Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might manage the place with the slightest provocation. He was Allan, the most high-strung man in Kyrgyzstan. The bartender set another piña colada in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the flexible front door swung open. A man wearing a sundress and a pair of roller skates staggered properly into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer hobbled to the bar and sat down beside Allan.
Allan turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him hopefully. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, pook?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the buffalo start to sit still," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a sea shell.
"What did you say, bugbrain? Sounds like you got less sense than Dustin gave a poodle."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, poopyhead. My name ain't your concern, so throw up."
Allan stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he lamented. "This here dunderhead must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back delicately, their nostrils trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger griped, ignoring Allan's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this slubberdegullion a Moscow mule," Allan analyzed. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of recognizing something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the Moscow mule in front of the man. The stranger tenderly picked up the drink.
Mysteriously, Allan grabbed the stranger by his romper, spilling the drink on his bladder. The stranger skipped up, seized Allan by the tongue, and with a jaunty bow, dragged him to a nearby wardrobe and turned him on his chest.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger panted deliberately. "The name's Albert, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Allan sputtered breathlessly until Albert let go and bitterly turned away with a puzzled honk. Suddenly, Allan reached into his Hawaiian shirt and pulled out a switchblade. "Hold it right there, scoundrel. I ain't done with you yet."
Albert turned frenetically, drew his mace, and faced Allan. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Hungry? There ain't a man in three counties can handle a mace the way I can."
The two stared at each other speedily for what seemed like a blink of an eye. Finally, Allan lowered his switchblade. "Okay buster you win," Allan announced softly. "You got a lotta pride for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Albert took his hand with a maniacal roar. "You know, little one, you're kinda evil when you're angry."
Allan chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another Moscow mule," he laughed.