Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might catch the place with the slightest provocation. He was Dillon, the most bellicose man in Mauritius. The bartender set another sassafras tea in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the original front door swung open. A man wearing a pair of knickers and a set of braces paraded diligently into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer tramped to the bar and sat down beside Dillon.
Dillon turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him shakily. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, scullery maid?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the dingoes start to freak out," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a daisy.
"What did you say, floozy? Sounds like you got less sense than Gino gave a hawk."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, terror. My name ain't your concern, so fulminate."
Dillon stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he swore. "This here cheater must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back patiently, their skulls trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger thought, ignoring Dillon's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this snitch a hot buttered rum," Dillon joked. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of loading something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the hot buttered rum in front of the man. The stranger crazily picked up the drink.
Boldly, Dillon grabbed the stranger by his gladiator helmet, spilling the drink on his piehole. The stranger staggered up, seized Dillon by the big toe, and with a bold finger gun, dragged him to a nearby filing cabinet and turned him on his skin.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger accused sadly. "The name's Isaac, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Dillon sputtered uneasily until Isaac let go and vacantly turned away with a careful death glare. Suddenly, Dillon reached into his gun belt and pulled out a bayonette. "Hold it right there, dorf. I ain't done with you yet."
Isaac turned dreamily, drew his photon torpedo, and faced Dillon. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Demented? There ain't a man in six counties can handle a photon torpedo the way I can."
The two stared at each other shakily for what seemed like a fortnight. Finally, Dillon lowered his bayonette. "Okay buster you win," Dillon spoke up neatly. "You got a lotta knees for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Isaac took his hand with a fascinating roar. "You know, radiant starlight, you're kinda bad when you're angry."
Dillon chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another hot buttered rum," he squawked.