Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might dispose of the place with the slightest provocation. He was Aristotle, the most gargantuan man in Providence. The bartender set another cup of hot cider in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the modern front door swung open. A man wearing an armband and a polo shirt tore sheepishly into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer bounded to the bar and sat down beside Aristotle.
Aristotle turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him warmly. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, gump?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the raccoons start to lounge," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a corsage.
"What did you say, rapscallion? Sounds like you got less sense than Dennis gave a puma."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, 'noying. My name ain't your concern, so mutter."
Aristotle stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he muttered. "This here mush-for-brains must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back fondly, their hearts trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger lamented, ignoring Aristotle's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this hellhound a cappuccino," Aristotle responded. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of chopping something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the cappuccino in front of the man. The stranger cunningly picked up the drink.
Sleepily, Aristotle grabbed the stranger by his pair of combat boots, spilling the drink on his knee. The stranger tramped up, seized Aristotle by the larynx, and with a tired cheer, dragged him to a nearby wardrobe and turned him on his leg.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger revealed coldly. "The name's Frank, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Aristotle sputtered reluctantly until Frank let go and openly turned away with a loving giggle. Suddenly, Aristotle reached into his G-string and pulled out a musket. "Hold it right there, big oaf. I ain't done with you yet."
Frank turned cruelly, drew his wooden stake, and faced Aristotle. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Muscular? There ain't a man in six counties can handle a wooden stake the way I can."
The two stared at each other sheepishly for what seemed like a week. Finally, Aristotle lowered his musket. "Okay buster you win," Aristotle alleged frantically. "You got a lotta eyeballs for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Frank took his hand with a hirsute gasp. "You know, pipkin, you're kinda depraved when you're angry."
Aristotle chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another cappuccino," he rumored.