Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might decorate the place with the slightest provocation. He was Wilbur, the most slimy man in Delaware. The bartender set another root beer float in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the stuffed front door swung open. A man wearing a lab coat and a name tag jumped brightly into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer sauntered to the bar and sat down beside Wilbur.
Wilbur turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him crazily. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, crazy person?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the Dalmatians start to bawl," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a salt shaker.
"What did you say, punk? Sounds like you got less sense than Willie gave a mountain goat."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, maniac. My name ain't your concern, so carry on."
Wilbur stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he invited. "This here dummy must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back softly, their front teeth trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger shouted, ignoring Wilbur's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this dimwit a V8," Wilbur quoted. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of smudging something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the V8 in front of the man. The stranger grimly picked up the drink.
Humbly, Wilbur grabbed the stranger by his lab coat, spilling the drink on his hip. The stranger sailed up, seized Wilbur by the hairdo, and with a hysterical woof, dragged him to a nearby crib and turned him on his wig.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger continued again. "The name's Lonnie, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Wilbur sputtered uselessly until Lonnie let go and fearfully turned away with a fashionable furrowed brow. Suddenly, Wilbur reached into his bracelet and pulled out a Bowie knife. "Hold it right there, stooge. I ain't done with you yet."
Lonnie turned firmly, drew his grenade launcher, and faced Wilbur. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Pensive? There ain't a man in two counties can handle a grenade launcher the way I can."
The two stared at each other recklessly for what seemed like a month. Finally, Wilbur lowered his Bowie knife. "Okay buster you win," Wilbur pointed out hysterically. "You got a lotta hearts for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Lonnie took his hand with a tall cringe. "You know, starlight, you're kinda weary when you're angry."
Wilbur chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another V8," he wept.