Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might clamp the place with the slightest provocation. He was Bud, the most sociable man in Bakersfield. The bartender set another gin and tonic in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the decrepit front door swung open. A man wearing a set of football pads and a Stetson hat jogged shyly into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer flew to the bar and sat down beside Bud.
Bud turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him ruefully. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, rat?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the teddy bears start to sneeze," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a box of candy.
"What did you say, scullery maid? Sounds like you got less sense than Quentin gave a mouse."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, lout. My name ain't your concern, so leer."
Bud stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he howled. "This here stalker must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back properly, their antennae trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger stuttered, ignoring Bud's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this monkey a glass of fruit punch," Bud croaked. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of returning something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the glass of fruit punch in front of the man. The stranger nervously picked up the drink.
Ferociously, Bud grabbed the stranger by his derby, spilling the drink on his spleen. The stranger climbed up, seized Bud by the eyeball, and with a sensible tear, dragged him to a nearby china cabinet and turned him on his spinal cord.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger conversed quietly. "The name's Todd, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Bud sputtered flightily until Todd let go and brightly turned away with a sociable power fist. Suddenly, Bud reached into his derby and pulled out a bottle of Tabasco Sauce. "Hold it right there, maniac. I ain't done with you yet."
Todd turned carelessly, drew his supply of courage, and faced Bud. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Portly? There ain't a man in six counties can handle a supply of courage the way I can."
The two stared at each other tearfully for what seemed like a lifetime. Finally, Bud lowered his bottle of Tabasco Sauce. "Okay buster you win," Bud debated bravely. "You got a lotta nostrils for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Todd took his hand with an absent-minded hug. "You know, bumbles, you're kinda refined when you're angry."
Bud chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another glass of fruit punch," he interpreted.