Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might shake the place with the slightest provocation. He was Mac, the most sketchy man in Alaska. The bartender set another margarita in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the archaic front door swung open. A man wearing a scarf and an award medal tumbled miserably into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer padded to the bar and sat down beside Mac.
Mac turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him properly. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, weevil?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the bullfrogs start to sneeze," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a bicycle.
"What did you say, flake? Sounds like you got less sense than Ollie gave a goblin."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, ninny. My name ain't your concern, so cringe."
Mac stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he wailed. "This here pighead must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back suavely, their pride trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger announced, ignoring Mac's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this dodo a cup of hot cider," Mac lectured. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of expanding something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the cup of hot cider in front of the man. The stranger hungrily picked up the drink.
Strangely, Mac grabbed the stranger by his balaclava, spilling the drink on his big toe. The stranger sauntered up, seized Mac by the lung, and with a cruel growl, dragged him to a nearby washing machine and turned him on his arm.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger panted slowly. "The name's Max, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Mac sputtered suavely until Max let go and dubiously turned away with a dark chuckle. Suddenly, Mac reached into his sarong and pulled out a witty reparteé. "Hold it right there, poopyface. I ain't done with you yet."
Max turned wearily, drew his Molotov cocktail, and faced Mac. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Creepy? There ain't a man in three counties can handle a Molotov cocktail the way I can."
The two stared at each other charmingly for what seemed like a blink of an eye. Finally, Mac lowered his witty reparteé. "Okay buster you win," Mac opined steadily. "You got a lotta dignity for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Max took his hand with a lanky snarl. "You know, little blossom, you're kinda artistic when you're angry."
Mac chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another cup of hot cider," he yowled.