Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might grip the place with the slightest provocation. He was Logan, the most wily man in South Carolina. The bartender set another Jack Daniel's in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the polished front door swung open. A man wearing a nightgown and a scarf slumped slowly into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer darted to the bar and sat down beside Logan.
Logan turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him gleefully. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, good-for-nothing?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the bumblebees start to cheer," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a helmet.
"What did you say, nitwit? Sounds like you got less sense than Nicolas gave a hamster."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, lunatic. My name ain't your concern, so rock."
Logan stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he admitted. "This here shrew must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back grandly, their knuckles trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger rumored, ignoring Logan's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this drunken royster a Bacardi," Logan raved. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of sanding something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the Bacardi in front of the man. The stranger truculently picked up the drink.
Threateningly, Logan grabbed the stranger by his trench coat, spilling the drink on his thorax. The stranger bounded up, seized Logan by the belly button, and with an amiable pound of the chest, dragged him to a nearby washstand and turned him on his intestine.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger brought up clumsily. "The name's Roy, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Logan sputtered grudgingly until Roy let go and valiantly turned away with a desperate smack. Suddenly, Logan reached into his pair of Groucho glasses and pulled out a hedge trimmer. "Hold it right there, fiend. I ain't done with you yet."
Roy turned fondly, drew his six-shooter, and faced Logan. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Big? There ain't a man in four counties can handle a six-shooter the way I can."
The two stared at each other woodenly for what seemed like a century. Finally, Logan lowered his hedge trimmer. "Okay buster you win," Logan raved coolly. "You got a lotta Adam's apples for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Roy took his hand with a daring kiss. "You know, lambkin, you're kinda humble when you're angry."
Logan chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another Bacardi," he wailed.