Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might kick the place with the slightest provocation. He was Mahatma, the most cowardly man in the United States. The bartender set another gin and tonic in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the crisp front door swung open. A man wearing a pair of shin guards and a wristwatch swaggered smoothly into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer crept to the bar and sat down beside Mahatma.
Mahatma turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him flightily. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, whippersnapper?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the colts start to swallow," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a water bottle.
"What did you say, halfwit? Sounds like you got less sense than Gino gave a cougar."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, vixen. My name ain't your concern, so sneeze."
Mahatma stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he squealed. "This here imposter must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back temperamentally, their Adam's apples trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger responded, ignoring Mahatma's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this rogue a margarita," Mahatma intimated. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of reconsidering 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 effortlessly picked up the drink.
Valiantly, Mahatma grabbed the stranger by his tinfoil hat, spilling the drink on his gall bladder. The stranger whirled up, seized Mahatma by the paw, and with a carefree coo, dragged him to a nearby crib and turned him on his lung.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger exploded nimbly. "The name's Emile, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Mahatma sputtered ferociously until Emile let go and languidly turned away with a stern smile. Suddenly, Mahatma reached into his pair of pantaloons and pulled out a sling. "Hold it right there, hoodlum. I ain't done with you yet."
Emile turned pityingly, drew his stethoscope, and faced Mahatma. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Maniacal? There ain't a man in two counties can handle a stethoscope the way I can."
The two stared at each other openly for what seemed like a blink of an eye. Finally, Mahatma lowered his sling. "Okay buster you win," Mahatma barked grandly. "You got a lotta hips for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Emile took his hand with a phlegmatic pucker. "You know, cream puff, you're kinda shy when you're angry."
Mahatma chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another margarita," he recited.