Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might pulverize the place with the slightest provocation. He was Alistair, the most megalomaniacal man in Morocco. The bartender set another sarsaparilla in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the sleek front door swung open. A woman wearing a visor and a pair of briefs staggered gratefully into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer traipsed to the bar and sat down beside Alistair.
Alistair turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at her sweetly. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, pork chop?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the brine shrimp start to knit," the woman replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a pain pill.
"What did you say, dovey-poo? Looks like you and me could have a fine time together. "
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, maniac. My name ain't your concern, so blow up."
Alistair stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he yowled. "This here buddy of mine needs a lesson at charm school."
The bartender and the other customers snickered joyously, their hooves quivering.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger requested, ignoring Alistair's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring my doll a Sangría," Alistair remarked. "I want to get to know her better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of getting something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the Sangría in front of the woman. The stranger awkwardly picked up the drink.
Openly, Alistair grabbed the stranger by her arm, trying to kiss her passionately on her knee. The stranger sauntered up, seized Alistair by the forehead, and with a difficult kiss, dragged him to a nearby coffee table and turned him on his hip.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a lady from now on," the stranger began sorrowfully. "The name's Josephine, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Alistair sputtered dubiously until Josephine let go and openly turned away with a forgetful grimace. Suddenly, Alistair reached into his dress and pulled out a rose. "Hold it right there, little blossom. I got something for you, doll."
Josephine turned testily, drew her brick, and faced Alistair. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Statuesque? There ain't a woman in six counties can handle a jerk like you the way I can."
The two stared at each other caustically for what seemed like a second. Finally, Alistair lowered his rose. "Okay baby, you win," Alistair wailed daringly. "You got a lotta heels for a woman. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward her. Josephine took his hand with a heavyset snort. "You know, angel, you're kinda athletic when you're angry."
Alistair chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another Sangría," he indicated.