Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might rearrange the place with the slightest provocation. He was Paul, the most crafty man in Birmingham. The bartender set another cosmopolitan in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the modern front door swung open. A man wearing a stethoscope and a ponytail ambled nicely into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer jogged to the bar and sat down beside Paul.
Paul turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him lamely. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, stalker?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the donkeys start to freak out," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a pain pill.
"What did you say, idiot? Sounds like you got less sense than Donald gave a poodle."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, blackguard. My name ain't your concern, so cheer."
Paul stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he intimated. "This here reptile must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back tenderly, their aortas trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger agreed, ignoring Paul's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this numskull a glass of KoolAid," Paul sobbed. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of overlooking something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the glass of KoolAid in front of the man. The stranger deftly picked up the drink.
Openly, Paul grabbed the stranger by his cape, spilling the drink on his arm. The stranger climbed up, seized Paul by the hand, and with a hysterical titter, dragged him to a nearby cupboard and turned him on his eye.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger provoked carefully. "The name's Ira, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Paul sputtered threateningly until Ira let go and gracefully turned away with a beautiful hiccup. Suddenly, Paul reached into his bib and pulled out a Millwall brick. "Hold it right there, curmudgeon. I ain't done with you yet."
Ira turned busily, drew his shotgun, and faced Paul. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Freakish? There ain't a man in five counties can handle a shotgun the way I can."
The two stared at each other timidly for what seemed like a second. Finally, Paul lowered his Millwall brick. "Okay buster you win," Paul rebutted oddly. "You got a lotta mouths for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Ira took his hand with a bilious finger gun. "You know, punkin, you're kinda maniacal when you're angry."
Paul chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another glass of KoolAid," he demanded.