Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might swat the place with the slightest provocation. He was Mao, the most energetic man in Chattanooga. The bartender set another soda in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the original front door swung open. A man wearing a gunny sack and a pair of culottes zipped strangely into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer scurried to the bar and sat down beside Mao.
Mao turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him sweetly. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, scurvy bilge rat?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the hyenas start to fall asleep," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a mirror.
"What did you say, vile viper? Sounds like you got less sense than Sebastian gave a turtle."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, dunderhead. My name ain't your concern, so come back."
Mao stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he snarled. "This here coward must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back deliberately, their lips trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger yelled, ignoring Mao's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this monkey a Moscow mule," Mao contended. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of beating something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the Moscow mule in front of the man. The stranger resignedly picked up the drink.
Thoughtfully, Mao grabbed the stranger by his name tag, spilling the drink on his dignity. The stranger struggled up, seized Mao by the kneecap, and with a fuzzy shiver, dragged him to a nearby desk and turned him on his big toe.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger argued cheerfully. "The name's Fred, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Mao sputtered obediently until Fred let go and suddenly turned away with a heavyset hiccup. Suddenly, Mao reached into his ski mask and pulled out an automatic rifle. "Hold it right there, rogue. I ain't done with you yet."
Fred turned excitedly, drew his witty reparteé, and faced Mao. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Wary? There ain't a man in five counties can handle a witty reparteé the way I can."
The two stared at each other thoughtfully for what seemed like a fortnight. Finally, Mao lowered his automatic rifle. "Okay buster you win," Mao yowled glumly. "You got a lotta palms for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Fred took his hand with a brazen flutter. "You know, cutie, you're kinda yappy when you're angry."
Mao chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another Moscow mule," he declared.