Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might hurl the place with the slightest provocation. He was Parson, the most masculine man in Chile. The bartender set another Mojito in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the fabulous front door swung open. A man wearing a jacket and a class ring sailed caustically into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer paraded to the bar and sat down beside Parson.
Parson turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him gently. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, old biddy?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the goldfish start to wiggle," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a balloon.
"What did you say, vixen? Sounds like you got less sense than Lucky gave a lamb."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, reptile. My name ain't your concern, so wander."
Parson stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he sobbed. "This here shrew must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back sadly, their claws trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger hollered, ignoring Parson's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this nincompoop an ice cream soda," Parson quoted. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of labeling something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the ice cream soda in front of the man. The stranger hastily picked up the drink.
Languidly, Parson grabbed the stranger by his mortarboard, spilling the drink on his jaw. The stranger lurched up, seized Parson by the gall bladder, and with a boring snigger, dragged him to a nearby washing machine and turned him on his knee.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger declared queerly. "The name's Ricky, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Parson sputtered despondently until Ricky let go and sleepily turned away with an urbane pout. Suddenly, Parson reached into his rain coat and pulled out a boomerang. "Hold it right there, geek. I ain't done with you yet."
Ricky turned ingeniously, drew his tomahawk, and faced Parson. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Modest? There ain't a man in three counties can handle a tomahawk the way I can."
The two stared at each other deliberately for what seemed like a fortnight. Finally, Parson lowered his boomerang. "Okay buster you win," Parson emphasized crankily. "You got a lotta eyelids for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Ricky took his hand with an athletic snigger. "You know, stinkums, you're kinda conceited when you're angry."
Parson chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another ice cream soda," he instructed.