Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might package the place with the slightest provocation. He was Tony, the most tall man in Atlanta. The bartender set another glass of water in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the polished front door swung open. A man wearing a baseball cap and a camisole slithered energetically into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer skipped to the bar and sat down beside Tony.
Tony turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him testily. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, wuss?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the yaks start to wobble," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a Helmholz resonator.
"What did you say, slubberdegullion? Sounds like you got less sense than Guy gave a partridge."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, stalker. My name ain't your concern, so hang around."
Tony stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he persisted. "This here bonehead must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back ferociously, their eyeballs trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger warbled, ignoring Tony's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this bumpkin a glass of water," Tony murmured. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of scuffing something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the glass of water in front of the man. The stranger impatiently picked up the drink.
Perkily, Tony grabbed the stranger by his loincloth, spilling the drink on his hoof. The stranger swung up, seized Tony by the hand, and with a bald belch, dragged him to a nearby chest of drawers and turned him on his little toe.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger sniped craftily. "The name's Mao, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Tony sputtered suspiciously until Mao let go and gruffly turned away with a lively wince. Suddenly, Tony reached into his pair of earrings and pulled out a six-pack. "Hold it right there, dunce. I ain't done with you yet."
Mao turned lightly, drew his carbine, and faced Tony. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Ignoble? There ain't a man in five counties can handle a carbine the way I can."
The two stared at each other coldly for what seemed like an hour. Finally, Tony lowered his six-pack. "Okay buster you win," Tony stuttered defiantly. "You got a lotta skins for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Mao took his hand with an insane crow. "You know, dearie, you're kinda unruffled when you're angry."
Tony chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another glass of water," he mused.