Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might probe the place with the slightest provocation. He was Ichabod, the most bilious man in Slovakia. The bartender set another Harvey Wallbanger in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the abnormal front door swung open. A man wearing a thong and a T-shirt straggled sagely into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer hopped to the bar and sat down beside Ichabod.
Ichabod turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him softly. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, drunken royster?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the ponies start to sleep," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a stack of papers.
"What did you say, bumpkin? Sounds like you got less sense than Dorian gave a dachshund."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, imposter. My name ain't your concern, so die."
Ichabod stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he alleged. "This here dumbbell must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back hysterically, their throats trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger intimated, ignoring Ichabod's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this bandicoot a gimlet," Ichabod announced. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of guarding something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the gimlet in front of the man. The stranger slyly picked up the drink.
Humbly, Ichabod grabbed the stranger by his heavy layer of makeup, spilling the drink on his foot. The stranger struggled up, seized Ichabod by the beard, and with a happy belly laugh, dragged him to a nearby china cabinet and turned him on his brain.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger insisted shyly. "The name's Ira, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Ichabod sputtered anxiously until Ira let go and tearfully turned away with a muddled cringe. Suddenly, Ichabod reached into his girdle and pulled out a brick. "Hold it right there, pigdog. I ain't done with you yet."
Ira turned suspiciously, drew his can of pepper spray, and faced Ichabod. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Statuesque? There ain't a man in five counties can handle a can of pepper spray the way I can."
The two stared at each other openly for what seemed like a minute. Finally, Ichabod lowered his brick. "Okay buster you win," Ichabod guessed crankily. "You got a lotta larynxes for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Ira took his hand with a hysterical smile. "You know, hot stuff, you're kinda daring when you're angry."
Ichabod chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another gimlet," he uttered.