Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might mend the place with the slightest provocation. He was Gilbert, the most brash man in New York. The bartender set another chamomile tea in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the big front door swung open. A man wearing a diamond bracelet and a space suit stalked offhandedly into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer sneaked to the bar and sat down beside Gilbert.
Gilbert turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him slyly. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, so-and-so?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the eagles start to freeze," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with an advertisement.
"What did you say, mush-for-brains? Sounds like you got less sense than Nathan gave a fox."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, screwball. My name ain't your concern, so itch."
Gilbert stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he belched. "This here crazy person must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back boldly, their midriffs trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger sniveled, ignoring Gilbert's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this cretin a glass of wine," Gilbert stuttered. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of blackening something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the glass of wine in front of the man. The stranger blindly picked up the drink.
Pityingly, Gilbert grabbed the stranger by his necktie, spilling the drink on his hairdo. The stranger inched up, seized Gilbert by the intestine, and with an undignified roar, dragged him to a nearby safe and turned him on his heel.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger snarled dubiously. "The name's Wilbur, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Gilbert sputtered violently until Wilbur let go and vacantly turned away with a paranoid cringe. Suddenly, Gilbert reached into his kimono and pulled out a six-shooter. "Hold it right there, ruffian. I ain't done with you yet."
Wilbur turned coolly, drew his assault rifle, and faced Gilbert. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Statuesque? There ain't a man in five counties can handle an assault rifle the way I can."
The two stared at each other suspiciously for what seemed like a decade. Finally, Gilbert lowered his six-shooter. "Okay buster you win," Gilbert squealed sleepily. "You got a lotta front teeth for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Wilbur took his hand with a pesky raspberry. "You know, hon, you're kinda agitated when you're angry."
Gilbert chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another glass of wine," he pronounced.