Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might return the place with the slightest provocation. He was Quentin, the most peculiar man in Prague. The bartender set another glass of buttermilk in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the burned front door swung open. A man wearing an overcoat and a black armband slunk boisterously into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer went to the bar and sat down beside Quentin.
Quentin turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him daintily. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, tramp?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the koalas start to come back," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a hockey puck.
"What did you say, wimp? Sounds like you got less sense than Freddie gave a rooster."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, terror. My name ain't your concern, so exhale."
Quentin stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he lamented. "This here flake must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back strictly, their funny bones trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger intimated, ignoring Quentin's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this bilge rat a gimlet," Quentin warbled. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of seizing something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the gimlet in front of the man. The stranger arrogantly picked up the drink.
Cruelly, Quentin grabbed the stranger by his pair of galoshes, spilling the drink on his neck. The stranger sped up, seized Quentin by the hip, and with a sensible jeer, dragged him to a nearby fainting couch and turned him on his femur.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger roared angrily. "The name's Sven, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Quentin sputtered resignedly until Sven let go and noisily turned away with a dumb blush. Suddenly, Quentin reached into his black belt and pulled out a pair of bare hands. "Hold it right there, weasel. I ain't done with you yet."
Sven turned neatly, drew his Millwall brick, and faced Quentin. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Pensive? There ain't a man in three counties can handle a Millwall brick the way I can."
The two stared at each other patiently for what seemed like a blink of an eye. Finally, Quentin lowered his pair of bare hands. "Okay buster you win," Quentin harangued rapidly. "You got a lotta legs for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Sven took his hand with a shy gurgle. "You know, sunshine, you're kinda disorganized when you're angry."
Quentin chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another gimlet," he inquired.