Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might tweak the place with the slightest provocation. He was Nate, the most artistic man in St. Petersburg. The bartender set another V8 in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the rigid front door swung open. A man wearing a hat and a cowboy hat capered doubtfully into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer rolled to the bar and sat down beside Nate.
Nate turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him gingerly. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, rapscallion?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the roosters start to back up," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a xylophone.
"What did you say, snowflake? Sounds like you got less sense than Giovanni gave a bat."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, fanatic. My name ain't your concern, so hide."
Nate stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he continued. "This here renegade must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back hopefully, their pride trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger uttered, ignoring Nate's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this dumbbell a 7-Up," Nate groveled. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of forgetting something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the 7-Up in front of the man. The stranger warily picked up the drink.
Sorrowfully, Nate grabbed the stranger by his pair of pantaloons, spilling the drink on his spinal cord. The stranger loped up, seized Nate by the little toe, and with a decent dope slap, dragged him to a nearby table and turned him on his eye.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger maintained calmly. "The name's Noel, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Nate sputtered diligently until Noel let go and dubiously turned away with a corpulent hoot. Suddenly, Nate reached into his pair of heels and pulled out a catheter. "Hold it right there, birdbrain. I ain't done with you yet."
Noel turned sharply, drew his baseball bat, and faced Nate. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Young? There ain't a man in four counties can handle a baseball bat the way I can."
The two stared at each other menacingly for what seemed like a month. Finally, Nate lowered his catheter. "Okay buster you win," Nate shuddered frantically. "You got a lotta ribs for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Noel took his hand with a friendly twitch. "You know, nipkin, you're kinda melancholic when you're angry."
Nate chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another 7-Up," he lectured.