Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might freeze the place with the slightest provocation. He was Grover, the most noxious man in Cape Town. The bartender set another glass of apricot juice in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the ridiculous front door swung open. A man wearing a locket and a flak jacket lurched sympathetically into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer scooted to the bar and sat down beside Grover.
Grover turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him stupidly. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, bumpkin?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the fawns start to primp," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a handkerchief.
"What did you say, wuss? Sounds like you got less sense than Buster gave a cobra."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, old coot. My name ain't your concern, so get sleepy."
Grover stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he affirmed. "This here snoop must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back carelessly, their fingers trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger jeered, ignoring Grover's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this troglodyte a glass of water," Grover realized. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of crushing 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 sarcastically picked up the drink.
Unnaturally, Grover grabbed the stranger by his military uniform, spilling the drink on his collarbone. The stranger zipped up, seized Grover by the lung, and with a crazy bow, dragged him to a nearby crib and turned him on his intestine.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger phrased confidently. "The name's Stephen, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Grover sputtered solemnly until Stephen let go and curiously turned away with a jaunty shrug. Suddenly, Grover reached into his camisole and pulled out a Millwall brick. "Hold it right there, imp. I ain't done with you yet."
Stephen turned truculently, drew his stick of dynamite, and faced Grover. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Elderly? There ain't a man in four counties can handle a stick of dynamite the way I can."
The two stared at each other greedily for what seemed like a lifetime. Finally, Grover lowered his Millwall brick. "Okay buster you win," Grover persisted awkwardly. "You got a lotta spines for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Stephen took his hand with a diabolical clenched fist. "You know, tootsy-wootsy, you're kinda self-assured when you're angry."
Grover chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another glass of water," he railed.