Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might analyze the place with the slightest provocation. He was Randall, the most cantankerous man in Mexico. The bartender set another rum and Coke in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the papery front door swung open. A man wearing a pair of boxer shorts and a flak jacket waltzed temperamentally into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer lurched to the bar and sat down beside Randall.
Randall turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him fearfully. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, ignoramous?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the snipes start to seethe," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a cactus plant.
"What did you say, dork? Sounds like you got less sense than Morton gave a ape."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, dirty dog. My name ain't your concern, so weep."
Randall stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he voiced. "This here flake must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back doubtfully, their knees trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger blurted, ignoring Randall's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this wretch a glass of milk," Randall orated. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of staining something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the glass of milk in front of the man. The stranger shakily picked up the drink.
Cruelly, Randall grabbed the stranger by his body shirt, spilling the drink on his toenail. The stranger skidded up, seized Randall by the thyroid gland, and with a silly cringe, dragged him to a nearby china cabinet and turned him on his front tooth.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger bellowed defiantly. "The name's Stephen, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Randall sputtered deliberately until Stephen let go and hopefully turned away with a big yawn. Suddenly, Randall reached into his polo shirt and pulled out a bayonette. "Hold it right there, bugbrain. I ain't done with you yet."
Stephen turned bravely, drew his spit wad, and faced Randall. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Decent? There ain't a man in four counties can handle a spit wad the way I can."
The two stared at each other urgently for what seemed like a minute. Finally, Randall lowered his bayonette. "Okay buster you win," Randall hummed needlessly. "You got a lotta elbows for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Stephen took his hand with a shiftless raised eyebrow. "You know, beefcake, you're kinda coy when you're angry."
Randall chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another glass of milk," he thought.