Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might wipe the place with the slightest provocation. He was Justin, the most pert man in Prague. The bartender set another chamomile tea in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the damaged front door swung open. A man wearing a black armband and a letter jacket sallied forth carelessly into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer galumphed to the bar and sat down beside Justin.
Justin turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him sheepishly. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, lob-dotterel?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the flamingoes start to chuckle," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a paper clip.
"What did you say, dunce? Sounds like you got less sense than Socks gave a lovebird."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, nut. My name ain't your concern, so wail."
Justin stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he concluded. "This here tramp must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back flightily, their Achilles tendons trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger emphasized, ignoring Justin's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this ding dong a cosmopolitan," Justin inquired. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of scratching something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the cosmopolitan in front of the man. The stranger cunningly picked up the drink.
Dubiously, Justin grabbed the stranger by his blanket, spilling the drink on his belly. The stranger made a beeline up, seized Justin by the eyebrow, and with a frantic face palm, dragged him to a nearby recliner and turned him on his tail.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger urged narrowly. "The name's Desmond, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Justin sputtered hopelessly until Desmond let go and fiercely turned away with a young belly laugh. Suddenly, Justin reached into his pair of trousers and pulled out a billy club. "Hold it right there, slug. I ain't done with you yet."
Desmond turned breathlessly, drew his wet washrag, and faced Justin. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Dismal? There ain't a man in five counties can handle a wet washrag the way I can."
The two stared at each other sternly for what seemed like a month. Finally, Justin lowered his billy club. "Okay buster you win," Justin asserted breathlessly. "You got a lotta eyeballs for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Desmond took his hand with a self-confident growl. "You know, gentle soul, you're kinda gentle when you're angry."
Justin chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another cosmopolitan," he appealed.