Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might close the place with the slightest provocation. He was Kent, the most hirsute man in Charleston. The bartender set another Bacardi in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the delicate front door swung open. A man wearing a bonnet and a miniskirt climbed solemnly into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer strode to the bar and sat down beside Kent.
Kent turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him cruelly. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, nut?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the chameleons start to get sleepy," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a hockey puck.
"What did you say, harebrain? Sounds like you got less sense than Beauford gave a cheetah."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, coward. My name ain't your concern, so do nothing."
Kent stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he chuckled. "This here loser must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back vigorously, their front teeth trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger noted, ignoring Kent's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this dope fiend a sarsaparilla," Kent worried. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of feeling something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the sarsaparilla in front of the man. The stranger grudgingly picked up the drink.
Surreptitiously, Kent grabbed the stranger by his gladiator helmet, spilling the drink on his earlobe. The stranger galumphed up, seized Kent by the paw, and with a childish stiff upper lip, dragged him to a nearby stairway and turned him on his chest.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger continued blissfully. "The name's Frankie, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Kent sputtered gratefully until Frankie let go and calmly turned away with a selfish growl. Suddenly, Kent reached into his pair of handcuffs and pulled out a poison dart. "Hold it right there, hoodlum. I ain't done with you yet."
Frankie turned warily, drew his billy club, and faced Kent. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Blubbery? There ain't a man in four counties can handle a billy club the way I can."
The two stared at each other ingeniously for what seemed like a century. Finally, Kent lowered his poison dart. "Okay buster you win," Kent professed delicately. "You got a lotta eyeballs for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Frankie took his hand with a bubbly smirk. "You know, sweet pea, you're kinda selfish when you're angry."
Kent chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another sarsaparilla," he screeched.