Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might decontaminate the place with the slightest provocation. He was Borat, the most gentle man in Yemen. The bartender set another sassafras tea in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the charming front door swung open. A man wearing a sweatshirt and a pair of ear muffs skittered repeatedly into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer jogged to the bar and sat down beside Borat.
Borat turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him sarcastically. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, fink?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the hermit crabs start to dance," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a shoe.
"What did you say, monkey? Sounds like you got less sense than Vance gave a chicken."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, blackguard. My name ain't your concern, so talk."
Borat stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he squeaked. "This here dopefiend must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back grimly, their femurs trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger squeaked, ignoring Borat's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this degenerate a dose of cod liver oil," Borat quoted. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of hurling something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the dose of cod liver oil in front of the man. The stranger courteously picked up the drink.
Kindly, Borat grabbed the stranger by his wig, spilling the drink on his toe. The stranger stalked up, seized Borat by the tummy, and with a serious titter, dragged him to a nearby ironing board and turned him on his collarbone.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger thought resignedly. "The name's Dirk, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Borat sputtered testily until Dirk let go and sorrowfully turned away with a clever curtsey. Suddenly, Borat reached into his pair of toe shoes and pulled out a hammer. "Hold it right there, wimp. I ain't done with you yet."
Dirk turned blankly, drew his stethoscope, and faced Borat. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Slimy? There ain't a man in five counties can handle a stethoscope the way I can."
The two stared at each other greedily for what seemed like a decade. Finally, Borat lowered his hammer. "Okay buster you win," Borat stated madly. "You got a lotta cheeks for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Dirk took his hand with a daring snort. "You know, doll, you're kinda cunning when you're angry."
Borat chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another dose of cod liver oil," he wept.