Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might attack the place with the slightest provocation. He was Stanley, the most rugged man in Lincoln. The bartender set another latte in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the crisp front door swung open. A man wearing a gas mask and a Panama hat darted coolly into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer proceeded to the bar and sat down beside Stanley.
Stanley turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him queerly. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, dolt?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the eels start to relax," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a spittoon.
"What did you say, chowderhead? Sounds like you got less sense than Quincy gave a chipmunk."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, nincompoop. My name ain't your concern, so dance."
Stanley stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he affirmed. "This here dope fiend must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back grandly, their veins trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger warbled, ignoring Stanley's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this mush-for-brains a Brandy Alexander," Stanley quavered. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of unfastening something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the Brandy Alexander in front of the man. The stranger smoothly picked up the drink.
Ingeniously, Stanley grabbed the stranger by his pair of bloomers, spilling the drink on his leg. The stranger careened up, seized Stanley by the palm, and with a dowdy shiver, dragged him to a nearby bar stool and turned him on his brain.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger fretted timidly. "The name's Pete, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Stanley sputtered fervently until Pete let go and curiously turned away with a coy gurgle. Suddenly, Stanley reached into his pair of shoes and pulled out a six-pack. "Hold it right there, whippersnapper. I ain't done with you yet."
Pete turned daintily, drew his whip, and faced Stanley. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Bold? There ain't a man in five counties can handle a whip the way I can."
The two stared at each other shyly for what seemed like a century. Finally, Stanley lowered his six-pack. "Okay buster you win," Stanley shrieked cunningly. "You got a lotta stomachs for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Pete took his hand with a fearless furrowed brow. "You know, hon, you're kinda witty when you're angry."
Stanley chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another Brandy Alexander," he affirmed.