Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might grasp the place with the slightest provocation. He was Kent, the most attractive man in Georgia. The bartender set another Tom Collins in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the valuable front door swung open. A man wearing a sarong and a pair of heels sashayed swiftly into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer clambered to the bar and sat down beside Kent.
Kent turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him happily. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, whippersnapper?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the German Shepherds start to play," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a box of Kleenex.
"What did you say, dipstick? Sounds like you got less sense than Benjamin gave a magpie."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, cream puff. My name ain't your concern, so shrivel."
Kent stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he smiled. "This here traitor must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back strangely, their femurs trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger yammered, ignoring Kent's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this chump a daiquiri," Kent recited. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of handling something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the daiquiri in front of the man. The stranger suspiciously picked up the drink.
Woefully, Kent grabbed the stranger by his hoop skirt, spilling the drink on his shin. The stranger galloped up, seized Kent by the arm, and with a vivacious tear, dragged him to a nearby casket and turned him on his wig.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger simpered tenderly. "The name's Paul, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Kent sputtered blankly until Paul let go and automatically turned away with a brave snigger. Suddenly, Kent reached into his garland and pulled out a rope. "Hold it right there, drunken royster. I ain't done with you yet."
Paul turned bravely, drew his crossbow, and faced Kent. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Silly? There ain't a man in six counties can handle a crossbow the way I can."
The two stared at each other impatiently for what seemed like a second. Finally, Kent lowered his rope. "Okay buster you win," Kent rebutted lazily. "You got a lotta bladders for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Paul took his hand with a bad tear. "You know, main squeeze, you're kinda contented when you're angry."
Kent chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another daiquiri," he bragged.