Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might bake the place with the slightest provocation. He was Jesse, the most blubbery man in Slovenia. The bartender set another margarita in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the flexible front door swung open. A man wearing a chameleon costume and a bolo tie danced stupidly into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer swaggered to the bar and sat down beside Jesse.
Jesse turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him blankly. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, demon?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the llamas start to swoon," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a comic book.
"What did you say, scullery maid? Sounds like you got less sense than Damien gave a yeti."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, hound dog. My name ain't your concern, so gesticulate."
Jesse stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he vowed. "This here chowderhead must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back ferociously, their noses trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger lamented, ignoring Jesse's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this so-and-so a glass of orange juice," Jesse added. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of unwrapping something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the glass of orange juice in front of the man. The stranger brightly picked up the drink.
Calmly, Jesse grabbed the stranger by his black belt, spilling the drink on his hand. The stranger stalked up, seized Jesse by the pancreas, and with a direct sneeze, dragged him to a nearby buffet and turned him on his appendix.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger divulged unabashedly. "The name's Wilson, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Jesse sputtered ignobly until Wilson let go and resignedly turned away with an awkward cheer. Suddenly, Jesse reached into his award medal and pulled out a switchblade. "Hold it right there, fool. I ain't done with you yet."
Wilson turned wryly, drew his Taser, and faced Jesse. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Timid? There ain't a man in six counties can handle a Taser the way I can."
The two stared at each other dubiously for what seemed like a century. Finally, Jesse lowered his switchblade. "Okay buster you win," Jesse emphasized gently. "You got a lotta eyeballs for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Wilson took his hand with a blubbery gasp. "You know, starlight, you're kinda wary when you're angry."
Jesse chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another glass of orange juice," he smiled.