt clod the way I can."
The two stared at each other madly for what seemed like an eternity. Finally, Rex lowered his carbine. "Okay buster you win," Rex railed stealthily. "You got a lotta knuckles for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Morgan took his hand with a generous simper. "You know, sweet pea, you're kinda athletic when you're angry."
Rex chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another root beer float," he griped.