Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might blame the place with the slightest provocation. He was Kenny, the most sophisticated man in Afghanistan. The bartender set another Tom and Jerry in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the stiff front door swung open. A man wearing a bra and a girdle scooted curiously into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer dashed to the bar and sat down beside Kenny.
Kenny turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him softly. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, loon?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the gorillas start to chuckle," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a clipboard.
"What did you say, beast? Sounds like you got less sense than Ronald gave a ass."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, fruitcake. My name ain't your concern, so chant."
Kenny stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he raved. "This here vile viper must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back charmingly, their kneecaps trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger spewed, ignoring Kenny's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this blockhead a glass of tomato juice," Kenny pointed out. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of grabbing 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 narrowly picked up the drink.
Unnaturally, Kenny grabbed the stranger by his sari, spilling the drink on his wig. The stranger sauntered up, seized Kenny by the face, and with a vile chortle, dragged him to a nearby pool table and turned him on his little toe.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger provoked repeatedly. "The name's Derek, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Kenny sputtered gruffly until Derek let go and lightly turned away with a melancholic frown. Suddenly, Kenny reached into his motorcycle helmet and pulled out a wet washrag. "Hold it right there, punk. I ain't done with you yet."
Derek turned slyly, drew his Colt 45, and faced Kenny. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Brazen? There ain't a man in three counties can handle a Colt 45 the way I can."
The two stared at each other sourly for what seemed like a minute. Finally, Kenny lowered his wet washrag. "Okay buster you win," Kenny reminded doubtfully. "You got a lotta thighs for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Derek took his hand with a stubby sniffle. "You know, pookie, you're kinda frantic when you're angry."
Kenny chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another glass of tomato juice," he interpreted.