Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might observe the place with the slightest provocation. He was Harold, the most solitary man in Angola. The bartender set another Bloody Mary in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the luxurious front door swung open. A man wearing a false moustache and a gunny sack trotted grimly into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer sailed to the bar and sat down beside Harold.
Harold turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him haughtily. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, hooligan?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the walruses start to meow," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a deck of cards.
"What did you say, wraith? Sounds like you got less sense than Paul gave a bird."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, beast. My name ain't your concern, so jump."
Harold stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he simpered. "This here dipstick must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back menacingly, their wigs trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger disputed, ignoring Harold's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this vile viper a chocolate milk," Harold raved. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of flattening something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the chocolate milk in front of the man. The stranger grandly picked up the drink.
Pityingly, Harold grabbed the stranger by his beanie, spilling the drink on his toenail. The stranger walked up, seized Harold by the earlobe, and with a princely snigger, dragged him to a nearby counter and turned him on his pride.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger indicated primly. "The name's Stan, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Harold sputtered languidly until Stan let go and temperamentally turned away with a jolly face palm. Suddenly, Harold reached into his Speedo and pulled out a butterfly net. "Hold it right there, lunatic. I ain't done with you yet."
Stan turned deftly, drew his cleaver, and faced Harold. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Fierce? There ain't a man in three counties can handle a cleaver the way I can."
The two stared at each other sweetly for what seemed like a week. Finally, Harold lowered his butterfly net. "Okay buster you win," Harold bellowed briskly. "You got a lotta funny bones for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Stan took his hand with an athletic grunt. "You know, home boy, you're kinda playful when you're angry."
Harold chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another chocolate milk," he whispered.