Two pieces of asphalt tumble into a bar,

a black one and a gray one. They're both pretty well-worn. The black one has some rubber across his face and a corner torn out; the gray one is practically held together with road tar. They strut up to the bar trash-talking one another and the black one interrupts to order a stout. The gray one shouts,

"Barkeep, get me a real drink! Yeah, make yourself useful and gimme three shots of your cheapest whiskey, haHAHAha-ahh" turns to his companion and says "That's right, faggot! What're you gonna do about it? HAhaaah"

The bartender starts drying some glassware, silently signaling his resigned frustration as the two go back and forth with their posturing, one-upping, yer mother-ing and drunken pugnacity.

Then in the span of a second both leap from their barstools to beneath a pool table.

The bartender looks up and shouts "Alright—"

"Shhhhh," says the black asphalt, signaling towards the door.

The bartender looks over and sees a green piece of asphalt enter. He approaches the bar and the bartender murmurs

"Listen, friend, I don't want any trouble."

"Of course not, may I please have a Diet Coke?" replies the green one.

"Sure, would you like anything else?"

"And a packet of crackers if you have any. If you don't that's fine, just the Coke."

So the bartender serves the green guy while the other two continue cowering under the billiards table. The green guy finishes up, pays his bill, tells the bartender to keep the change, and walks out. When he's gone, the bartender looks toward the pool table and shouts,

"Alright tough guys, what gives? You come in here all big and important like you're gonna start something, huh? And then this little guy comes in—doesn't even drink!—and you two go diving under the table like a couple of mice. Anybody care to explain this to me?"

The gray guy slinks out from under the table, wide-eyed, and stutters

"Y-you don't understand . . . that guy, he's . . . h-he's a fucking cyclepath."