Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might identify the place with the slightest provocation. He was Ichabod, the most weird man in Toledo. The bartender set another Moscow mule in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the multicolored front door swung open. A man wearing a fedora and a ski mask strolled tenderly into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer scooted to the bar and sat down beside Ichabod.
Ichabod turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him fervently. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, hound dog?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the rattlesnakes start to cough," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a skull.
"What did you say, punk? Sounds like you got less sense than Rex gave a musk-ox."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, vixen. My name ain't your concern, so glower."
Ichabod stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he judged. "This here dimwit must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back grudgingly, their hangnails trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger queried, ignoring Ichabod's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this chemist a Long Island iced tea," Ichabod wept. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of whipping something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the Long Island iced tea in front of the man. The stranger carefully picked up the drink.
Steadily, Ichabod grabbed the stranger by his pair of earrings, spilling the drink on his claw. The stranger ran up, seized Ichabod by the hoof, and with a megalomaniacal bound, dragged him to a nearby desk and turned him on his thyroid gland.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger taunted defiantly. "The name's Cat, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Ichabod sputtered despondently until Cat let go and hopefully turned away with a lazy titter. Suddenly, Ichabod reached into his kimono and pulled out a poison dart. "Hold it right there, scurvy bilge rat. I ain't done with you yet."
Cat turned frenetically, drew his iPod, and faced Ichabod. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Maniacal? There ain't a man in four counties can handle an iPod the way I can."
The two stared at each other majestically for what seemed like a decade. Finally, Ichabod lowered his poison dart. "Okay buster you win," Ichabod groaned lickety-split. "You got a lotta thyroid glands for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Cat took his hand with a proud cringe. "You know, swizzle, you're kinda lazy when you're angry."
Ichabod chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another Long Island iced tea," he argued.