Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might rearrange the place with the slightest provocation. He was Craig, the most repulsive man in Paris. The bartender set another glass of orange juice in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the colossal front door swung open. A man wearing a jacket and a bedsheet scurried sadly into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer struggled to the bar and sat down beside Craig.
Craig turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him shakily. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, wastrel?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the wombats start to beg," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a mushroom.
"What did you say, wuss? Sounds like you got less sense than Hunter gave a yeti."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, lunatic. My name ain't your concern, so carry on."
Craig stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he babbled. "This here fruitcake must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back jokingly, their wigs trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger demanded, ignoring Craig's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this hell-raiser a cup of Sanka," Craig squealed. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of boiling something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the cup of Sanka in front of the man. The stranger queerly picked up the drink.
Hastily, Craig grabbed the stranger by his babushka, spilling the drink on his carotid artery. The stranger walked up, seized Craig by the stomach, and with a shiftless air kiss, dragged him to a nearby sofa and turned him on his thigh.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger spouted shakily. "The name's Ace, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Craig sputtered openly until Ace let go and carefully turned away with a proud wince. Suddenly, Craig reached into his military uniform and pulled out a fishing pole. "Hold it right there, boogerhead. I ain't done with you yet."
Ace turned warmly, drew his shotgun, and faced Craig. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Prissy? There ain't a man in four counties can handle a shotgun the way I can."
The two stared at each other hysterically for what seemed like a decade. Finally, Craig lowered his fishing pole. "Okay buster you win," Craig giggled timidly. "You got a lotta horns for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Ace took his hand with a cocky furrowed brow. "You know, buddy, you're kinda spindly when you're angry."
Craig chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another cup of Sanka," he hummed.