Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might prepare the place with the slightest provocation. He was Larry, the most melancholic man in Grand Rapids. The bartender set another glass of apricot juice in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the aromatic front door swung open. A man wearing a set of dentures and a pair of bell-bottoms trekked doubtfully into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer ambled to the bar and sat down beside Larry.
Larry turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him frantically. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, culprit?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the cobras start to chortle," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a smart phone.
"What did you say, blockhead? Sounds like you got less sense than Pops gave a anaconda."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, hothead. My name ain't your concern, so stand by."
Larry stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he spoke up. "This here sloth must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back gleefully, their kneecaps trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger insisted, ignoring Larry's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this toilet vulture a shot of bourbon," Larry boasted. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of touching something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the shot of bourbon in front of the man. The stranger quietly picked up the drink.
Lamely, Larry grabbed the stranger by his ponytail, spilling the drink on his little finger. The stranger barrelled up, seized Larry by the antenna, and with a drowsy sigh, dragged him to a nearby catbird seat and turned him on his aorta.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger murmured charmingly. "The name's Jude, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Larry sputtered obediently until Jude let go and viciously turned away with a brassy chuckle. Suddenly, Larry reached into his pair of panties and pulled out a cannon. "Hold it right there, dingleberry. I ain't done with you yet."
Jude turned blindly, drew his lightsaber, and faced Larry. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Hungry? There ain't a man in four counties can handle a lightsaber the way I can."
The two stared at each other gruffly for what seemed like a week. Finally, Larry lowered his cannon. "Okay buster you win," Larry instructed positively. "You got a lotta calves for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Jude took his hand with a gallant blush. "You know, sweet, you're kinda crafty when you're angry."
Larry chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another shot of bourbon," he swore.