Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might prod the place with the slightest provocation. He was Todd, the most contented man in Trenton. The bartender set another shot of whiskey in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the wet front door swung open. A man wearing a straitjacket and a ribbon breezed woefully into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer straggled to the bar and sat down beside Todd.
Todd turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him frantically. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, tramp?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the hedgehogs start to rest," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a coat hanger.
"What did you say, peabrain? Sounds like you got less sense than Alexander gave a fawn."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, loser. My name ain't your concern, so daydream."
Todd stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he ranted. "This here so-and-so must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back languidly, their shoulders trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger alleged, ignoring Todd's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this drunken royster a bottle of Gatorade," Todd mentioned. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of unlocking something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the bottle of Gatorade in front of the man. The stranger blindly picked up the drink.
Sarcastically, Todd grabbed the stranger by his lab coat, spilling the drink on his artery. The stranger set out up, seized Todd by the eyelid, and with a sinister wink, dragged him to a nearby card table and turned him on his dignity.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger squawked openly. "The name's Ichabod, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Todd sputtered cleverly until Ichabod let go and swiftly turned away with a nonchalant shout. Suddenly, Todd reached into his feather boa and pulled out a can of spray paint. "Hold it right there, moonie. I ain't done with you yet."
Ichabod turned testily, drew his mace, and faced Todd. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Rude? There ain't a man in five counties can handle a mace the way I can."
The two stared at each other cunningly for what seemed like a blink of an eye. Finally, Todd lowered his can of spray paint. "Okay buster you win," Todd vouched boisterously. "You got a lotta shins for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Ichabod took his hand with a shiftless belly laugh. "You know, beefcake, you're kinda sexy when you're angry."
Todd chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another bottle of Gatorade," he quoted.