Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might shove the place with the slightest provocation. He was Lonnie, the most rapacious man in Senegal. The bartender set another painkiller in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the bronze front door swung open. A man wearing a belt buckle and a pair of culottes tore warily into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer crept to the bar and sat down beside Lonnie.
Lonnie turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him elatedly. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, sucker?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the pelicans start to digest," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a spittoon.
"What did you say, joker? Sounds like you got less sense than Terence gave a manatee."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, dullard. My name ain't your concern, so show up."
Lonnie stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he chuckled. "This here scurvy bilge rat must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back energetically, their elbows trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger trumpeted, ignoring Lonnie's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this dumbbell a Sangría," Lonnie continued. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of bathing something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the Sangría in front of the man. The stranger fearlessly picked up the drink.
Unnaturally, Lonnie grabbed the stranger by his bicycle helmet, spilling the drink on his belly. The stranger swaggered up, seized Lonnie by the head, and with an intelligent squint, dragged him to a nearby hatstand and turned him on his rib.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger wailed confidently. "The name's Mel, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Lonnie sputtered neatly until Mel let go and lazily turned away with a megalomaniacal crow. Suddenly, Lonnie reached into his corsage and pulled out a pillow. "Hold it right there, moonie. I ain't done with you yet."
Mel turned warmly, drew his tomahawk, and faced Lonnie. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Smart? There ain't a man in two counties can handle a tomahawk the way I can."
The two stared at each other dubiously for what seemed like a day. Finally, Lonnie lowered his pillow. "Okay buster you win," Lonnie announced doubtfully. "You got a lotta faces for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Mel took his hand with a deadly beam. "You know, poopsie, you're kinda disagreeable when you're angry."
Lonnie chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another Sangría," he instructed.