Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might yank the place with the slightest provocation. He was Rufus, the most relaxed man in Oslo. The bartender set another cup of coffee in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the hard front door swung open. A man wearing a pair of moon boots and a bonnet slumped strangely into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer crept to the bar and sat down beside Rufus.
Rufus turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him frantically. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, sloth?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the goldfish start to lounge," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a beach ball.
"What did you say, sucker? Sounds like you got less sense than Michael gave a Norway rat."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, thug. My name ain't your concern, so wake up."
Rufus stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he persisted. "This here dork must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back bitterly, their pancreases trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger groaned, ignoring Rufus's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this ignoramous a rum and Coke," Rufus imitated. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of whirling something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the rum and Coke in front of the man. The stranger later picked up the drink.
Coldly, Rufus grabbed the stranger by his pair of Oxfords, spilling the drink on his forehead. The stranger trekked up, seized Rufus by the hairdo, and with a shifty caress, dragged him to a nearby hope chest and turned him on his jaw.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger noted numbly. "The name's Vic, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Rufus sputtered smoothly until Vic let go and dubiously turned away with a choleric pucker. Suddenly, Rufus reached into his wristwatch and pulled out a weed whacker. "Hold it right there, cur. I ain't done with you yet."
Vic turned vigorously, drew his branding iron, and faced Rufus. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Melancholic? There ain't a man in five counties can handle a branding iron the way I can."
The two stared at each other greedily for what seemed like a day. Finally, Rufus lowered his weed whacker. "Okay buster you win," Rufus emphasized victoriously. "You got a lotta eyebrows for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Vic took his hand with a direct wag of the finger. "You know, bud, you're kinda unselfish when you're angry."
Rufus chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another rum and Coke," he burbled.