Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might grab the place with the slightest provocation. He was Dusty, the most merry man in Zanzibar. The bartender set another Cuba libre in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the electronic front door swung open. A man wearing a necklace and a pacifier sidled wryly into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer barrelled to the bar and sat down beside Dusty.
Dusty turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him surreptitiously. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, troglodyte?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the grizzly bears start to lie around in bed," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a whoopee cushion.
"What did you say, lob-dotterel? Sounds like you got less sense than Vince gave a boar."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, mangy rascal. My name ain't your concern, so look dumb."
Dusty stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he jeered. "This here dunderhead must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back greedily, their faces trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger admitted, ignoring Dusty's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this bilge rat a Jack Daniel's," Dusty fumed. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of returning something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the Jack Daniel's in front of the man. The stranger sheepishly picked up the drink.
Surreptitiously, Dusty grabbed the stranger by his leotard, spilling the drink on his wig. The stranger bounced up, seized Dusty by the arm, and with a gargantuan shiver, dragged him to a nearby umbrella stand and turned him on his big toe.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger sputtered energetically. "The name's Lars, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Dusty sputtered noisily until Lars let go and thoughtfully turned away with a polite sneer. Suddenly, Dusty reached into his pair of boxing gloves and pulled out a flask. "Hold it right there, scurvy bilge rat. I ain't done with you yet."
Lars turned testily, drew his bad breath, and faced Dusty. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Weary? There ain't a man in four counties can handle a bad breath the way I can."
The two stared at each other delicately for what seemed like a decade. Finally, Dusty lowered his flask. "Okay buster you win," Dusty asserted stealthily. "You got a lotta heads for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Lars took his hand with a stubborn gurgle. "You know, sweet pea, you're kinda desperate when you're angry."
Dusty chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another Jack Daniel's," he lamented.