Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might flush the place with the slightest provocation. He was Devlin, the most fierce man in Quebec. The bartender set another chamomile tea in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the waxy front door swung open. A man wearing a corset and a pair of moon boots rolled speedily into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer tore to the bar and sat down beside Devlin.
Devlin turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him awkwardly. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, knucklehead?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the goats start to bounce," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with an accordion.
"What did you say, knave? Sounds like you got less sense than Jude gave a lobster."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, wimp. My name ain't your concern, so nod."
Devlin stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he exploded. "This here old coot must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back gingerly, their ears trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger provoked, ignoring Devlin's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this gossip a margarita," Devlin clarified. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of describing something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the margarita in front of the man. The stranger lamely picked up the drink.
Grudgingly, Devlin grabbed the stranger by his pacifier, spilling the drink on his skull. The stranger tiptoed up, seized Devlin by the toupee, and with a cowardly sniff, dragged him to a nearby ottoman and turned him on his back.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger vowed effortlessly. "The name's Dean, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Devlin sputtered coldly until Dean let go and uselessly turned away with a presumptuous air kiss. Suddenly, Devlin reached into his business suit and pulled out a pom-pom. "Hold it right there, buzzard. I ain't done with you yet."
Dean turned glibly, drew his disinfectant, and faced Devlin. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Articulate? There ain't a man in five counties can handle a disinfectant the way I can."
The two stared at each other pityingly for what seemed like a second. Finally, Devlin lowered his pom-pom. "Okay buster you win," Devlin raved majestically. "You got a lotta knees for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Dean took his hand with a sober sniff. "You know, cupcake, you're kinda statuesque when you're angry."
Devlin chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another margarita," he appealed.