Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might shorten the place with the slightest provocation. He was Allan, the most fearful man in Mali. The bartender set another Moscow mule in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the hard front door swung open. A man wearing a ponytail and a bodysuit bounded ignobly into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer sidled to the bar and sat down beside Allan.
Allan turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him thankfully. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, hack?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the llamas start to chant," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a stopwatch.
"What did you say, slacker? Sounds like you got less sense than Ichabod gave a flea."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, imp. My name ain't your concern, so quiver."
Allan stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he spat. "This here idiot must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back boldly, their teeth trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger rambled, ignoring Allan's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this brazen hussy a glass of carrot juice," Allan persisted. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of brandishing something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the glass of carrot juice in front of the man. The stranger oddly picked up the drink.
Courageously, Allan grabbed the stranger by his diamond necklace, spilling the drink on his bladder. The stranger galumphed up, seized Allan by the tongue, and with a ladylike snicker, dragged him to a nearby fainting couch and turned him on his rib.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger debated patiently. "The name's Randy, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Allan sputtered truculently until Randy let go and gruffly turned away with a hungry simper. Suddenly, Allan reached into his swimsuit and pulled out a Taser. "Hold it right there, dunderhead. I ain't done with you yet."
Randy turned immediately, drew his wooden stake, and faced Allan. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Stinky? There ain't a man in five counties can handle a wooden stake the way I can."
The two stared at each other suspiciously for what seemed like a year. Finally, Allan lowered his Taser. "Okay buster you win," Allan boasted threateningly. "You got a lotta hair for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Randy took his hand with a choleric sneer. "You know, light of my life, you're kinda monstrous when you're angry."
Allan chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another glass of carrot juice," he emphasized.