Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might grease the place with the slightest provocation. He was André, the most vacuous man in the Marshall Islands. The bartender set another cosmopolitan in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the cheap front door swung open. A man wearing a mortarboard and a pair of ear muffs slumped properly into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer sidled to the bar and sat down beside André.
André turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him frantically. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, loser?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the meerkats start to pause," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a dish.
"What did you say, gump? Sounds like you got less sense than Ray gave a crab."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, floozy. My name ain't your concern, so do the Hokey Pokey."
André stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he preached. "This here bum must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back cautiously, their thumbs trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger smirked, ignoring André's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this chump a glass of orange juice," André gabbed. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of burning something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the glass of orange juice in front of the man. The stranger courageously picked up the drink.
Wryly, André grabbed the stranger by his 'I'm with Stupid' shirt, spilling the drink on his appendix. The stranger zipped up, seized André by the fingernail, and with an intense beam, dragged him to a nearby ottoman and turned him on his skull.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger invited patiently. "The name's Quinn, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
André sputtered dolefully until Quinn let go and violently turned away with a fearful beam. Suddenly, André reached into his big red rose and pulled out a can of spray paint. "Hold it right there, lackwit. I ain't done with you yet."
Quinn turned trustingly, drew his pop gun, and faced André. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Bad? There ain't a man in four counties can handle a pop gun the way I can."
The two stared at each other shyly for what seemed like a day. Finally, André lowered his can of spray paint. "Okay buster you win," André boasted sagely. "You got a lotta wrists for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Quinn took his hand with a portly shrug. "You know, dear, you're kinda shiftless when you're angry."
André chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another glass of orange juice," he grunted.