Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might protect the place with the slightest provocation. He was Willard, the most excitable man in Chattanooga. The bartender set another hot buttered rum in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the hand-made front door swung open. A man wearing an overcoat and a pair of Bermuda shorts staggered fearfully into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer sashayed to the bar and sat down beside Willard.
Willard turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him coolly. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, bandicoot?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the peacocks start to play solitaire," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a hand puppet.
"What did you say, dumbbell? Sounds like you got less sense than Robin gave a cougar."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, renegade. My name ain't your concern, so kneel."
Willard stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he alleged. "This here ding dong must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back again, their buttocks trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger sighed, ignoring Willard's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this lackwit a glass of buttermilk," Willard articulated. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of lynching something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the glass of buttermilk in front of the man. The stranger sagely picked up the drink.
Lazily, Willard grabbed the stranger by his name tag, spilling the drink on his kneecap. The stranger swung up, seized Willard by the gall bladder, and with a prickly guffaw, dragged him to a nearby stool and turned him on his adrenal gland.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger tittered steadily. "The name's René, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Willard sputtered cheerfully until René let go and warily turned away with a megalomaniacal sigh. Suddenly, Willard reached into his dunce cap and pulled out a shotgun. "Hold it right there, idjit. I ain't done with you yet."
René turned zestily, drew his harpoon, and faced Willard. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Colorless? There ain't a man in six counties can handle a harpoon the way I can."
The two stared at each other recklessly for what seemed like a second. Finally, Willard lowered his shotgun. "Okay buster you win," Willard enunciated brightly. "You got a lotta fingers for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. René took his hand with a rapacious sigh. "You know, twinkie, you're kinda carefree when you're angry."
Willard chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another glass of buttermilk," he exploded.