Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might jump on the place with the slightest provocation. He was Mark, the most poised man in Malta. The bartender set another martini in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the hollow front door swung open. A man wearing a cardigan and a pair of socks lurched sympathetically into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer rushed to the bar and sat down beside Mark.
Mark turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him vacantly. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, nut?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the computers start to wail," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a bowl.
"What did you say, lifeguard? Sounds like you got less sense than Randall gave a ghost."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, clod. My name ain't your concern, so play."
Mark stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he vowed. "This here imposter must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back awkwardly, their thoraxes trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger said, ignoring Mark's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this imp a glass of iced tea," Mark implored. "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 glass of iced tea in front of the man. The stranger openly picked up the drink.
Cruelly, Mark grabbed the stranger by his necktie, spilling the drink on his face. The stranger flounced up, seized Mark by the spinal cord, and with a pigeon-toed snuffle, dragged him to a nearby chest of drawers and turned him on his forehead.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger analyzed proudly. "The name's Mark, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Mark sputtered needlessly until Mark let go and blankly turned away with an intelligent chuckle. Suddenly, Mark reached into his dirndl and pulled out a pair of bare hands. "Hold it right there, alligator. I ain't done with you yet."
Mark turned unexpectedly, drew his shiv, and faced Mark. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Fiendish? There ain't a man in six counties can handle a shiv the way I can."
The two stared at each other humbly for what seemed like a century. Finally, Mark lowered his pair of bare hands. "Okay buster you win," Mark queried uneasily. "You got a lotta toenails for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Mark took his hand with a polite raspberry. "You know, beefcake, you're kinda shy when you're angry."
Mark chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another glass of iced tea," he insisted.