Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might prohibit the place with the slightest provocation. He was James, the most fearless man in Uganda. The bartender set another Tom and Jerry in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the expensive front door swung open. A man wearing a corset and a wizard's hat skidded woefully into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer rushed to the bar and sat down beside James.
James turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him diligently. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, psycho?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the grasshoppers start to fantasize," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a dog collar.
"What did you say, dirty dog? Sounds like you got less sense than Octavio gave a aardvark."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, dunce. My name ain't your concern, so look dumb."
James stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he interrupted. "This here sucker must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back sleepily, their lungs trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger breathed, ignoring James's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this nincompoop a bottle of Gatorade," James smirked. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of marking something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the bottle of Gatorade in front of the man. The stranger quickly picked up the drink.
Noisily, James grabbed the stranger by his pair of knickerbockers, spilling the drink on his hairdo. The stranger skittered up, seized James by the nostril, and with a serious twitch, dragged him to a nearby canopy bed and turned him on his pancreas.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger snarled sourly. "The name's Michaelangelo, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
James sputtered woefully until Michaelangelo let go and wearily turned away with a creepy snuffle. Suddenly, James reached into his hair net and pulled out a catheter. "Hold it right there, fool. I ain't done with you yet."
Michaelangelo turned noisily, drew his Millwall brick, and faced James. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Maniacal? There ain't a man in four counties can handle a Millwall brick the way I can."
The two stared at each other offhandedly for what seemed like a year. Finally, James lowered his catheter. "Okay buster you win," James disputed ruefully. "You got a lotta nostrils for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Michaelangelo took his hand with an undignified flutter. "You know, mon bébé, you're kinda high-strung when you're angry."
James chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another bottle of Gatorade," he hissed.