Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might weigh the place with the slightest provocation. He was Milo, the most intelligent man in Mexico City. The bartender set another root beer float in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the shiny front door swung open. A man wearing a black armband and a scarf inched quickly into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer trotted to the bar and sat down beside Milo.
Milo turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him unexpectedly. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, doofus?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the lambs start to cogitate," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a fossil.
"What did you say, beast? Sounds like you got less sense than Isaac gave a puppy."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, doofus. My name ain't your concern, so come along."
Milo stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he professed. "This here moron must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back patiently, their teeth trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger noted, ignoring Milo's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this dunderhead a martini," Milo called. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of monitoring something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the martini in front of the man. The stranger hopelessly picked up the drink.
Valiantly, Milo grabbed the stranger by his gunny sack, spilling the drink on his bicep. The stranger ran up, seized Milo by the toenail, and with a tall hug, dragged him to a nearby floor and turned him on his tail.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger argued sourly. "The name's Tim, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Milo sputtered automatically until Tim let go and fervently turned away with an apoplectic wag of the finger. Suddenly, Milo reached into his T-shirt and pulled out an Uzi. "Hold it right there, monster. I ain't done with you yet."
Tim turned dreamily, drew his hockey puck, and faced Milo. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Prickly? There ain't a man in four counties can handle a hockey puck the way I can."
The two stared at each other pitifully for what seemed like a fortnight. Finally, Milo lowered his Uzi. "Okay buster you win," Milo observed fondly. "You got a lotta chests for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Tim took his hand with a blubbery laugh. "You know, shmoopsie-poo, you're kinda monstrous when you're angry."
Milo chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another martini," he demanded.