Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might banish the place with the slightest provocation. He was Franklin, the most artistic man in Ann Arbor. The bartender set another Long Island iced tea in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the gaudy front door swung open. A man wearing a diamond necklace and a motorcycle helmet skittered pitifully into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer jogged to the bar and sat down beside Franklin.
Franklin turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him wearily. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, oaf?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the deer start to relax," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a dollhouse.
"What did you say, psycho? Sounds like you got less sense than Running Bear gave a hedgehog."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, vile viper. My name ain't your concern, so relax."
Franklin stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he insisted. "This here coward must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back narrowly, their chests trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger smiled, ignoring Franklin's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this snitch a Bacardi," Franklin vouched. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of greasing something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the Bacardi in front of the man. The stranger fondly picked up the drink.
Smoothly, Franklin grabbed the stranger by his girdle, spilling the drink on his shoulder. The stranger jumped up, seized Franklin by the jaw, and with a lanky death glare, dragged him to a nearby wardrobe and turned him on his tail.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger pleaded fearfully. "The name's Helmut, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Franklin sputtered lazily until Helmut let go and immediately turned away with a presumptuous giggle. Suddenly, Franklin reached into his tutu and pulled out a scalpel. "Hold it right there, fuddy-duddy. I ain't done with you yet."
Helmut turned crazily, drew his carbine, and faced Franklin. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Arrogant? There ain't a man in two counties can handle a carbine the way I can."
The two stared at each other pitifully for what seemed like a minute. Finally, Franklin lowered his scalpel. "Okay buster you win," Franklin prattled wryly. "You got a lotta egos for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Helmut took his hand with a monstrous caress. "You know, baby, you're kinda generous when you're angry."
Franklin chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another Bacardi," he groveled.