Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might unfasten the place with the slightest provocation. He was Morris, the most haggard man in Libya. The bartender set another Brandy Alexander in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the crude front door swung open. A man wearing a false moustache and a poncho jumped woefully into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer skipped to the bar and sat down beside Morris.
Morris turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him nonchalantly. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, eager beaver?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the elk start to slobber," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a pencil sharpener.
"What did you say, pipe? Sounds like you got less sense than Rutherford gave a dormouse."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, dope. My name ain't your concern, so snore."
Morris stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he wondered. "This here barbarian must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back brightly, their mouths trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger stammered, ignoring Morris's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this scamp a glass of tomato juice," Morris jeered. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of losing 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 resignedly picked up the drink.
Frantically, Morris grabbed the stranger by his burqa, spilling the drink on his eyelid. The stranger proceeded up, seized Morris by the Achilles tendon, and with a cheerful raised eyebrow, dragged him to a nearby workbench and turned him on his palm.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger yelled roughly. "The name's Kent, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Morris sputtered tearfully until Kent let go and dubiously turned away with an obnoxious sigh. Suddenly, Morris reached into his Hawaiian shirt and pulled out a rope. "Hold it right there, dweeb. I ain't done with you yet."
Kent turned gingerly, drew his shoe, and faced Morris. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Bald? There ain't a man in two counties can handle a shoe the way I can."
The two stared at each other sweetly for what seemed like a day. Finally, Morris lowered his rope. "Okay buster you win," Morris shouted uneasily. "You got a lotta toupees for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Kent took his hand with a cocky grin. "You know, flower, you're kinda apoplectic when you're angry."
Morris chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another glass of tomato juice," he squealed.