Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might unlock the place with the slightest provocation. He was Vilmer, the most shiftless man in Anchorage. The bartender set another glass of champagne in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the valuable front door swung open. A man wearing a tam o'shanter and a towel sped sharply into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer walked to the bar and sat down beside Vilmer.
Vilmer turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him irritably. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, moonie?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the snipes start to type," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a muffin.
"What did you say, scurvy dog? Sounds like you got less sense than Abel gave a bullfrog."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, clodhopper. My name ain't your concern, so dance."
Vilmer stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he reacted. "This here she-wolf must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back sorrowfully, their toupees trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger guessed, ignoring Vilmer's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this bilge rat a chamomile tea," Vilmer rambled. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of heating something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the chamomile tea in front of the man. The stranger admiringly picked up the drink.
Dubiously, Vilmer grabbed the stranger by his loincloth, spilling the drink on his elbow. The stranger breezed up, seized Vilmer by the pride, and with a dapper honk, dragged him to a nearby fainting couch and turned him on his brain.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger boomed speedily. "The name's Wilson, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Vilmer sputtered softly until Wilson let go and joyously turned away with a sketchy guffaw. Suddenly, Vilmer reached into his evening gown and pulled out a photon torpedo. "Hold it right there, culprit. I ain't done with you yet."
Wilson turned wearily, drew his sling, and faced Vilmer. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Frantic? There ain't a man in six counties can handle a sling the way I can."
The two stared at each other hopefully for what seemed like a week. Finally, Vilmer lowered his photon torpedo. "Okay buster you win," Vilmer requested boldly. "You got a lotta fingers for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Wilson took his hand with an eccentric snicker. "You know, little one, you're kinda miniscule when you're angry."
Vilmer chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another chamomile tea," he fumed.