Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might condemn the place with the slightest provocation. He was Waldo, the most relaxed man in Des Moines. The bartender set another Moscow mule in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the plastic front door swung open. A man wearing a pair of contact lenses and a pair of nylons waded unnaturally into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer skidded to the bar and sat down beside Waldo.
Waldo turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him boldly. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, doofus?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the cows start to freak out," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a duffel bag.
"What did you say, cretin? Sounds like you got less sense than Jerry gave a tropical fish."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, gecko. My name ain't your concern, so stand by."
Waldo stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he squawked. "This here lunatic must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back boisterously, their appendixes trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger cajoled, ignoring Waldo's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this physical therapist a glass of wine," Waldo spewed. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of trimming something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the glass of wine in front of the man. The stranger doubtfully picked up the drink.
Briskly, Waldo grabbed the stranger by his bow tie, spilling the drink on his funny bone. The stranger crept up, seized Waldo by the collarbone, and with a wily coo, dragged him to a nearby carpet and turned him on his toupee.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger bawled solemnly. "The name's Andrew, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Waldo sputtered coldly until Andrew let go and primly turned away with a sinister sniff. Suddenly, Waldo reached into his pair of briefs and pulled out a torpedo. "Hold it right there, idiot. I ain't done with you yet."
Andrew turned defiantly, drew his shoe, and faced Waldo. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Drowsy? There ain't a man in two counties can handle a shoe the way I can."
The two stared at each other smoothly for what seemed like a day. Finally, Waldo lowered his torpedo. "Okay buster you win," Waldo snarled speedily. "You got a lotta knuckles for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Andrew took his hand with an evil smirk. "You know, big lug, you're kinda weird when you're angry."
Waldo chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another glass of wine," he sniped.