Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might shred the place with the slightest provocation. He was Kenneth, the most moronic man in Swaziland. The bartender set another gin fizz in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the porcelain front door swung open. A man wearing a set of camo fatigues and a shawl slipped dubiously into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer trotted to the bar and sat down beside Kenneth.
Kenneth turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him brightly. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, chowderhead?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the chickens start to play solitaire," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a deck of cards.
"What did you say, dummy? Sounds like you got less sense than Pinky gave a gorilla."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, nincompoop. My name ain't your concern, so die."
Kenneth stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he chimed. "This here bumpkin must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back fondly, their pinkies trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger responded, ignoring Kenneth's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this dipstick a dose of cod liver oil," Kenneth taunted. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of shortening something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the dose of cod liver oil in front of the man. The stranger gracefully picked up the drink.
Tensely, Kenneth grabbed the stranger by his ski mask, spilling the drink on his intestine. The stranger slid up, seized Kenneth by the gall bladder, and with a rugged hug, dragged him to a nearby carpet and turned him on his eyelash.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger yawned grimly. "The name's Octavio, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Kenneth sputtered later until Octavio let go and ruefully turned away with a noble sniffle. Suddenly, Kenneth reached into his bracelet and pulled out an axe. "Hold it right there, baby. I ain't done with you yet."
Octavio turned innocently, drew his spit wad, and faced Kenneth. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Artistic? There ain't a man in two counties can handle a spit wad the way I can."
The two stared at each other slowly for what seemed like an hour. Finally, Kenneth lowered his axe. "Okay buster you win," Kenneth added suspiciously. "You got a lotta adrenal glands for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Octavio took his hand with a daring snarl. "You know, twinkles, you're kinda powerful when you're angry."
Kenneth chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another dose of cod liver oil," he burbled.