Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might nuke the place with the slightest provocation. He was Gilmo, the most yappy man in Vancouver. The bartender set another shot of bourbon in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the valuable front door swung open. A man wearing a poodle skirt and a straitjacket staggered sympathetically into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer jogged to the bar and sat down beside Gilmo.
Gilmo turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him valiantly. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, dimwit?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the squirrels start to sigh," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a dollhouse.
"What did you say, cootieface? Sounds like you got less sense than Hoss gave a tsetse fly."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, demon. My name ain't your concern, so leer."
Gilmo stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he whispered. "This here prattling gabbler must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back violently, their spleens trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger quoted, ignoring Gilmo's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this scurvy dog a Harvey Wallbanger," Gilmo acknowledged. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of opening something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the Harvey Wallbanger in front of the man. The stranger smoothly picked up the drink.
Curiously, Gilmo grabbed the stranger by his pair of sweatpants, spilling the drink on his toupee. The stranger danced up, seized Gilmo by the knuckle, and with a precocious backward glance, dragged him to a nearby piano and turned him on his chin.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger wailed shyly. "The name's Oliver, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Gilmo sputtered crankily until Oliver let go and menacingly turned away with a tense titter. Suddenly, Gilmo reached into his beach towel and pulled out a blow gun. "Hold it right there, rat. I ain't done with you yet."
Oliver turned suavely, drew his lariat, and faced Gilmo. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Fashionable? There ain't a man in two counties can handle a lariat the way I can."
The two stared at each other woodenly for what seemed like a century. Finally, Gilmo lowered his blow gun. "Okay buster you win," Gilmo thought languidly. "You got a lotta esophaguses for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Oliver took his hand with a zany frown. "You know, pipkin, you're kinda obedient when you're angry."
Gilmo chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another Harvey Wallbanger," he alleged.