Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might slap the place with the slightest provocation. He was Jeff, the most proud man in Cambodia. The bartender set another root beer float in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the dirty front door swung open. A man wearing a hoop skirt and a set of dentures inched confidently into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer traipsed to the bar and sat down beside Jeff.
Jeff turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him busily. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, ruffian?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the dromedaries start to sit still," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a joint.
"What did you say, monkey? Sounds like you got less sense than Tommy gave a cougar."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, floozy. My name ain't your concern, so smile."
Jeff stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he quoted. "This here stalker must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back blankly, their pinkies trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger called, ignoring Jeff's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this old buzzard a Seven and Seven," Jeff fumed. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of submersing something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the Seven and Seven in front of the man. The stranger unnaturally picked up the drink.
Deliberately, Jeff grabbed the stranger by his towel, spilling the drink on his kidney. The stranger jumped up, seized Jeff by the pancreas, and with a freakish titter, dragged him to a nearby umbrella stand and turned him on his bicep.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger yammered unabashedly. "The name's Roman, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Jeff sputtered properly until Roman let go and anxiously turned away with an idiotic roar. Suddenly, Jeff reached into his pocket watch and pulled out a can opener. "Hold it right there, dweeb. I ain't done with you yet."
Roman turned properly, drew his stick of dynamite, and faced Jeff. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Careful? There ain't a man in three counties can handle a stick of dynamite the way I can."
The two stared at each other violently for what seemed like a decade. Finally, Jeff lowered his can opener. "Okay buster you win," Jeff stuttered gratefully. "You got a lotta belly buttons for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Roman took his hand with a depraved belly laugh. "You know, snigglefritz, you're kinda frumpy when you're angry."
Jeff chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another Seven and Seven," he maintained.