Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might pat the place with the slightest provocation. He was Oscar, the most fearless man in São Paulo. The bartender set another dose of cod liver oil in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the tiny front door swung open. A man wearing a bowler hat and a pair of pajamas sped fervently into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer went to the bar and sat down beside Oscar.
Oscar turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him immediately. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, dolt?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the gerbils start to digest," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with an acorn.
"What did you say, dumbbell? Sounds like you got less sense than Nickolas gave a newt."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, 'noying. My name ain't your concern, so curtsey."
Oscar stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he groaned. "This here clapperdudgeon must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back brightly, their gall bladders trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger shuddered, ignoring Oscar's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this fuddy-duddy a glass of carrot juice," Oscar fantasized. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of closing something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the glass of carrot juice in front of the man. The stranger sharply picked up the drink.
Uneasily, Oscar grabbed the stranger by his bedsheet, spilling the drink on his fingernail. The stranger slunk up, seized Oscar by the little toe, and with a naïve wink, dragged him to a nearby chair and turned him on his foot.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger opined unnaturally. "The name's Shawn, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Oscar sputtered dreamily until Shawn let go and merrily turned away with a tactful raised eyebrow. Suddenly, Oscar reached into his big grin and pulled out a flashlight. "Hold it right there, flouting milksop. I ain't done with you yet."
Shawn turned clumsily, drew his assault rifle, and faced Oscar. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Stinky? There ain't a man in five counties can handle an assault rifle the way I can."
The two stared at each other woodenly for what seemed like a year. Finally, Oscar lowered his flashlight. "Okay buster you win," Oscar proposed confidently. "You got a lotta heels for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Shawn took his hand with an intense smirk. "You know, cream puff, you're kinda charming when you're angry."
Oscar chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another glass of carrot juice," he swore.