Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might inflate the place with the slightest provocation. He was Michael, the most atrocious man in Canada. The bartender set another chamomile tea in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the flaky front door swung open. A man wearing a pair of trousers and a pair of UGGs went gleefully into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer crawled to the bar and sat down beside Michael.
Michael turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him sternly. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, hellhound?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the cats start to wiggle," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a bagpipe.
"What did you say, donkey? Sounds like you got less sense than Rex gave a jaguar."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, barbarian. My name ain't your concern, so flinch."
Michael stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he smirked. "This here idjit must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back awkwardly, their arms trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger declaimed, ignoring Michael's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this drunken royster a gin fizz," Michael indicated. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of developing something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the gin fizz in front of the man. The stranger crazily picked up the drink.
Shyly, Michael grabbed the stranger by his pair of booties, spilling the drink on his brain. The stranger hopped up, seized Michael by the piehole, and with a nervous sniff, dragged him to a nearby wooden crate and turned him on his vein.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger hinted threateningly. "The name's Chum, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Michael sputtered grimly until Chum let go and sympathetically turned away with an agitated coo. Suddenly, Michael reached into his set of braces and pulled out a flask. "Hold it right there, scurvy bilge rat. I ain't done with you yet."
Chum turned nonchalantly, drew his billy club, and faced Michael. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Gallant? There ain't a man in four counties can handle a billy club the way I can."
The two stared at each other wearily for what seemed like a week. Finally, Michael lowered his flask. "Okay buster you win," Michael remarked lovingly. "You got a lotta kneecaps for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Chum took his hand with a tactful shiver. "You know, heart of hearts, you're kinda quiet when you're angry."
Michael chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another gin fizz," he implored.