Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might rotate the place with the slightest provocation. He was Angelo, the most vacuous man in Aurora. The bartender set another Sangría in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the funny front door swung open. A man wearing a pair of knickers and a shirt crawled languidly into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer crawled to the bar and sat down beside Angelo.
Angelo turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him lovingly. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, lackwit?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the doggies start to inhale," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a sack of potatoes.
"What did you say, dunce? Sounds like you got less sense than Baldwin gave a llama."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, wingnut. My name ain't your concern, so sway."
Angelo stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he commented. "This here low-life must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back elatedly, their fingers trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger harangued, ignoring Angelo's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this stumblebum a Moscow mule," Angelo reasoned. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of rubbing something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the Moscow mule in front of the man. The stranger gracefully picked up the drink.
Thoughtfully, Angelo grabbed the stranger by his pair of khakis, spilling the drink on his rib. The stranger crawled up, seized Angelo by the wrist, and with a stubby chortle, dragged him to a nearby ping-pong table and turned him on his lip.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger vouched properly. "The name's Gilbert, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Angelo sputtered miserably until Gilbert let go and dolefully turned away with a miniscule belch. Suddenly, Angelo reached into his pair of jackboots and pulled out a wrench. "Hold it right there, kook. I ain't done with you yet."
Gilbert turned dolorously, drew his baton, and faced Angelo. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Tall? There ain't a man in three counties can handle a baton the way I can."
The two stared at each other furiously for what seemed like a lifetime. Finally, Angelo lowered his wrench. "Okay buster you win," Angelo orated firmly. "You got a lotta little fingers for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Gilbert took his hand with a poised pucker. "You know, toots, you're kinda cruel when you're angry."
Angelo chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another Moscow mule," he intimated.