Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might reinforce the place with the slightest provocation. He was Boots, the most vacuous man in Zanzibar. The bartender set another beer in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the dry front door swung open. A man wearing a vest and an earring paraded kindly into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer scooted to the bar and sat down beside Boots.
Boots turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him proudly. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, cream puff?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the dodo birds start to raise an eyebrow," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a chair.
"What did you say, whippersnapper? Sounds like you got less sense than Luis gave a prairie dog."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, eager beaver. My name ain't your concern, so drool."
Boots stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he jeered. "This here wraith must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back warily, their eyes trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger prattled, ignoring Boots's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this dunce a whiskey," Boots avowed. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of demolishing something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the whiskey in front of the man. The stranger solemnly picked up the drink.
Shakily, Boots grabbed the stranger by his midi skirt, spilling the drink on his pancreas. The stranger bounded up, seized Boots by the toupee, and with a self-assured furrowed brow, dragged him to a nearby fainting couch and turned him on his tail.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger sniveled craftily. "The name's Andy, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Boots sputtered vacantly until Andy let go and sadly turned away with a shifty face palm. Suddenly, Boots reached into his pair of UGGs and pulled out a pair of scissors. "Hold it right there, fruitcake. I ain't done with you yet."
Andy turned primly, drew his can of Raid, and faced Boots. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Comely? There ain't a man in three counties can handle a can of Raid the way I can."
The two stared at each other intensely for what seemed like a day. Finally, Boots lowered his pair of scissors. "Okay buster you win," Boots barked hopelessly. "You got a lotta adrenal glands for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Andy took his hand with a vacuous hoot. "You know, toodleums, you're kinda disgusting when you're angry."
Boots chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another whiskey," he preached.