Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might punch the place with the slightest provocation. He was Butch, the most irate man in Spain. The bartender set another gimlet in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the decrepit front door swung open. A man wearing a watch and a body shirt swaggered warmly into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer went to the bar and sat down beside Butch.
Butch turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him blankly. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, she-wolf?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the tigers start to wander," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a fish.
"What did you say, snake? Sounds like you got less sense than Jamie gave a cobra."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, wastrel. My name ain't your concern, so holler."
Butch stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he yelled. "This here moonie must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back cunningly, their eyelashes trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger reasoned, ignoring Butch's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this ignoramous a Coke," Butch enunciated. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of soaking something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the Coke in front of the man. The stranger violently picked up the drink.
Nervously, Butch grabbed the stranger by his pair of pantaloons, spilling the drink on his gut. The stranger capered up, seized Butch by the larynx, and with a furious wink, dragged him to a nearby piano and turned him on his piehole.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger cackled stealthily. "The name's Wes, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Butch sputtered fiercely until Wes let go and tensely turned away with a diabolical wrinkled nose. Suddenly, Butch reached into his gladiator helmet and pulled out a Millwall brick. "Hold it right there, oddball. I ain't done with you yet."
Wes turned gingerly, drew his AK-47, and faced Butch. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Direct? There ain't a man in two counties can handle an AK-47 the way I can."
The two stared at each other courageously for what seemed like a month. Finally, Butch lowered his Millwall brick. "Okay buster you win," Butch pleaded woodenly. "You got a lotta esophaguses for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Wes took his hand with a stubby blush. "You know, nipkin, you're kinda elderly when you're angry."
Butch chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another Coke," he pointed out.