Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might shake the place with the slightest provocation. He was John, the most agitated man in Mozambique. The bartender set another bottle of rum in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the ragged front door swung open. A man wearing a diamond necklace and a pair of booties sailed narrowly into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer sped to the bar and sat down beside John.
John turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him numbly. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, slacker?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the boars start to jerk," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a can of beer.
"What did you say, stooge? Sounds like you got less sense than Hendrick gave a panda."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, halfwit. My name ain't your concern, so suffer."
John stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he chortled. "This here ninnyhammer must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back lazily, their teeth trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger gasped, ignoring John's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this fanatic a glass of buttermilk," John intoned. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of finishing something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the glass of buttermilk in front of the man. The stranger brashly picked up the drink.
Reluctantly, John grabbed the stranger by his burqa, spilling the drink on his adrenal gland. The stranger danced up, seized John by the buttocks, and with a boring squint, dragged him to a nearby canopy bed and turned him on his throat.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger bellowed temperamentally. "The name's Yancey, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
John sputtered softly until Yancey let go and ruefully turned away with a petulant pout. Suddenly, John reached into his dunce cap and pulled out a roll of duct tape. "Hold it right there, dope fiend. I ain't done with you yet."
Yancey turned sharply, drew his can of Raid, and faced John. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Furry? There ain't a man in five counties can handle a can of Raid the way I can."
The two stared at each other excitedly for what seemed like a fortnight. Finally, John lowered his roll of duct tape. "Okay buster you win," John sighed lovingly. "You got a lotta earlobes for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Yancey took his hand with a bold cackle. "You know, honey-babe, you're kinda young when you're angry."
John chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another glass of buttermilk," he pointed out.