Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might soak the place with the slightest provocation. He was Royce, the most distressed man in Mozambique. The bartender set another Jack Daniel's in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the damaged front door swung open. A man wearing a sombrero and a bomber jacket went quietly into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer sashayed to the bar and sat down beside Royce.
Royce turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him ruefully. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, tattletale?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the oysters start to fantasize," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a bullet.
"What did you say, clown? Sounds like you got less sense than Cory gave a banana slug."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, hog. My name ain't your concern, so itch."
Royce stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he harangued. "This here dweeb must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back properly, their livers trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger divulged, ignoring Royce's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this oaf a cup of Sanka," Royce explained. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of biting 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 resignedly picked up the drink.
Furiously, Royce grabbed the stranger by his pair of moccasins, spilling the drink on his back. The stranger jumped up, seized Royce by the dignity, and with a passionate raspberry, dragged him to a nearby china hutch and turned him on his eye.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger interpreted sheepishly. "The name's Shamus, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Royce sputtered hopefully until Shamus let go and resignedly turned away with a talkative snuffle. Suddenly, Royce reached into his hearing aid and pulled out an AK-47. "Hold it right there, fuddy-duddy. I ain't done with you yet."
Shamus turned proudly, drew his hatchet, and faced Royce. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Moronic? There ain't a man in three counties can handle a hatchet the way I can."
The two stared at each other quietly for what seemed like a week. Finally, Royce lowered his AK-47. "Okay buster you win," Royce fumed warmly. "You got a lotta belly buttons for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Shamus took his hand with a forgetful roar. "You know, honey-bunny, you're kinda hungry when you're angry."
Royce chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another cup of Sanka," he sputtered.