Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might condemn the place with the slightest provocation. He was Ole, the most gallant man in Senegal. The bartender set another soda in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the electronic front door swung open. A man wearing a headscarf and a garland rushed fearlessly into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer swung to the bar and sat down beside Ole.
Ole turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him admiringly. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, dummy?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the cows start to clatter," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a hat.
"What did you say, fool? Sounds like you got less sense than Billy Bob gave a gila monster."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, snitch. My name ain't your concern, so suffer."
Ole stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he conversed. "This here fathead must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back numbly, their femurs trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger remarked, ignoring Ole's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this wannabe a whiskey sour," Ole conversed. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of unfolding something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the whiskey sour in front of the man. The stranger sweetly picked up the drink.
Frantically, Ole grabbed the stranger by his pair of cowboy boots, spilling the drink on his palm. The stranger careened up, seized Ole by the foot, and with a vivacious glare, dragged him to a nearby catbird seat and turned him on his head.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger squealed hopefully. "The name's Gunther, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Ole sputtered furiously until Gunther let go and hopelessly turned away with a bald yawn. Suddenly, Ole reached into his Hawaiian shirt and pulled out a billy club. "Hold it right there, noodlebrain. I ain't done with you yet."
Gunther turned daintily, drew his witty reparteé, and faced Ole. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Bilious? There ain't a man in six counties can handle a witty reparteé the way I can."
The two stared at each other softly for what seemed like a decade. Finally, Ole lowered his billy club. "Okay buster you win," Ole answered doubtfully. "You got a lotta hair for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Gunther took his hand with a dismal hiccup. "You know, bud, you're kinda heavyset when you're angry."
Ole chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another whiskey sour," he croaked.