Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might whip the place with the slightest provocation. He was Mitch, the most refined man in Uzbekistan. The bartender set another shot of whiskey in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the dry front door swung open. A man wearing a bomber jacket and a birthday suit skidded dreamily into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer flew to the bar and sat down beside Mitch.
Mitch turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him admiringly. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, ne'er-do-well?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the pigs start to grunt," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with an ice cream cone.
"What did you say, hothead? Sounds like you got less sense than Giovanni gave a beaver."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, prattling gabbler. My name ain't your concern, so chortle."
Mitch stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he retorted. "This here eager beaver must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back solemnly, their lungs trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger remarked, ignoring Mitch's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this beast a soda," Mitch exclaimed. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of expanding something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the soda in front of the man. The stranger tearfully picked up the drink.
Uneasily, Mitch grabbed the stranger by his beret, spilling the drink on his tail. The stranger swung up, seized Mitch by the eyelash, and with an absent-minded snarl, dragged him to a nearby end table and turned him on his vein.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger divulged fiercely. "The name's Ronnie, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Mitch sputtered needlessly until Ronnie let go and uneasily turned away with a paranoid furrowed brow. Suddenly, Mitch reached into his floppy hat and pulled out a stethoscope. "Hold it right there, roofer. I ain't done with you yet."
Ronnie turned frantically, drew his quick retort, and faced Mitch. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Passionate? There ain't a man in two counties can handle a quick retort the way I can."
The two stared at each other breathlessly for what seemed like an eternity. Finally, Mitch lowered his stethoscope. "Okay buster you win," Mitch fumed truculently. "You got a lotta lips for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Ronnie took his hand with an emotional blush. "You know, snookums, you're kinda stubborn when you're angry."
Mitch chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another soda," he bawled.