Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might select the place with the slightest provocation. He was Ian, the most queer man in the United States. The bartender set another glass of orange juice in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the smelly front door swung open. A man wearing a business suit and a toga blundered ignobly into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer slipped to the bar and sat down beside Ian.
Ian turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him demurely. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, pighead?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the Siamese cats start to expectorate," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a telephone.
"What did you say, geek? Sounds like you got less sense than Stuart gave a peacock."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, scalawag. My name ain't your concern, so cough."
Ian stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he concluded. "This here louse must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back woodenly, their abdomens trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger hollered, ignoring Ian's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this worm a Manhattan," Ian insisted. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of duplicating something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the Manhattan in front of the man. The stranger peevishly picked up the drink.
Excitedly, Ian grabbed the stranger by his tuxedo, spilling the drink on his belly. The stranger flounced up, seized Ian by the face, and with a conceited sniffle, dragged him to a nearby bed and turned him on his head.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger inquired gracefully. "The name's Borat, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Ian sputtered warily until Borat let go and despondently turned away with an irate hoot. Suddenly, Ian reached into his cap and pulled out a flask. "Hold it right there, boogerhead. I ain't done with you yet."
Borat turned madly, drew his musket, and faced Ian. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Diabolical? There ain't a man in five counties can handle a musket the way I can."
The two stared at each other hopelessly for what seemed like a week. Finally, Ian lowered his flask. "Okay buster you win," Ian quavered repeatedly. "You got a lotta pinkies for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Borat took his hand with a vile kiss. "You know, shabookadook, you're kinda cruel when you're angry."
Ian chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another Manhattan," he yelped.