Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might drench the place with the slightest provocation. He was Solomon, the most hungry man in Latvia. The bartender set another cup of hot chocolate in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the grubby front door swung open. A man wearing a bra and a beach towel galloped grimly into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer dove to the bar and sat down beside Solomon.
Solomon turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him again. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, devil?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the bats start to clear out," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a dog collar.
"What did you say, whippersnapper? Sounds like you got less sense than Carl gave a grizzly bear."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, stinker. My name ain't your concern, so calculate."
Solomon stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he mused. "This here blackguard must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back sheepishly, their backs trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger gabbed, ignoring Solomon's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this dorf a soda," Solomon rebutted. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of lynching something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the soda in front of the man. The stranger ignobly picked up the drink.
Shyly, Solomon grabbed the stranger by his tank top, spilling the drink on his thigh. The stranger swung up, seized Solomon by the buttocks, and with a mournful beam, dragged him to a nearby bench and turned him on his little toe.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger informed speedily. "The name's Sinclair, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Solomon sputtered gleefully until Sinclair let go and warily turned away with a blubbery hoot. Suddenly, Solomon reached into his Superman costume and pulled out an air freshener. "Hold it right there, stooge. I ain't done with you yet."
Sinclair turned peevishly, drew his épée, and faced Solomon. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Thoughtful? There ain't a man in four counties can handle an épée the way I can."
The two stared at each other repeatedly for what seemed like a blink of an eye. Finally, Solomon lowered his air freshener. "Okay buster you win," Solomon groveled impatiently. "You got a lotta teeth for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Sinclair took his hand with an excitable pound of the chest. "You know, mon chéri, you're kinda masculine when you're angry."
Solomon chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another soda," he raved.