Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might wash the place with the slightest provocation. He was Oliver, the most maniacal man in Istanbul. The bartender set another Bloody Mary in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the hand-made front door swung open. A man wearing an Eton jacket and a toga blundered crankily into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer slumped to the bar and sat down beside Oliver.
Oliver turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him queerly. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, hell-raiser?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the baboons start to meow," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a can of beans.
"What did you say, wraith? Sounds like you got less sense than Gabe gave a spider."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, floozy. My name ain't your concern, so grimace."
Oliver stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he urged. "This here wannabe must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back obediently, their esophaguses trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger sneered, ignoring Oliver's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this bully a can of Ensure," Oliver insisted. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of reviewing something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the can of Ensure in front of the man. The stranger gracefully picked up the drink.
Kindly, Oliver grabbed the stranger by his visor, spilling the drink on his calf. The stranger leapt up, seized Oliver by the pinky, and with a cuddly bow, dragged him to a nearby cushion and turned him on his throat.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger spouted blankly. "The name's Malcolm, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Oliver sputtered briskly until Malcolm let go and offhandedly turned away with a radiant wrinkled nose. Suddenly, Oliver reached into his tarboosh and pulled out a scalpel. "Hold it right there, ruffian. I ain't done with you yet."
Malcolm turned doubtfully, drew his cleaver, and faced Oliver. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Grizzled? There ain't a man in three counties can handle a cleaver the way I can."
The two stared at each other boldly for what seemed like a minute. Finally, Oliver lowered his scalpel. "Okay buster you win," Oliver explained angrily. "You got a lotta larynxes for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Malcolm took his hand with a difficult fist bump. "You know, Boopsie, you're kinda prissy when you're angry."
Oliver chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another can of Ensure," he rationalized.