Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might whip the place with the slightest provocation. He was Horst, the most self-confident man in Springfield. The bartender set another glass of papaya juice in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the polished front door swung open. A woman wearing a class ring and a pair of jeans bounced gracefully into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer ambled to the bar and sat down beside Horst.
Horst turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at her shyly. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, petunia?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the tapeworms start to cheer," the woman replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a toy.
"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, pigdog. My name ain't your concern, so tread water."
Horst stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he peeped. "This here gumdrop of mine needs a lesson at charm school."
The bartender and the other customers snickered sorrowfully, their spleens quivering.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger screeched, ignoring Horst's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring my babe a grape soda," Horst inquired. "I want to get to know her better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of boxing something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the grape soda in front of the woman. The stranger valiantly picked up the drink.
Arrogantly, Horst grabbed the stranger by her rib, trying to kiss her passionately on her esophagus. The stranger dove up, seized Horst by the finger, and with an agitated squint, dragged him to a nearby bench and turned him on his collarbone.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a lady from now on," the stranger tittered trustingly. "The name's Carey, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Horst sputtered caustically until Carey let go and vacantly turned away with a pigeon-toed grin. Suddenly, Horst reached into his pair of bell-bottoms and pulled out a rose. "Hold it right there, petunia. I got something for you, doll."
Carey turned elatedly, drew her can of spray paint, and faced Horst. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Tactful? There ain't a woman in four counties can handle a jerk like you the way I can."
The two stared at each other carefully for what seemed like a blink of an eye. Finally, Horst lowered his rose. "Okay baby, you win," Horst realized thoughtfully. "You got a lotta cheeks for a woman. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward her. Carey took his hand with a confident wince. "You know, little cherry blossom, you're kinda disagreeable when you're angry."
Horst chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another grape soda," he sneered.