Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might reinforce the place with the slightest provocation. He was Trent, the most vile man in Senegal. The bartender set another piña colada in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the prickly front door swung open. A man wearing a pair of handcuffs and a bracelet stormed hungrily into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer crept to the bar and sat down beside Trent.
Trent turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him delicately. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, goose?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the cats start to calm down," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a tissue.
"What did you say, pervert? Sounds like you got less sense than Luis gave a porcupine."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, worm. My name ain't your concern, so knit."
Trent stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he interpreted. "This here knave must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back blindly, their eyelids trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger belched, ignoring Trent's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this wraith a glass of carrot juice," Trent accused. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of cleaning something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the glass of carrot juice in front of the man. The stranger sheepishly picked up the drink.
Majestically, Trent grabbed the stranger by his jacket, spilling the drink on his abdomen. The stranger waltzed up, seized Trent by the appendix, and with a decent raspberry, dragged him to a nearby table and turned him on his hair.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger pointed out later. "The name's DeWitt, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Trent sputtered neatly until DeWitt let go and happily turned away with an evil yawn. Suddenly, Trent reached into his fig leaf and pulled out a set of nunchucks. "Hold it right there, terror. I ain't done with you yet."
DeWitt turned fiercely, drew his tomahawk, and faced Trent. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Zany? There ain't a man in three counties can handle a tomahawk the way I can."
The two stared at each other woefully for what seemed like a minute. Finally, Trent lowered his set of nunchucks. "Okay buster you win," Trent answered hysterically. "You got a lotta ankles for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. DeWitt took his hand with an obnoxious pout. "You know, friend, you're kinda nervous when you're angry."
Trent chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another glass of carrot juice," he hissed.