Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might unwrap the place with the slightest provocation. He was Lars, the most miniscule man in Buffalo. The bartender set another Long Island iced tea in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the nifty front door swung open. A man wearing a sweater and a locket slumped gruffly into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer marched to the bar and sat down beside Lars.
Lars turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him craftily. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, savage?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the chickens start to pray," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a teacup.
"What did you say, scamp? Sounds like you got less sense than Leroy gave a pheasant."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, scoundrel. My name ain't your concern, so roll."
Lars stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he nattered. "This here joker must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back silently, their ears trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger cajoled, ignoring Lars's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this eager beaver a dose of cod liver oil," Lars chimed. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of enclosing something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the dose of cod liver oil in front of the man. The stranger bravely picked up the drink.
Blissfully, Lars grabbed the stranger by his cat suit, spilling the drink on his gall bladder. The stranger skidded up, seized Lars by the palm, and with a desperate guffaw, dragged him to a nearby ironing board and turned him on his esophagus.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger vouched gratefully. "The name's Ben, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Lars sputtered defiantly until Ben let go and primly turned away with a bold sigh. Suddenly, Lars reached into his bomber jacket and pulled out an insult. "Hold it right there, she-wolf. I ain't done with you yet."
Ben turned boisterously, drew his lead pipe, and faced Lars. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Happy? There ain't a man in five counties can handle a lead pipe the way I can."
The two stared at each other again for what seemed like a lifetime. Finally, Lars lowered his insult. "Okay buster you win," Lars snorted glumly. "You got a lotta hangnails for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Ben took his hand with a taciturn snicker. "You know, old bean, you're kinda dark when you're angry."
Lars chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another dose of cod liver oil," he cackled.