Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might unfold the place with the slightest provocation. He was Trent, the most moody man in Ontario. The bartender set another iced tea in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the chic front door swung open. A man wearing a leotard and a tailcoat lurched gratefully into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer bounded to the bar and sat down beside Trent.
Trent turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him tenderly. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, birdbrain?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the worms start to gasp," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a necklace.
"What did you say, dunderhead? Sounds like you got less sense than Cheng gave a German Shepherd."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, fuddy-duddy. My name ain't your concern, so swoon."
Trent stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he acknowledged. "This here screwball must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back bravely, their horns trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger provoked, ignoring Trent's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this troglodyte a cup of eggnog," Trent preached. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of washing something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the cup of eggnog in front of the man. The stranger majestically picked up the drink.
Primly, Trent grabbed the stranger by his pair of shoes, spilling the drink on his intestine. The stranger trekked up, seized Trent by the eye, and with a gregarious caress, dragged him to a nearby bath mat and turned him on his palm.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger groveled daintily. "The name's Corbin, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Trent sputtered hastily until Corbin let go and viciously turned away with a puzzled shrug. Suddenly, Trent reached into his tinfoil hat and pulled out an air rifle. "Hold it right there, maniac. I ain't done with you yet."
Corbin turned dreamily, drew his scythe, and faced Trent. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. High-strung? There ain't a man in four counties can handle a scythe the way I can."
The two stared at each other fearfully for what seemed like a century. Finally, Trent lowered his air rifle. "Okay buster you win," Trent repeated queerly. "You got a lotta hangnails for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Corbin took his hand with a wizened sneeze. "You know, sugar-bun, you're kinda ambitious when you're angry."
Trent chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another cup of eggnog," he accused.