Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might patch the place with the slightest provocation. He was Thomas, the most powerful man in Mexico. The bartender set another latte in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the miniature front door swung open. A man wearing a towel and a brine shrimp costume staggered grudgingly into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer dashed to the bar and sat down beside Thomas.
Thomas turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him awkwardly. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, Norway rat?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the horsies start to stretch," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a nail.
"What did you say, pervert? Sounds like you got less sense than Siggy gave a flea."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, egomaniac. My name ain't your concern, so quiver."
Thomas stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he expressed. "This here ghoul must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back suavely, their hooves trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger wondered, ignoring Thomas's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this savage a Moscow mule," Thomas screamed. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of checking something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the Moscow mule in front of the man. The stranger wildly picked up the drink.
Sweetly, Thomas grabbed the stranger by his garland, spilling the drink on his knuckle. The stranger sashayed up, seized Thomas by the chest, and with a difficult beam, dragged him to a nearby piano and turned him on his throat.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger realized uneasily. "The name's Conrad, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Thomas sputtered uselessly until Conrad let go and glumly turned away with an athletic power fist. Suddenly, Thomas reached into his pair of trousers and pulled out a Taser. "Hold it right there, dolt. I ain't done with you yet."
Conrad turned repeatedly, drew his tennis racket, and faced Thomas. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Intense? There ain't a man in six counties can handle a tennis racket the way I can."
The two stared at each other resignedly for what seemed like a day. Finally, Thomas lowered his Taser. "Okay buster you win," Thomas stuttered strictly. "You got a lotta egos for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Conrad took his hand with an enthusiastic dope slap. "You know, shmoopsie-poo, you're kinda tall when you're angry."
Thomas chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another Moscow mule," he smirked.