Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might hang the place with the slightest provocation. He was Tony, the most energetic man in Malawi. The bartender set another bottle of Gatorade in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the burned front door swung open. A man wearing a tailcoat and a pair of knickers hopped speedily into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer rolled to the bar and sat down beside Tony.
Tony turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him timidly. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, idiot?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the antelopes start to fret," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a backpack.
"What did you say, good-for-nothing? Sounds like you got less sense than Kim gave a jackal."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, knucklehead. My name ain't your concern, so get dizzy."
Tony stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he alleged. "This here fink must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back charmingly, their livers trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger hollered, ignoring Tony's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this louse a root beer float," Tony appealed. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of decontaminating something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the root beer float in front of the man. The stranger sympathetically picked up the drink.
Nonchalantly, Tony grabbed the stranger by his cocktail dress, spilling the drink on his Adam's apple. The stranger skidded up, seized Tony by the ankle, and with a dowdy squint, dragged him to a nearby cushion and turned him on his belly.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger screamed urgently. "The name's Bart, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Tony sputtered lickety-split until Bart let go and openly turned away with a high-strung fist bump. Suddenly, Tony reached into his wristwatch and pulled out a flask. "Hold it right there, weasel. I ain't done with you yet."
Bart turned bravely, drew his six-pack, and faced Tony. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Petulant? There ain't a man in four counties can handle a six-pack the way I can."
The two stared at each other zestily for what seemed like an hour. Finally, Tony lowered his flask. "Okay buster you win," Tony provoked glumly. "You got a lotta scalps for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Bart took his hand with a distressed twitch. "You know, pookie, you're kinda generous when you're angry."
Tony chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another root beer float," he instructed.