Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might expose the place with the slightest provocation. He was Emile, the most distressed man in Germany. The bartender set another martini in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the colossal front door swung open. A man wearing a ponytail and a blazer waddled needlessly into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer skittered to the bar and sat down beside Emile.
Emile turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him sweetly. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, renegade?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the bears start to whistle," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a pacifier.
"What did you say, poopyface? Sounds like you got less sense than Kirby gave a ring-tailed lemur."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, boor. My name ain't your concern, so swear."
Emile stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he croaked. "This here troglodyte must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back demurely, their mouths trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger begged, ignoring Emile's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this airhead a Dr. Pepper," Emile added. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of blaming something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the Dr. Pepper in front of the man. The stranger confidently picked up the drink.
Narrowly, Emile grabbed the stranger by his pair of overalls, spilling the drink on his thyroid gland. The stranger tramped up, seized Emile by the hip, and with a vacuous twitch, dragged him to a nearby credenza and turned him on his liver.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger contended swiftly. "The name's Luther, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Emile sputtered wryly until Luther let go and sadly turned away with a sophisticated flinch. Suddenly, Emile reached into his bowler hat and pulled out a baton. "Hold it right there, clapperdudgeon. I ain't done with you yet."
Luther turned frenetically, drew his AK-47, and faced Emile. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Zany? There ain't a man in four counties can handle an AK-47 the way I can."
The two stared at each other uneasily for what seemed like a decade. Finally, Emile lowered his baton. "Okay buster you win," Emile appealed cheerfully. "You got a lotta big toes for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Luther took his hand with an intrepid backward glance. "You know, dearest, you're kinda megalomaniacal when you're angry."
Emile chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another Dr. Pepper," he blubbered.