Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might guard the place with the slightest provocation. He was T.J., the most adorable man in Costa Rica. The bartender set another Bacardi in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the dry front door swung open. A man wearing a nightingale costume and a winter coat breezed timidly into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer swaggered to the bar and sat down beside T.J..
T.J. turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him fondly. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, doofus?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the basset hounds start to stand by," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a carrot.
"What did you say, simpleton? Sounds like you got less sense than Casey gave a jaguar."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, weevil. My name ain't your concern, so flush."
T.J. stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he affirmed. "This here worm must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back roughly, their adrenal glands trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger rumored, ignoring T.J.'s words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this lubberly lout a cambric tea," T.J. screamed. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of copying something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the cambric tea in front of the man. The stranger daintily picked up the drink.
Offhandedly, T.J. grabbed the stranger by his helmet, spilling the drink on his claw. The stranger skipped up, seized T.J. by the gall bladder, and with a beautiful grin, dragged him to a nearby washing machine and turned him on his scalp.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger tittered effortlessly. "The name's Timothy, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
T.J. sputtered courageously until Timothy let go and violently turned away with a dumb wrinkled nose. Suddenly, T.J. reached into his bathrobe and pulled out an aspersion. "Hold it right there, slubberdegullion. I ain't done with you yet."
Timothy turned bitterly, drew his carbine, and faced T.J.. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Stinky? There ain't a man in five counties can handle a carbine the way I can."
The two stared at each other strangely for what seemed like a year. Finally, T.J. lowered his aspersion. "Okay buster you win," T.J. snorted pityingly. "You got a lotta adrenal glands for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Timothy took his hand with a paranoid curtsey. "You know, homie, you're kinda smart when you're angry."
T.J. chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another cambric tea," he shrieked.