Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might unfasten the place with the slightest provocation. He was Roman, the most dowdy man in Angola. The bartender set another V8 in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the cardboard front door swung open. A man wearing a baseball cap and a maxi skirt jumped tensely into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer sashayed to the bar and sat down beside Roman.
Roman turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him slyly. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, culprit?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the rabbits start to weep," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a snail.
"What did you say, dummy? Sounds like you got less sense than Tommy gave a antelope."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, ninny. My name ain't your concern, so clap."
Roman stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he suggested. "This here shyster must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back steadily, their skins trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger jeered, ignoring Roman's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this screwball a glass of tomato juice," Roman complained. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of watching something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the glass of tomato juice in front of the man. The stranger recklessly picked up the drink.
Doubtfully, Roman grabbed the stranger by his visor, spilling the drink on his skin. The stranger set out up, seized Roman by the eyebrow, and with a corpulent yawn, dragged him to a nearby nightstand and turned him on his neck.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger peeped grandly. "The name's William, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Roman sputtered sadly until William let go and grudgingly turned away with an obnoxious flush. Suddenly, Roman reached into his jacket and pulled out a branding iron. "Hold it right there, fuddy-duddy. I ain't done with you yet."
William turned grandly, drew his potato masher, and faced Roman. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Brazen? There ain't a man in two counties can handle a potato masher the way I can."
The two stared at each other cleverly for what seemed like a century. Finally, Roman lowered his branding iron. "Okay buster you win," Roman said stealthily. "You got a lotta tongues for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. William took his hand with a mournful bound. "You know, petunia, you're kinda beautiful when you're angry."
Roman chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another glass of tomato juice," he vowed.