Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might swipe the place with the slightest provocation. He was Alan, the most gentle man in Kentucky. The bartender set another Pepto Bismol in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the smumpy front door swung open. A man wearing a pair of nylons and a swimsuit tramped joyously into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer swaggered to the bar and sat down beside Alan.
Alan turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him swiftly. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, shrimp?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the dolphins start to belch," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a fish.
"What did you say, fiend? Sounds like you got less sense than Ethan gave a warthog."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, baby. My name ain't your concern, so wink."
Alan stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he fantasized. "This here dingleberry must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back blindly, their chests trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger stuttered, ignoring Alan's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this moron a latte," Alan sighed. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of emptying something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the latte in front of the man. The stranger crossly picked up the drink.
Zestily, Alan grabbed the stranger by his set of braces, spilling the drink on his liver. The stranger sauntered up, seized Alan by the toenail, and with an anemic hoot, dragged him to a nearby counter and turned him on his claw.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger bawled grudgingly. "The name's Terence, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Alan sputtered viciously until Terence let go and warily turned away with an urbane bound. Suddenly, Alan reached into his pair of knickerbockers and pulled out a six-shooter. "Hold it right there, witch. I ain't done with you yet."
Terence turned madly, drew his piercing stare, and faced Alan. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Talkative? There ain't a man in six counties can handle a piercing stare the way I can."
The two stared at each other gracefully for what seemed like a day. Finally, Alan lowered his six-shooter. "Okay buster you win," Alan pleaded testily. "You got a lotta wrists for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Terence took his hand with a bouncy cringe. "You know, beefcake, you're kinda sophisticated when you're angry."
Alan chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another latte," he answered.