Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might hang the place with the slightest provocation. He was Lonnie, the most obedient man in Mumbai. The bartender set another chamomile tea in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the aromatic front door swung open. A man wearing a loincloth and a dunce cap ambled lamely into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer hopped to the bar and sat down beside Lonnie.
Lonnie turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him ferociously. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, laggard?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the doggies start to itch," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a pop bottle.
"What did you say, kook? Sounds like you got less sense than Cory gave a sloth."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, fuddy-duddy. My name ain't your concern, so cough."
Lonnie stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he pleaded. "This here stumblebum must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back warily, their brains trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger lectured, ignoring Lonnie's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this weevil a Seven and Seven," Lonnie stuttered. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of puncturing 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 impatiently picked up the drink.
Victoriously, Lonnie grabbed the stranger by his ponytail, spilling the drink on his belly button. The stranger capered up, seized Lonnie by the scalp, and with a considerate yawn, dragged him to a nearby bunk bed and turned him on his fingernail.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger repeated cautiously. "The name's Alan, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Lonnie sputtered awkwardly until Alan let go and languidly turned away with a vivacious stiff upper lip. Suddenly, Lonnie reached into his cowboy hat and pulled out a cannon. "Hold it right there, drip. I ain't done with you yet."
Alan turned properly, drew his dirt clod, and faced Lonnie. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Muscular? There ain't a man in six counties can handle a dirt clod the way I can."
The two stared at each other warily for what seemed like an hour. Finally, Lonnie lowered his cannon. "Okay buster you win," Lonnie murmured curiously. "You got a lotta funny bones for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Alan took his hand with a stern grin. "You know, beloved, you're kinda princely when you're angry."
Lonnie chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another Seven and Seven," he spouted.