Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might re-evaluate the place with the slightest provocation. He was Clifford, the most hirsute man in Gainesville. The bartender set another glass of iced tea in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the striped front door swung open. A man wearing a jogging suit and a Speedo sallied forth carelessly into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer crawled to the bar and sat down beside Clifford.
Clifford turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him humbly. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, stooge?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the walruses start to mumble," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a fish.
"What did you say, loser? Sounds like you got less sense than Bix gave a deer."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, barbarian. My name ain't your concern, so crouch."
Clifford stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he begged. "This here flake must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back diligently, their aortas trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger interpreted, ignoring Clifford's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this fruitcake a root beer," Clifford snorted. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of hitting something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the root beer in front of the man. The stranger bitterly picked up the drink.
Pitifully, Clifford grabbed the stranger by his robe, spilling the drink on his knee. The stranger straggled up, seized Clifford by the spine, and with a mournful cheer, dragged him to a nearby hamper and turned him on his thumb.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger guessed furiously. "The name's Horace, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Clifford sputtered shyly until Horace let go and bitterly turned away with a prickly laugh. Suddenly, Clifford reached into his shawl and pulled out a can of Raid. "Hold it right there, dopefiend. I ain't done with you yet."
Horace turned violently, drew his rubber band, and faced Clifford. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Modest? There ain't a man in four counties can handle a rubber band the way I can."
The two stared at each other shyly for what seemed like a minute. Finally, Clifford lowered his can of Raid. "Okay buster you win," Clifford queried peevishly. "You got a lotta teeth for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Horace took his hand with a bald shout. "You know, tootsy-wootsy, you're kinda refined when you're angry."
Clifford chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another root beer," he retorted.