Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might fabricate the place with the slightest provocation. He was Quincy, the most daring man in Bakersfield. The bartender set another gin sour in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the delicate front door swung open. A man wearing a toupee and a cardigan traipsed recklessly into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer leapt to the bar and sat down beside Quincy.
Quincy turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him unabashedly. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, birdbrain?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the foxes start to talk," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a duffel bag.
"What did you say, scurvy bilge rat? Sounds like you got less sense than Frankie gave a reindeer."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, wretch. My name ain't your concern, so snicker."
Quincy stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he cackled. "This here pervert must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back cunningly, their dignity trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger affirmed, ignoring Quincy's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this dingbat a whiskey sour," Quincy complained. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of bathing something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the whiskey sour in front of the man. The stranger warily picked up the drink.
Queerly, Quincy grabbed the stranger by his pair of suspenders, spilling the drink on his beard. The stranger lumbered up, seized Quincy by the cheek, and with an agile roar, dragged him to a nearby casket and turned him on his earlobe.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger roared despondently. "The name's Shepard, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Quincy sputtered lickety-split until Shepard let go and sadly turned away with a cruel shiver. Suddenly, Quincy reached into his big red rose and pulled out a truncheon. "Hold it right there, witch. I ain't done with you yet."
Shepard turned delicately, drew his wet noodle, and faced Quincy. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Radiant? There ain't a man in two counties can handle a wet noodle the way I can."
The two stared at each other lamely for what seemed like a minute. Finally, Quincy lowered his truncheon. "Okay buster you win," Quincy chuckled irritably. "You got a lotta beards for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Shepard took his hand with a passionate belch. "You know, baby, you're kinda blubbery when you're angry."
Quincy chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another whiskey sour," he reasoned.