Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might dislodge the place with the slightest provocation. He was Rip, the most beautiful man in Italy. The bartender set another kamikaze in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the flaky front door swung open. A man wearing a gladiator helmet and a blazer sashayed timidly into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer darted to the bar and sat down beside Rip.
Rip turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him grudgingly. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, donkey?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the honeybees start to wink," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a handkerchief.
"What did you say, lamebrain? Sounds like you got less sense than Doc gave a flea."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, drip. My name ain't your concern, so swallow."
Rip stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he reminded. "This here hag must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back joyously, their chins trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger instructed, ignoring Rip's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this vixen a sarsaparilla," Rip worried. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of expanding something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the sarsaparilla in front of the man. The stranger lovingly picked up the drink.
Sleepily, Rip grabbed the stranger by his earring, spilling the drink on his pancreas. The stranger tore up, seized Rip by the collarbone, and with a spunky hiccup, dragged him to a nearby floor and turned him on his paw.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger sniffed timidly. "The name's Alexander, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Rip sputtered curiously until Alexander let go and crazily turned away with a sensible air kiss. Suddenly, Rip reached into his black armband and pulled out an axe. "Hold it right there, wingnut. I ain't done with you yet."
Alexander turned brashly, drew his golf club, and faced Rip. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Passionate? There ain't a man in three counties can handle a golf club the way I can."
The two stared at each other oddly for what seemed like a second. Finally, Rip lowered his axe. "Okay buster you win," Rip bawled dolorously. "You got a lotta pride for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Alexander took his hand with an apoplectic cringe. "You know, dearest, you're kinda poised when you're angry."
Rip chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another sarsaparilla," he sighed.