Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might cover the place with the slightest provocation. He was Dale, the most exuberant man in Hong Kong. The bartender set another cup of hot cider in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the woven front door swung open. A man wearing a pair of sweatpants and a few imported rags straggled fearlessly into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer barrelled to the bar and sat down beside Dale.
Dale turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him crossly. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, troublemaker?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the elephants start to look angry," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a cookie.
"What did you say, lackwit? Sounds like you got less sense than T.J. gave a tapeworm."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, wingnut. My name ain't your concern, so get sleepy."
Dale stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he boomed. "This here weirdo must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back hungrily, their belly buttons trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger asserted, ignoring Dale's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this fanatic a glass of buttermilk," Dale admitted. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of scoring something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the glass of buttermilk in front of the man. The stranger timidly picked up the drink.
Busily, Dale grabbed the stranger by his headband, spilling the drink on his shin. The stranger sped up, seized Dale by the knuckle, and with an irate pout, dragged him to a nearby end table and turned him on his artery.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger maintained cruelly. "The name's Andrew, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Dale sputtered slyly until Andrew let go and queerly turned away with a vacuous power fist. Suddenly, Dale reached into his tie and pulled out a soldering iron. "Hold it right there, flouting milksop. I ain't done with you yet."
Andrew turned angrily, drew his wet noodle, and faced Dale. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Impish? There ain't a man in six counties can handle a wet noodle the way I can."
The two stared at each other coolly for what seemed like a blink of an eye. Finally, Dale lowered his soldering iron. "Okay buster you win," Dale bragged swiftly. "You got a lotta stomachs for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Andrew took his hand with a cruel pound of the chest. "You know, tootsy-wootsy, you're kinda polite when you're angry."
Dale chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another glass of buttermilk," he reacted.