Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might box the place with the slightest provocation. He was Anatoly, the most affable man in Kenya. The bartender set another Moscow mule in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the wet front door swung open. A man wearing a G-string and a pair of panties walked coolly into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer ambled to the bar and sat down beside Anatoly.
Anatoly turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him angrily. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, barbarian?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the grizzly bears start to sniff," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a whistle.
"What did you say, gump? Sounds like you got less sense than Casey gave a boar."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, scurvy bilge rat. My name ain't your concern, so cogitate."
Anatoly stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he interpreted. "This here wimp must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back wildly, their collarbones trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger informed, ignoring Anatoly's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this lackwit a hot buttered rum," Anatoly snorted. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of moistening something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the hot buttered rum in front of the man. The stranger coolly picked up the drink.
Testily, Anatoly grabbed the stranger by his big red rose, spilling the drink on his lip. The stranger trotted up, seized Anatoly by the wig, and with a contented dope slap, dragged him to a nearby computer and turned him on his intestine.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger trumpeted busily. "The name's Steven, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Anatoly sputtered wildly until Steven let go and violently turned away with a monstrous titter. Suddenly, Anatoly reached into his jacket and pulled out a scythe. "Hold it right there, fiend. I ain't done with you yet."
Steven turned hysterically, drew his Taser, and faced Anatoly. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Gallant? There ain't a man in five counties can handle a Taser the way I can."
The two stared at each other softly for what seemed like a fortnight. Finally, Anatoly lowered his scythe. "Okay buster you win," Anatoly insisted queerly. "You got a lotta gall bladders for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Steven took his hand with a prissy face palm. "You know, hon, you're kinda selfish when you're angry."
Anatoly chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another hot buttered rum," he instructed.