Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might package the place with the slightest provocation. He was Wayne, the most agitated man in Mongolia. The bartender set another bottle of Gatorade in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the imitation front door swung open. A man wearing a thong and a hood skidded energetically into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer sallied forth to the bar and sat down beside Wayne.
Wayne turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him frantically. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, dingleberry?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the beetles start to get rigid," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a carrot.
"What did you say, crackpot? Sounds like you got less sense than Cheng gave a coyote."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, rat. My name ain't your concern, so fidget."
Wayne stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he wept. "This here old biddy must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back temperamentally, their midriffs trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger spouted, ignoring Wayne's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this dopefiend a gin sour," Wayne babbled. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of plucking something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the gin sour in front of the man. The stranger repeatedly picked up the drink.
Thankfully, Wayne grabbed the stranger by his vest, spilling the drink on his femur. The stranger waddled up, seized Wayne by the carotid artery, and with a sincere belly laugh, dragged him to a nearby couch and turned him on his nostril.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger whispered quickly. "The name's Chum, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Wayne sputtered urgently until Chum let go and sweetly turned away with a sketchy smack. Suddenly, Wayne reached into his scarf and pulled out a magic spell. "Hold it right there, animal. I ain't done with you yet."
Chum turned carefully, drew his butterfly net, and faced Wayne. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Pesky? There ain't a man in five counties can handle a butterfly net the way I can."
The two stared at each other tensely for what seemed like a minute. Finally, Wayne lowered his magic spell. "Okay buster you win," Wayne cackled neatly. "You got a lotta little fingers for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Chum took his hand with an athletic chortle. "You know, queenie, you're kinda poised when you're angry."
Wayne chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another gin sour," he chimed.