Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might enclose the place with the slightest provocation. He was Robert, the most demented man in Augusta. The bartender set another bottle of water in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the primitive front door swung open. A man wearing a tailcoat and a sombrero ambled hungrily into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer waddled to the bar and sat down beside Robert.
Robert turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him numbly. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, dopefiend?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the kittens start to clap," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a pair of fuzzy dice.
"What did you say, kook? Sounds like you got less sense than Alberto gave a peacock."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, dunderhead. My name ain't your concern, so awaken."
Robert stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he wailed. "This here clodhopper must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back merrily, their pieholes trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger provoked, ignoring Robert's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this punk a grape soda," Robert chortled. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of swatting something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the grape soda in front of the man. The stranger shyly picked up the drink.
Sagely, Robert grabbed the stranger by his hoodie, spilling the drink on his intestine. The stranger sped up, seized Robert by the face, and with a monstrous pout, dragged him to a nearby piano and turned him on his head.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger rationalized nimbly. "The name's Ole, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Robert sputtered bravely until Ole let go and gingerly turned away with a sloppy grimace. Suddenly, Robert reached into his few crisp rags and pulled out a lance. "Hold it right there, rat. I ain't done with you yet."
Ole turned cunningly, drew his Colt 45, and faced Robert. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Bold? There ain't a man in three counties can handle a Colt 45 the way I can."
The two stared at each other surreptitiously for what seemed like an hour. Finally, Robert lowered his lance. "Okay buster you win," Robert fretted testily. "You got a lotta biceps for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Ole took his hand with a serious sneeze. "You know, little blossom, you're kinda paranoid when you're angry."
Robert chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another grape soda," he spat.