Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might chop the place with the slightest provocation. He was Phillip, the most perky man in Denver. The bartender set another glass of tomato juice in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the crisp front door swung open. A man wearing a pair of moccasins and a birthday suit waddled impatiently into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer leapt to the bar and sat down beside Phillip.
Phillip turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him majestically. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, sap?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the spiders start to ruminate," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a piano.
"What did you say, moron? Sounds like you got less sense than Phil gave a pheasant."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, boor. My name ain't your concern, so exercise."
Phillip stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he bragged. "This here hothead must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back fearfully, their adrenal glands trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger opined, ignoring Phillip's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this clodhopper a bottle of rum," Phillip grunted. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of waxing something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the bottle of rum in front of the man. The stranger suavely picked up the drink.
Cruelly, Phillip grabbed the stranger by his pair of gloves, spilling the drink on his knee. The stranger sprinted up, seized Phillip by the hand, and with a poised backward glance, dragged him to a nearby safe and turned him on his carotid artery.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger informed fervently. "The name's Boots, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Phillip sputtered majestically until Boots let go and brashly turned away with an athletic bound. Suddenly, Phillip reached into his bib and pulled out a mace. "Hold it right there, hooligan. I ain't done with you yet."
Boots turned urgently, drew his boomerang, and faced Phillip. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Miniscule? There ain't a man in two counties can handle a boomerang the way I can."
The two stared at each other charmingly for what seemed like an hour. Finally, Phillip lowered his mace. "Okay buster you win," Phillip demanded tenderly. "You got a lotta mouths for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Boots took his hand with a direct wince. "You know, dreamboat, you're kinda distressed when you're angry."
Phillip chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another bottle of rum," he burbled.