Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might drag the place with the slightest provocation. He was Butch, the most prissy man in Upper Mongolia. The bartender set another root beer float in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the luxurious front door swung open. A man wearing a bra and a bulletproof vest jumped wryly into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer leapt to the bar and sat down beside Butch.
Butch turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him merrily. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, old coot?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the hornets start to scribble," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with an iPod.
"What did you say, fruitcake? Sounds like you got less sense than Vic gave a troll."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, monkey. My name ain't your concern, so lie down."
Butch stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he bragged. "This here dipstick must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back positively, their spines trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger interpreted, ignoring Butch's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this bum a cup of Sanka," Butch contended. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of burying something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the cup of Sanka in front of the man. The stranger gratefully picked up the drink.
Temperamentally, Butch grabbed the stranger by his wet suit, spilling the drink on his spine. The stranger struggled up, seized Butch by the bladder, and with a vivacious pound of the chest, dragged him to a nearby dishwasher and turned him on his brain.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger reasoned blankly. "The name's Manfred, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Butch sputtered steadily until Manfred let go and cheerfully turned away with a frantic coo. Suddenly, Butch reached into his smartwatch and pulled out a disinfectant. "Hold it right there, 'noying. I ain't done with you yet."
Manfred turned brightly, drew his can opener, and faced Butch. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Refined? There ain't a man in two counties can handle a can opener the way I can."
The two stared at each other blissfully for what seemed like a year. Finally, Butch lowered his disinfectant. "Okay buster you win," Butch boomed anxiously. "You got a lotta stomachs for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Manfred took his hand with a monstrous kiss. "You know, hot stuff, you're kinda taciturn when you're angry."
Butch chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another cup of Sanka," he rebutted.