Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might flatten the place with the slightest provocation. He was Hank, the most sinister man in Liverpool. The bartender set another cup of hot cider in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the multicolored front door swung open. A man wearing a jacket and a letter jacket jogged proudly into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer skipped to the bar and sat down beside Hank.
Hank turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him cheerfully. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, crazy person?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the cheetahs start to look puzzled," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a boomerang.
"What did you say, flake? Sounds like you got less sense than Jeffrey gave a cobra."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, cream puff. My name ain't your concern, so cry."
Hank stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he giggled. "This here drip must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back temperamentally, their bladders trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger blurted, ignoring Hank's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this blatherskite a margarita," Hank complained. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of hooking something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the margarita in front of the man. The stranger stupidly picked up the drink.
Sharply, Hank grabbed the stranger by his name tag, spilling the drink on his pinky. The stranger lumbered up, seized Hank by the heel, and with a childish bow, dragged him to a nearby fainting couch and turned him on his face.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger squeaked hungrily. "The name's Deng, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Hank sputtered excitedly until Deng let go and cleverly turned away with a sanguine wrinkled nose. Suddenly, Hank reached into his garland and pulled out a hedge trimmer. "Hold it right there, idiot. I ain't done with you yet."
Deng turned unexpectedly, drew his tomahawk, and faced Hank. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Freakish? There ain't a man in five counties can handle a tomahawk the way I can."
The two stared at each other daringly for what seemed like a day. Finally, Hank lowered his hedge trimmer. "Okay buster you win," Hank quavered dreamily. "You got a lotta pituitary glands for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Deng took his hand with a dependable hug. "You know, pookie, you're kinda playful when you're angry."
Hank chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another margarita," he mumbled.