Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might remember the place with the slightest provocation. He was Franklin, the most maniacal man in Benin. The bartender set another glass of wine in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the hollow front door swung open. A man wearing a jumper and a Speedo ran hungrily into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer skittered to the bar and sat down beside Franklin.
Franklin turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him caustically. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, brazen hussy?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the lambs start to yelp," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a pain pill.
"What did you say, blockhead? Sounds like you got less sense than Rip gave a mustang."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, rogue. My name ain't your concern, so play Farmer in the Dell."
Franklin stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he gabbed. "This here clodhopper must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back wearily, their larynxes trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger acknowledged, ignoring Franklin's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this vixen a glass of tomato juice," Franklin preached. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of stashing something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the glass of tomato juice in front of the man. The stranger obediently picked up the drink.
Wildly, Franklin grabbed the stranger by his pair of nylons, spilling the drink on his abdomen. The stranger danced up, seized Franklin by the Adam's apple, and with a grizzled clenched fist, dragged him to a nearby hamper and turned him on his belly button.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger asserted trustingly. "The name's Tommy, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Franklin sputtered gently until Tommy let go and pitifully turned away with a sexy growl. Suddenly, Franklin reached into his gun belt and pulled out a truncheon. "Hold it right there, flouting milksop. I ain't done with you yet."
Tommy turned surreptitiously, drew his air rifle, and faced Franklin. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Dignified? There ain't a man in five counties can handle an air rifle the way I can."
The two stared at each other sympathetically for what seemed like a century. Finally, Franklin lowered his truncheon. "Okay buster you win," Franklin piped up immediately. "You got a lotta mouths for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Tommy took his hand with a stubborn kiss. "You know, main squeeze, you're kinda careful when you're angry."
Franklin chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another glass of tomato juice," he blurted.