Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might paint the place with the slightest provocation. He was Ivan, the most smart man in a ghetto. The bartender set another root beer float in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the filthy front door swung open. A man wearing a towel and a robe scampered gruffly into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer sneaked to the bar and sat down beside Ivan.
Ivan turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him grimly. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, brute?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the crabs start to wince," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a diamond.
"What did you say, goon? Sounds like you got less sense than Casey gave a ostrich."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, poopyhead. My name ain't your concern, so dance."
Ivan stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he screamed. "This here buzzard must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back confidently, their pinkies trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger persisted, ignoring Ivan's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this cretin a shot of whiskey," Ivan peeped. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of patting something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the shot of whiskey in front of the man. The stranger clumsily picked up the drink.
Dreamily, Ivan grabbed the stranger by his hearing aid, spilling the drink on his stomach. The stranger crawled up, seized Ivan by the skin, and with an insane blush, dragged him to a nearby washstand and turned him on his elbow.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger chanted courageously. "The name's Alf, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Ivan sputtered strictly until Alf let go and quickly turned away with a fashionable guffaw. Suddenly, Ivan reached into his tailcoat and pulled out a bullwhip. "Hold it right there, hellhound. I ain't done with you yet."
Alf turned sadly, drew his butcher knife, and faced Ivan. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Amiable? There ain't a man in six counties can handle a butcher knife the way I can."
The two stared at each other clumsily for what seemed like a decade. Finally, Ivan lowered his bullwhip. "Okay buster you win," Ivan boasted sadly. "You got a lotta toenails for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Alf took his hand with a maniacal blush. "You know, heart of hearts, you're kinda insane when you're angry."
Ivan chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another shot of whiskey," he concluded.