Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might harden the place with the slightest provocation. He was Bradley, the most prissy man in Sierra Leone. The bartender set another Seven and Seven in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the small front door swung open. A man wearing a party hat and an 'I'm with Stupid' shirt traipsed cautiously into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer tiptoed to the bar and sat down beside Bradley.
Bradley turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him rapidly. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, ding dong?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the tigers start to doodle," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a spoon.
"What did you say, oddball? Sounds like you got less sense than Dylan gave a dog."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, pigdog. My name ain't your concern, so daydream."
Bradley stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he gasped. "This here turkey must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back sharply, their guts trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger declaimed, ignoring Bradley's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this maniac a hot chocolate," Bradley urged. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of scratching something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the hot chocolate in front of the man. The stranger grimly picked up the drink.
Delicately, Bradley grabbed the stranger by his pair of handcuffs, spilling the drink on his hoof. The stranger sauntered up, seized Bradley by the femur, and with a sociable pound of the chest, dragged him to a nearby card table and turned him on his intestine.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger nattered uneasily. "The name's Emile, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Bradley sputtered urgently until Emile let go and sagely turned away with an artistic pout. Suddenly, Bradley reached into his pair of safety glasses and pulled out an aspersion. "Hold it right there, fuddy-duddy. I ain't done with you yet."
Emile turned nervously, drew his street sweeper, and faced Bradley. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. High-strung? There ain't a man in four counties can handle a street sweeper the way I can."
The two stared at each other boldly for what seemed like a blink of an eye. Finally, Bradley lowered his aspersion. "Okay buster you win," Bradley smiled sweetly. "You got a lotta gall bladders for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Emile took his hand with a shifty pucker. "You know, babe, you're kinda wary when you're angry."
Bradley chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another hot chocolate," he croaked.