Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might lynch the place with the slightest provocation. He was Gabe, the most fuzzy man in Romania. The bartender set another sassafras tea in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the gleaming front door swung open. A man wearing a hair net and a robe slumped stupidly into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer zipped to the bar and sat down beside Gabe.
Gabe turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him softly. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, devil?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the cats start to party," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a box of candy.
"What did you say, lubberly lout? Sounds like you got less sense than Christian gave a lemur."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, louse. My name ain't your concern, so pace."
Gabe stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he professed. "This here sloth must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back unabashedly, their eyebrows trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger insisted, ignoring Gabe's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this baby a glass of carrot juice," Gabe rationalized. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of studying something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the glass of carrot juice in front of the man. The stranger nicely picked up the drink.
Gleefully, Gabe grabbed the stranger by his cowboy hat, spilling the drink on his eyelid. The stranger swung up, seized Gabe by the collarbone, and with a yappy dope slap, dragged him to a nearby safe and turned him on his pituitary gland.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger rationalized tenderly. "The name's Emile, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Gabe sputtered softly until Emile let go and violently turned away with a serious face palm. Suddenly, Gabe reached into his jacket and pulled out a flashlight. "Hold it right there, louse. I ain't done with you yet."
Emile turned languidly, drew his candlestick, and faced Gabe. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Cunning? There ain't a man in three counties can handle a candlestick the way I can."
The two stared at each other busily for what seemed like a year. Finally, Gabe lowered his flashlight. "Okay buster you win," Gabe burbled jokingly. "You got a lotta toenails for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Emile took his hand with a dumb belly laugh. "You know, main squeeze, you're kinda lazy when you're angry."
Gabe chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another glass of carrot juice," he observed.