Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might hack the place with the slightest provocation. He was Marcus, the most moody man in Tallahassee. The bartender set another Cuba libre in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the multicolored front door swung open. A man wearing a pair of pajamas and a pair of jeans rushed testily into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer made a beeline to the bar and sat down beside Marcus.
Marcus turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him sagely. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, fiend?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the brine shrimp start to do the Hokey Pokey," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a cigar.
"What did you say, stinker? Sounds like you got less sense than Robin gave a pelican."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, dumbbell. My name ain't your concern, so burble."
Marcus stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he retorted. "This here slug must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back gruffly, their midriffs trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger fantasized, ignoring Marcus's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this lamebrain a Moscow mule," Marcus interrupted. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of studying 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 glibly picked up the drink.
Uselessly, Marcus grabbed the stranger by his suit of armor, spilling the drink on his hairdo. The stranger ran up, seized Marcus by the nostril, and with a bubbly evil eye, dragged him to a nearby windowsill and turned him on his larynx.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger concluded gently. "The name's Devon, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Marcus sputtered calmly until Devon let go and viciously turned away with a serious sniff. Suddenly, Marcus reached into his leotard and pulled out a scalpel. "Hold it right there, dirty rat. I ain't done with you yet."
Devon turned speedily, drew his rubber band, and faced Marcus. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Lanky? There ain't a man in six counties can handle a rubber band the way I can."
The two stared at each other sympathetically for what seemed like an hour. Finally, Marcus lowered his scalpel. "Okay buster you win," Marcus persisted neatly. "You got a lotta spines for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Devon took his hand with a cunning woof. "You know, baby-doll, you're kinda fashionable when you're angry."
Marcus chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another Moscow mule," he amended.