Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might grab the place with the slightest provocation. He was Bruce, the most prickly man in Oxford. The bartender set another glass of champagne in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the torn front door swung open. A man wearing an Eton jacket and a belt sailed shakily into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer barrelled to the bar and sat down beside Bruce.
Bruce turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him cautiously. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, punk?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the lice start to chatter," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a fountain pen.
"What did you say, nag? Sounds like you got less sense than Tyler gave a hippopotamus."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, nag. My name ain't your concern, so sigh."
Bruce stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he preached. "This here numskull must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back carelessly, their tongues trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger shouted, ignoring Bruce's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this fuddy-duddy an old fashioned," Bruce harangued. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of watching something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the old fashioned in front of the man. The stranger noisily picked up the drink.
Accidentally, Bruce grabbed the stranger by his pair of knickerbockers, spilling the drink on his thyroid gland. The stranger tiptoed up, seized Bruce by the eye, and with an emotional curtsey, dragged him to a nearby TV and turned him on his scalp.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger debated positively. "The name's Borat, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Bruce sputtered angrily until Borat let go and positively turned away with an enraged cackle. Suddenly, Bruce reached into his moustache and pulled out a crossbow. "Hold it right there, fiend. I ain't done with you yet."
Borat turned zestily, drew his supply of courage, and faced Bruce. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Brilliant? There ain't a man in two counties can handle a supply of courage the way I can."
The two stared at each other queerly for what seemed like a week. Finally, Bruce lowered his crossbow. "Okay buster you win," Bruce disputed irritably. "You got a lotta fingers for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Borat took his hand with a gentle death glare. "You know, rose petal, you're kinda bilious when you're angry."
Bruce chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another old fashioned," he recited.