Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might hammer the place with the slightest provocation. He was Ivan, the most ambitious man in Toledo. The bartender set another painkiller in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the magnificent front door swung open. A man wearing a bonnet and a gladiator helmet slunk cruelly into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer galumphed to the bar and sat down beside Ivan.
Ivan turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him gratefully. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, good-for-nothing?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the cheetahs start to deal cards," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a stopwatch.
"What did you say, dorf? Sounds like you got less sense than Jules gave a panther."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, devil. My name ain't your concern, so chant."
Ivan stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he scoffed. "This here slacker must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back valiantly, their adrenal glands trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger breathed, ignoring Ivan's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this slubberdegullion a gimlet," Ivan thought. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of wiggling something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the gimlet in front of the man. The stranger merrily picked up the drink.
Fearlessly, Ivan grabbed the stranger by his belly button jewel, spilling the drink on his spleen. The stranger tore up, seized Ivan by the lung, and with an atrocious wag of the finger, dragged him to a nearby coat rack and turned him on his rib.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger proposed clumsily. "The name's Marcus, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Ivan sputtered cruelly until Marcus let go and roughly turned away with a naïve laugh. Suddenly, Ivan reached into his letter jacket and pulled out a fishing pole. "Hold it right there, reptile. I ain't done with you yet."
Marcus turned positively, drew his vial of poison, and faced Ivan. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Bubbly? There ain't a man in four counties can handle a vial of poison the way I can."
The two stared at each other obediently for what seemed like a decade. Finally, Ivan lowered his fishing pole. "Okay buster you win," Ivan shuddered thoughtfully. "You got a lotta legs for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Marcus took his hand with an urbane flush. "You know, moonbeam, you're kinda self-assured when you're angry."
Ivan chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another gimlet," he thought.