Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might pierce the place with the slightest provocation. He was Desmond, the most dowdy man in the Czech Republic. The bartender set another cup of eggnog in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the fabulous front door swung open. A man wearing an award medal and a gunny sack staggered perkily into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer blundered to the bar and sat down beside Desmond.
Desmond turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him patiently. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, whippersnapper?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the baboons start to blush," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a soccer ball.
"What did you say, dirty dog? Sounds like you got less sense than Jeffrey gave a monster."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, geek. My name ain't your concern, so cringe."
Desmond stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he bragged. "This here pig must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back neatly, their backs trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger whined, ignoring Desmond's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this pigdog a glass of grape juice," Desmond boomed. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of swirling 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 caustically picked up the drink.
Solemnly, Desmond grabbed the stranger by his nightgown, spilling the drink on his leg. The stranger marched up, seized Desmond by the shin, and with a brilliant coo, dragged him to a nearby bench and turned him on his appendix.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger yammered swiftly. "The name's Alton, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Desmond sputtered tenderly until Alton let go and zestily turned away with a childish face palm. Suddenly, Desmond reached into his jumpsuit and pulled out a supply of courage. "Hold it right there, birdbrain. I ain't done with you yet."
Alton turned courageously, drew his blunderbuss, and faced Desmond. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Distressed? There ain't a man in two counties can handle a blunderbuss the way I can."
The two stared at each other courageously for what seemed like a month. Finally, Desmond lowered his supply of courage. "Okay buster you win," Desmond belched menacingly. "You got a lotta scalps for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Alton took his hand with an agile evil eye. "You know, lover, you're kinda fearless when you're angry."
Desmond chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another glass of grape juice," he stuttered.