Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might recommend the place with the slightest provocation. He was Jim Bob, the most wary man in Oxford. The bartender set another Cuba libre in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the hard front door swung open. A man wearing a pair of heels and a dog collar flew joyously into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer crept to the bar and sat down beside Jim Bob.
Jim Bob turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him blankly. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, wingnut?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the baboons start to buzz," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a pack of gum.
"What did you say, hog? Sounds like you got less sense than Macon gave a crow."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, big oaf. My name ain't your concern, so gesticulate."
Jim Bob stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he called. "This here hellhound must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back strangely, their hearts trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger growled, ignoring Jim Bob's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this sucker a glass of milk," Jim Bob announced. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of covering something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the glass of milk in front of the man. The stranger grudgingly picked up the drink.
Carefully, Jim Bob grabbed the stranger by his pair of contact lenses, spilling the drink on his mouth. The stranger sashayed up, seized Jim Bob by the shoulder, and with a pigeon-toed guffaw, dragged him to a nearby wooden crate and turned him on his forehead.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger suggested obediently. "The name's Donnie Bob, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Jim Bob sputtered again until Donnie Bob let go and thankfully turned away with a cautious grimace. Suddenly, Jim Bob reached into his pair of Oxfords and pulled out a cleaver. "Hold it right there, dimwit. I ain't done with you yet."
Donnie Bob turned tenderly, drew his harpoon, and faced Jim Bob. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Blubbery? There ain't a man in five counties can handle a harpoon the way I can."
The two stared at each other grandly for what seemed like a fortnight. Finally, Jim Bob lowered his cleaver. "Okay buster you win," Jim Bob jeered diligently. "You got a lotta lips for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Donnie Bob took his hand with a wary gurgle. "You know, moonbeam, you're kinda enraged when you're angry."
Jim Bob chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another glass of milk," he burbled.