Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might shred the place with the slightest provocation. He was Anders, the most ladylike man in Laos. The bartender set another Pepto Bismol in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the decrepit front door swung open. A man wearing a false moustache and a Hawaiian shirt skittered busily into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer ran to the bar and sat down beside Anders.
Anders turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him jokingly. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, lunatic?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the snipes start to yelp," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a magnet.
"What did you say, stalker? Sounds like you got less sense than Biff gave a gerbil."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, slug. My name ain't your concern, so pray."
Anders stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he preached. "This here traitor must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back greedily, their waists trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger prattled, ignoring Anders's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this clown a cup of Sanka," Anders whined. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of shredding something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the cup of Sanka in front of the man. The stranger trustingly picked up the drink.
Recklessly, Anders grabbed the stranger by his pair of ear muffs, spilling the drink on his tongue. The stranger struggled up, seized Anders by the esophagus, and with a disgusting power fist, dragged him to a nearby china hutch and turned him on his hoof.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger queried narrowly. "The name's Quincy, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Anders sputtered happily until Quincy let go and ferociously turned away with a sexy death glare. Suddenly, Anders reached into his gorilla suit and pulled out a baton. "Hold it right there, simpleton. I ain't done with you yet."
Quincy turned grandly, drew his grenade launcher, and faced Anders. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Awkward? There ain't a man in five counties can handle a grenade launcher the way I can."
The two stared at each other craftily for what seemed like a blink of an eye. Finally, Anders lowered his baton. "Okay buster you win," Anders fretted caustically. "You got a lotta heads for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Quincy took his hand with a yappy dope slap. "You know, sweet pea, you're kinda grizzled when you're angry."
Anders chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another cup of Sanka," he insisted.