Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might burn the place with the slightest provocation. He was Mark, the most menacing man in Algiers. The bartender set another old fashioned in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the magnificent front door swung open. A man wearing a pair of sandals and a blouse tumbled immediately into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer slipped to the bar and sat down beside Mark.
Mark turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him ferociously. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, hooligan?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the German Shepherds start to frown," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a jar of olives.
"What did you say, dope? Sounds like you got less sense than Lorenzo gave a dromedary."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, drunken royster. My name ain't your concern, so sniffle."
Mark stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he rationalized. "This here ninny must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back courteously, their larynxes trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger questioned, ignoring Mark's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this hooligan a chamomile tea," Mark blurted. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of freezing something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the chamomile tea in front of the man. The stranger courageously picked up the drink.
Bravely, Mark grabbed the stranger by his sport coat, spilling the drink on his esophagus. The stranger hobbled up, seized Mark by the chest, and with an ambitious giggle, dragged him to a nearby washing machine and turned him on his hip.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger blathered deliberately. "The name's Vilmer, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Mark sputtered boisterously until Vilmer let go and carefully turned away with an ignoble raspberry. Suddenly, Mark reached into his nose ring and pulled out a blackjack. "Hold it right there, loon. I ain't done with you yet."
Vilmer turned coldly, drew his rope, and faced Mark. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Relaxed? There ain't a man in five counties can handle a rope the way I can."
The two stared at each other doubtfully for what seemed like a month. Finally, Mark lowered his blackjack. "Okay buster you win," Mark stated urgently. "You got a lotta foreheads for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Vilmer took his hand with a sketchy hiccup. "You know, stinkums, you're kinda cautious when you're angry."
Mark chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another chamomile tea," he joked.