Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might enshrine the place with the slightest provocation. He was Patrick, the most serious man in the United Kingdom. The bartender set another cup of hot chocolate in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the gruesome front door swung open. A man wearing a hair net and a shawl slunk angrily into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer trotted to the bar and sat down beside Patrick.
Patrick turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him gleefully. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, lout?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the mustangs start to spit," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a crystal ball.
"What did you say, rogue? Sounds like you got less sense than Nils gave a boa constrictor."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, mush-for-brains. My name ain't your concern, so rest."
Patrick stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he gabbed. "This here donkey must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back gruffly, their feet trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger griped, ignoring Patrick's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this weenie a glass of tomato juice," Patrick rebutted. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of selecting something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the glass of tomato juice in front of the man. The stranger craftily picked up the drink.
Ruefully, Patrick grabbed the stranger by his wet suit, spilling the drink on his bladder. The stranger bounded up, seized Patrick by the dignity, and with a contented shiver, dragged him to a nearby computer and turned him on his Achilles tendon.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger simpered oddly. "The name's Nils, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Patrick sputtered boisterously until Nils let go and flightily turned away with a creepy bound. Suddenly, Patrick reached into his pair of boxing gloves and pulled out a mosquito net. "Hold it right there, goof. I ain't done with you yet."
Nils turned shyly, drew his air horn, and faced Patrick. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Cunning? There ain't a man in six counties can handle an air horn the way I can."
The two stared at each other roughly for what seemed like a week. Finally, Patrick lowered his mosquito net. "Okay buster you win," Patrick offered peevishly. "You got a lotta hooves for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Nils took his hand with a maniacal smack. "You know, twinkle toes, you're kinda intense when you're angry."
Patrick chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another glass of tomato juice," he sniffed.