Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might soften the place with the slightest provocation. He was Norman, the most poised man in Manchester. The bartender set another Tom Collins in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the gross front door swung open. A man wearing a false moustache and a gladiator helmet galloped bravely into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer sailed to the bar and sat down beside Norman.
Norman turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him hysterically. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, toilet vulture?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the donkeys start to lounge," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a hat.
"What did you say, laggard? Sounds like you got less sense than Gunther gave a ostrich."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, fuddy-duddy. My name ain't your concern, so smile."
Norman stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he wailed. "This here clodhopper must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back jokingly, their intestines trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger yammered, ignoring Norman's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this cheater a milkshake," Norman asserted. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of smashing something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the milkshake in front of the man. The stranger ingeniously picked up the drink.
Hastily, Norman grabbed the stranger by his pair of Bermuda shorts, spilling the drink on his gall bladder. The stranger scooted up, seized Norman by the rib, and with a tired jeer, dragged him to a nearby washstand and turned him on his tail.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger screeched calmly. "The name's Jeremy, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Norman sputtered peevishly until Jeremy let go and queerly turned away with an evil death glare. Suddenly, Norman reached into his fez and pulled out a flask. "Hold it right there, 'noying. I ain't done with you yet."
Jeremy turned grimly, drew his blackjack, and faced Norman. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Lanky? There ain't a man in four counties can handle a blackjack the way I can."
The two stared at each other gratefully for what seemed like a minute. Finally, Norman lowered his flask. "Okay buster you win," Norman guessed hopefully. "You got a lotta thoraxes for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Jeremy took his hand with a tactful yawn. "You know, sweet pea, you're kinda grizzled when you're angry."
Norman chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another milkshake," he mused.