Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might handle the place with the slightest provocation. He was Siggy, the most prickly man in Sierra Leone. The bartender set another glass of orange juice in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the ornate front door swung open. A man wearing a floppy hat and an award medal danced ignobly into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer paraded to the bar and sat down beside Siggy.
Siggy turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him impatiently. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, knucklehead?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the bears start to pass out," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a rose.
"What did you say, sloth? Sounds like you got less sense than Jerry gave a shark."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, quacker. My name ain't your concern, so chuckle."
Siggy stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he mused. "This here wannabe must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back bravely, their eyelashes trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger screeched, ignoring Siggy's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this so-and-so a daiquiri," Siggy quavered. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of trimming something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the daiquiri in front of the man. The stranger glumly picked up the drink.
Surreptitiously, Siggy grabbed the stranger by his coat, spilling the drink on his cheek. The stranger ambled up, seized Siggy by the toupee, and with an angry snarl, dragged him to a nearby settee and turned him on his hairdo.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger continued again. "The name's Alton, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Siggy sputtered glumly until Alton let go and blindly turned away with an annoying glare. Suddenly, Siggy reached into his bomber jacket and pulled out a pair of brass knuckles. "Hold it right there, scurvy bilge rat. I ain't done with you yet."
Alton turned sourly, drew his golf club, and faced Siggy. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Agitated? There ain't a man in three counties can handle a golf club the way I can."
The two stared at each other effortlessly for what seemed like a century. Finally, Siggy lowered his pair of brass knuckles. "Okay buster you win," Siggy orated menacingly. "You got a lotta veins for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Alton took his hand with a peculiar pound of the chest. "You know, tootsie-pie, you're kinda emotional when you're angry."
Siggy chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another daiquiri," he groveled.