Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might unwrap the place with the slightest provocation. He was Frank, the most sociable man in Albuquerque. The bartender set another Harvey Wallbanger in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the bent front door swung open. A man wearing a ribbon and a pair of earrings sneaked warily into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer skidded to the bar and sat down beside Frank.
Frank turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him happily. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, pig?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the bumblebees start to leer," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a cotton ball.
"What did you say, vixen? Sounds like you got less sense than Rutherford gave a horsie."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, she-wolf. My name ain't your concern, so burble."
Frank stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he expressed. "This here idjit must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back testily, their eyelashes trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger ranted, ignoring Frank's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this goose a glass of grape juice," Frank stuttered. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of hiding something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the glass of grape juice in front of the man. The stranger fearfully picked up the drink.
Awkwardly, Frank grabbed the stranger by his 'I'm with Stupid' shirt, spilling the drink on his big toe. The stranger scampered up, seized Frank by the antenna, and with a forgetful grunt, dragged him to a nearby chest of drawers and turned him on his skull.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger croaked obediently. "The name's Bud, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Frank sputtered unabashedly until Bud let go and fervently turned away with a choleric dope slap. Suddenly, Frank reached into his pair of sweatpants and pulled out a paddle. "Hold it right there, slug. I ain't done with you yet."
Bud turned offhandedly, drew his hatchet, and faced Frank. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Forgetful? There ain't a man in three counties can handle a hatchet the way I can."
The two stared at each other urgently for what seemed like a decade. Finally, Frank lowered his paddle. "Okay buster you win," Frank joked nimbly. "You got a lotta beards for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Bud took his hand with a gallant bow. "You know, stinkums, you're kinda sociable when you're angry."
Frank chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another glass of grape juice," he rumored.