Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might identify the place with the slightest provocation. He was Morton, the most disgusting man in Lithuania. The bartender set another glass of lemonade in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the dirty front door swung open. A man wearing a pair of Crocs and a black belt cantered anxiously into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer padded to the bar and sat down beside Morton.
Morton turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him woefully. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, imbecile?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the pumas start to vomit," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a bag.
"What did you say, birdbrain? Sounds like you got less sense than Warren gave a Chihuahua."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, goose. My name ain't your concern, so swoon."
Morton stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he sighed. "This here loon must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back caustically, their hips trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger conversed, ignoring Morton's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this nag a Sangría," Morton spat. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of shrinking something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the Sangría in front of the man. The stranger lickety-split picked up the drink.
Carelessly, Morton grabbed the stranger by his gas mask, spilling the drink on his adrenal gland. The stranger breezed up, seized Morton by the claw, and with an articulate simper, dragged him to a nearby bookcase and turned him on his dignity.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger boasted needlessly. "The name's Lee, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Morton sputtered truculently until Lee let go and fervently turned away with a wicked growl. Suddenly, Morton reached into his pair of galoshes and pulled out a sling. "Hold it right there, psycho. I ain't done with you yet."
Lee turned frenetically, drew his air horn, and faced Morton. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Ambitious? There ain't a man in five counties can handle an air horn the way I can."
The two stared at each other ignobly for what seemed like a second. Finally, Morton lowered his sling. "Okay buster you win," Morton explained urgently. "You got a lotta cheeks for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Lee took his hand with a sketchy smile. "You know, baby-cakes, you're kinda muddled when you're angry."
Morton chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another Sangría," he enunciated.