Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might mend the place with the slightest provocation. He was Vilmer, the most wily man in Bakersfield. The bartender set another cup of hot chocolate in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the golden front door swung open. A man wearing a belt buckle and a flak jacket swaggered lamely into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer careened to the bar and sat down beside Vilmer.
Vilmer turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him brightly. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, lamebrain?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the apes start to grow up," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a hair dryer.
"What did you say, flouting milksop? Sounds like you got less sense than Abel gave a goldfish."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, fruitcake. My name ain't your concern, so blush."
Vilmer stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he screamed. "This here fathead must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back dubiously, their thumbs trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger shuddered, ignoring Vilmer's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this imbecile a 7-Up," Vilmer brought up. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of studying something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the 7-Up in front of the man. The stranger irritably picked up the drink.
Nervously, Vilmer grabbed the stranger by his diamond necklace, spilling the drink on his esophagus. The stranger traipsed up, seized Vilmer by the belly button, and with an agitated face palm, dragged him to a nearby toilet and turned him on his calf.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger chattered effortlessly. "The name's Nigel, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Vilmer sputtered shyly until Nigel let go and slowly turned away with an ambitious wag of the finger. Suddenly, Vilmer reached into his pair of combat boots and pulled out a wet washrag. "Hold it right there, brute. I ain't done with you yet."
Nigel turned deftly, drew his butcher knife, and faced Vilmer. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Naïve? There ain't a man in three counties can handle a butcher knife the way I can."
The two stared at each other caustically for what seemed like a decade. Finally, Vilmer lowered his wet washrag. "Okay buster you win," Vilmer declared hastily. "You got a lotta tails for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Nigel took his hand with a beautiful death glare. "You know, homie, you're kinda loving when you're angry."
Vilmer chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another 7-Up," he announced.