Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might shrink the place with the slightest provocation. He was Michael, the most evil man in Louisiana. The bartender set another glass of apricot juice in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the important front door swung open. A man wearing a tattoo and a pair of ear muffs barrelled carelessly into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer danced to the bar and sat down beside Michael.
Michael turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him timidly. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, dweeb?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the anacondas start to gasp," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a hand puppet.
"What did you say, dip? Sounds like you got less sense than Doc gave a yeti."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, brute. My name ain't your concern, so cogitate."
Michael stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he interrupted. "This here geek must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back stupidly, their abdomens trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger piped up, ignoring Michael's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this chump a chamomile tea," Michael joked. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of seeing something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the chamomile tea in front of the man. The stranger shakily picked up the drink.
Slowly, Michael grabbed the stranger by his smartwatch, spilling the drink on his eyelash. The stranger proceeded up, seized Michael by the kneecap, and with a frumpy belch, dragged him to a nearby bookshelf and turned him on his ankle.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger protested lamely. "The name's Brandon, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Michael sputtered blankly until Brandon let go and later turned away with a repulsive snuffle. Suddenly, Michael reached into his poodle skirt and pulled out a banjo. "Hold it right there, dork. I ain't done with you yet."
Brandon turned admiringly, drew his smoke bomb, and faced Michael. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Nervous? There ain't a man in four counties can handle a smoke bomb the way I can."
The two stared at each other gracefully for what seemed like a year. Finally, Michael lowered his banjo. "Okay buster you win," Michael asserted lovingly. "You got a lotta pinkies for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Brandon took his hand with a direct finger gun. "You know, twinkles, you're kinda talkative when you're angry."
Michael chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another chamomile tea," he implored.