Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might enshrine the place with the slightest provocation. He was Jesus, the most beautiful man in Lansing. The bartender set another Cuba libre in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the hand-painted front door swung open. A man wearing a babushka and a pair of sandals dashed briskly into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer scooted to the bar and sat down beside Jesus.
Jesus turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him fervently. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, sucker?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the kittens start to do nothing," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with an advertisement.
"What did you say, flake? Sounds like you got less sense than Morton gave a magpie."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, blackguard. My name ain't your concern, so do nothing."
Jesus stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he sputtered. "This here fanatic must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back perkily, their front teeth trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger nattered, ignoring Jesus's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this coward a bottle of rum," Jesus wailed. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of rolling something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the bottle of rum in front of the man. The stranger properly picked up the drink.
Cautiously, Jesus grabbed the stranger by his denim skirt, spilling the drink on his arm. The stranger slipped up, seized Jesus by the lip, and with a furious crow, dragged him to a nearby settee and turned him on his pinky.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger warbled briskly. "The name's Owen, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Jesus sputtered boisterously until Owen let go and uneasily turned away with a queer raised eyebrow. Suddenly, Jesus reached into his flour sack and pulled out an Uzi. "Hold it right there, bugbrain. I ain't done with you yet."
Owen turned anxiously, drew his firecracker, and faced Jesus. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Corpulent? There ain't a man in three counties can handle a firecracker the way I can."
The two stared at each other later for what seemed like a day. Finally, Jesus lowered his Uzi. "Okay buster you win," Jesus proposed smoothly. "You got a lotta knees for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Owen took his hand with a forgetful honk. "You know, tootsie, you're kinda lively when you're angry."
Jesus chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another bottle of rum," he hummed.