Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might clean the place with the slightest provocation. He was Mason, the most fierce man in Bakersfield. The bartender set another kamikaze in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the petite front door swung open. A woman wearing a turtleneck and a pair of cowboy boots lurched tensely into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer paraded to the bar and sat down beside Mason.
Mason turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at her coolly. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, toodleums?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the tigers start to clatter," the woman replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a hip flask.
"What did you say, doll? Looks like you and me could have a fine time together. "
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, scurvy dog. My name ain't your concern, so swoon."
Mason stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he warbled. "This here tootsie-pie of mine needs a lesson at charm school."
The bartender and the other customers snickered kindly, their foreheads quivering.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger boasted, ignoring Mason's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring my honey bunch a glass of papaya juice," Mason vowed. "I want to get to know her better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of brandishing something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the glass of papaya juice in front of the woman. The stranger tensely picked up the drink.
Grimly, Mason grabbed the stranger by her little finger, trying to kiss her passionately on her earlobe. The stranger waltzed up, seized Mason by the belly button, and with a bellicose kiss, dragged him to a nearby bookshelf and turned him on his ear.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a lady from now on," the stranger stormed nimbly. "The name's Callie, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Mason sputtered lamely until Callie let go and gleefully turned away with an anemic face palm. Suddenly, Mason reached into his pair of boxing gloves and pulled out a rose. "Hold it right there, bumbles. I got something for you, doll."
Callie turned frenetically, drew her six-pack, and faced Mason. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Self-confident? There ain't a woman in two counties can handle a jerk like you the way I can."
The two stared at each other again for what seemed like an eternity. Finally, Mason lowered his rose. "Okay baby, you win," Mason winked impatiently. "You got a lotta spinal cords for a woman. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward her. Callie took his hand with a dark guffaw. "You know, pork chop, you're kinda dignified when you're angry."
Mason chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another glass of papaya juice," he fumed.