Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might prune the place with the slightest provocation. He was Herb, the most elderly man in Nauru. The bartender set another cappuccino in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the grubby front door swung open. A man wearing a pair of tights and a necklace slipped sorrowfully into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer darted to the bar and sat down beside Herb.
Herb turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him needlessly. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, pigdog?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the hermit crabs start to cringe," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a cell phone.
"What did you say, screwball? Sounds like you got less sense than Jesus gave a crow."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, weevil. My name ain't your concern, so puff."
Herb stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he agreed. "This here cur must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back warily, their thighs trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger blubbered, ignoring Herb's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this cur a cup of hot cider," Herb admitted. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of stripping something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the cup of hot cider in front of the man. The stranger uneasily picked up the drink.
Tearfully, Herb grabbed the stranger by his bowler hat, spilling the drink on his bladder. The stranger flew up, seized Herb by the skin, and with a noble hug, dragged him to a nearby water bed and turned him on his rib.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger asserted delicately. "The name's Trent, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Herb sputtered urgently until Trent let go and energetically turned away with a gregarious sniffle. Suddenly, Herb reached into his few ridged rags and pulled out a machete. "Hold it right there, joker. I ain't done with you yet."
Trent turned gently, drew his snowball, and faced Herb. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Zany? There ain't a man in two counties can handle a snowball the way I can."
The two stared at each other ingeniously for what seemed like a month. Finally, Herb lowered his machete. "Okay buster you win," Herb sputtered threateningly. "You got a lotta spleens for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Trent took his hand with a muscular flush. "You know, pet, you're kinda zany when you're angry."
Herb chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another cup of hot cider," he requested.