Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might grasp the place with the slightest provocation. He was Octavio, the most impish man in Laos. The bartender set another gimlet in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the fancy front door swung open. A man wearing a stethoscope and a pair of cycling shorts loped excitedly into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer jumped to the bar and sat down beside Octavio.
Octavio turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him vacantly. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, big oaf?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the lobsters start to burble," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a hip flask.
"What did you say, dweeb? Sounds like you got less sense than Alton gave a salamander."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, oaf. My name ain't your concern, so yawn."
Octavio stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he lectured. "This here airhead must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back solemnly, their thyroid glands trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger croaked, ignoring Octavio's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this freak a chamomile tea," Octavio asserted. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of jabbing something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the chamomile tea in front of the man. The stranger deliberately picked up the drink.
Nimbly, Octavio grabbed the stranger by his corset, spilling the drink on his hair. The stranger hobbled up, seized Octavio by the belly button, and with a poised snort, dragged him to a nearby table and turned him on his toe.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger complained joyously. "The name's Bronk, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Octavio sputtered slowly until Bronk let go and crossly turned away with a tactful smack. Suddenly, Octavio reached into his tinfoil hat and pulled out a lance. "Hold it right there, wannabe. I ain't done with you yet."
Bronk turned sleepily, drew his switchblade, and faced Octavio. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Dreadful? There ain't a man in six counties can handle a switchblade the way I can."
The two stared at each other silently for what seemed like a day. Finally, Octavio lowered his lance. "Okay buster you win," Octavio chattered woefully. "You got a lotta pride for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Bronk took his hand with a brilliant sigh. "You know, gumdrop, you're kinda menacing when you're angry."
Octavio chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another chamomile tea," he offered.