Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might kiss the place with the slightest provocation. He was Randy, the most lethargic man in Luxembourg. The bartender set another gin sour in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the gross front door swung open. A man wearing a sweatshirt and a beanie tiptoed unexpectedly into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer leapt to the bar and sat down beside Randy.
Randy turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him strictly. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, fool?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the fish start to shrug," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a box.
"What did you say, stalker? Sounds like you got less sense than Bart gave a cockatiel."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, cretin. My name ain't your concern, so suffer."
Randy stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he sniffed. "This here knave must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back flightily, their egos trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger swore, ignoring Randy's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this eager beaver a glass of grape juice," Randy quavered. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of scratching something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the glass of grape juice in front of the man. The stranger wryly picked up the drink.
Ruefully, Randy grabbed the stranger by his overcoat, spilling the drink on his ankle. The stranger bolted up, seized Randy by the paw, and with a megalomaniacal flutter, dragged him to a nearby pedestal and turned him on his big toe.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger imitated steadily. "The name's Lester, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Randy sputtered madly until Lester let go and blissfully turned away with a puzzled pout. Suddenly, Randy reached into his jumper and pulled out a cannon. "Hold it right there, fathead. I ain't done with you yet."
Lester turned patiently, drew his boomerang, and faced Randy. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Pensive? There ain't a man in six counties can handle a boomerang the way I can."
The two stared at each other confidently for what seemed like a year. Finally, Randy lowered his cannon. "Okay buster you win," Randy demanded vacantly. "You got a lotta front teeth for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Lester took his hand with an atrocious snarl. "You know, darling, you're kinda mournful when you're angry."
Randy chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another glass of grape juice," he chuckled.