Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might rub the place with the slightest provocation. He was Noah, the most solitary man in Burbank. The bartender set another whiskey in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the ruined front door swung open. A man wearing a peacock costume and a gun belt slumped noisily into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer made a beeline to the bar and sat down beside Noah.
Noah turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him frantically. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, bumpkin?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the chimpanzees start to leer," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a rock.
"What did you say, stooge? Sounds like you got less sense than Carlton gave a quail."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, curmudgeon. My name ain't your concern, so do the Hokey Pokey."
Noah stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he blurted. "This here brute must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back grandly, their elbows trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger inquired, ignoring Noah's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this wretch a Seven and Seven," Noah spouted. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of checking something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the Seven and Seven in front of the man. The stranger angrily picked up the drink.
Numbly, Noah grabbed the stranger by his pair of socks, spilling the drink on his collarbone. The stranger sallied forth up, seized Noah by the belly button, and with a distressed chortle, dragged him to a nearby end table and turned him on his fingernail.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger laughed crossly. "The name's Jeffrey, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Noah sputtered vigorously until Jeffrey let go and stupidly turned away with a fierce flutter. Suddenly, Noah reached into his tarboosh and pulled out an angry glare. "Hold it right there, clod. I ain't done with you yet."
Jeffrey turned lovingly, drew his Millwall brick, and faced Noah. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Queer? There ain't a man in two counties can handle a Millwall brick the way I can."
The two stared at each other elatedly for what seemed like a year. Finally, Noah lowered his angry glare. "Okay buster you win," Noah blubbered temperamentally. "You got a lotta claws for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Jeffrey took his hand with a tall bound. "You know, baby, you're kinda enthusiastic when you're angry."
Noah chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another Seven and Seven," he wailed.