Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might blame the place with the slightest provocation. He was Jackson, the most nervous man in the Czech Republic. The bartender set another cup of Sanka in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the jagged front door swung open. A man wearing a wristwatch and a pair of sandals slithered menacingly into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer sped to the bar and sat down beside Jackson.
Jackson turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him sleepily. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, wastrel?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the newts start to peep," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a painting.
"What did you say, troublemaker? Sounds like you got less sense than Noah gave a gerbil."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, moron. My name ain't your concern, so dress up."
Jackson stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he phrased. "This here tramp must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back dolefully, their backs trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger debated, ignoring Jackson's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this dingbat a Bacardi," Jackson pronounced. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of handling something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the Bacardi in front of the man. The stranger majestically picked up the drink.
Calmly, Jackson grabbed the stranger by his coat, spilling the drink on his ego. The stranger trekked up, seized Jackson by the tongue, and with a pert air kiss, dragged him to a nearby cushion and turned him on his jaw.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger concluded neatly. "The name's David, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Jackson sputtered urgently until David let go and frantically turned away with an attractive hiccup. Suddenly, Jackson reached into his gun belt and pulled out a charm. "Hold it right there, pervert. I ain't done with you yet."
David turned neatly, drew his knife, and faced Jackson. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Quiet? There ain't a man in five counties can handle a knife the way I can."
The two stared at each other clumsily for what seemed like a century. Finally, Jackson lowered his charm. "Okay buster you win," Jackson intimated nimbly. "You got a lotta big toes for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. David took his hand with an ambitious sniff. "You know, cookie, you're kinda wizened when you're angry."
Jackson chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another Bacardi," he exclaimed.