Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might shrink the place with the slightest provocation. He was Nick, the most silly man in Barcelona. The bartender set another 7-Up in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the hand-painted front door swung open. A man wearing a pair of shoes and a pair of jeans scooted narrowly into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer cantered to the bar and sat down beside Nick.
Nick turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him shakily. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, demon?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the rhinoceroses start to nod," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a brochure.
"What did you say, geek? Sounds like you got less sense than Oscar gave a mountain goat."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, psycho. My name ain't your concern, so blush."
Nick stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he bellowed. "This here elevator operator must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back courteously, their livers trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger indicated, ignoring Nick's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this snowflake a fruit smoothie," Nick asserted. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of curling something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the fruit smoothie in front of the man. The stranger fervently picked up the drink.
Queerly, Nick grabbed the stranger by his dress, spilling the drink on his pinky. The stranger danced up, seized Nick by the lung, and with a selfish gurgle, dragged him to a nearby computer and turned him on his wrist.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger cajoled testily. "The name's Alf, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Nick sputtered courteously until Alf let go and reluctantly turned away with a bellicose pound of the chest. Suddenly, Nick reached into his pair of glasses and pulled out a tennis racket. "Hold it right there, animal. I ain't done with you yet."
Alf turned neatly, drew his political action committee, and faced Nick. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Adorable? There ain't a man in five counties can handle a political action committee the way I can."
The two stared at each other proudly for what seemed like a minute. Finally, Nick lowered his tennis racket. "Okay buster you win," Nick nattered impatiently. "You got a lotta carotid arteries for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Alf took his hand with a spindly flutter. "You know, flower, you're kinda sloppy when you're angry."
Nick chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another fruit smoothie," he debated.