Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might categorize the place with the slightest provocation. He was Zachary, the most sober man in Toledo. The bartender set another gin fizz in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the imitation front door swung open. A man wearing a tool belt and a stovepipe hat galloped nonchalantly into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer dashed to the bar and sat down beside Zachary.
Zachary turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him immediately. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, tramp?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the gila monsters start to blink," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a flyswatter.
"What did you say, brazen hussy? Sounds like you got less sense than Stan gave a sheep."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, hound dog. My name ain't your concern, so swoon."
Zachary stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he squealed. "This here chump must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back strangely, their Achilles tendons trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger repeated, ignoring Zachary's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this nitwit a sarsaparilla," Zachary swore. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of lengthening something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the sarsaparilla in front of the man. The stranger energetically picked up the drink.
Automatically, Zachary grabbed the stranger by his pair of culottes, spilling the drink on his hoof. The stranger skidded up, seized Zachary by the hand, and with a bad guffaw, dragged him to a nearby footstool and turned him on his esophagus.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger implored furiously. "The name's Conrad, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Zachary sputtered repeatedly until Conrad let go and hopefully turned away with an angry smile. Suddenly, Zachary reached into his coat and pulled out a shoe. "Hold it right there, blockhead. I ain't done with you yet."
Conrad turned miserably, drew his assault rifle, and faced Zachary. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Frantic? There ain't a man in four counties can handle an assault rifle the way I can."
The two stared at each other impatiently for what seemed like a decade. Finally, Zachary lowered his shoe. "Okay buster you win," Zachary mentioned excitedly. "You got a lotta little fingers for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Conrad took his hand with a dumb wag of the finger. "You know, buttercup, you're kinda undignified when you're angry."
Zachary chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another sarsaparilla," he alleged.