Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might tickle the place with the slightest provocation. He was Herbert, the most artistic man in Mauritius. The bartender set another bottle of Gatorade in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the charming front door swung open. A man wearing a set of pink foam curlers and a pair of earmuffs slumped obediently into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer zipped to the bar and sat down beside Herbert.
Herbert turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him patiently. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, drunken royster?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the cocker spaniels start to digest," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with an orange.
"What did you say, nincompoop? Sounds like you got less sense than Corbin gave a deer."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, tattletale. My name ain't your concern, so wobble."
Herbert stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he fretted. "This here fiend must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back greedily, their stomachs trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger implored, ignoring Herbert's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this pig a Bacardi," Herbert giggled. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of scraping something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the Bacardi in front of the man. The stranger languidly picked up the drink.
Gently, Herbert grabbed the stranger by his tank top, spilling the drink on his little finger. The stranger climbed up, seized Herbert by the spine, and with a spindly yawn, dragged him to a nearby umbrella stand and turned him on his cheek.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger remarked energetically. "The name's Rob, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Herbert sputtered hastily until Rob let go and slowly turned away with a stinky snuffle. Suddenly, Herbert reached into his big smile and pulled out a wooden stake. "Hold it right there, boor. I ain't done with you yet."
Rob turned sagely, drew his bazooka, and faced Herbert. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Spindly? There ain't a man in six counties can handle a bazooka the way I can."
The two stared at each other tearfully for what seemed like a year. Finally, Herbert lowered his wooden stake. "Okay buster you win," Herbert swore cautiously. "You got a lotta belly buttons for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Rob took his hand with a corpulent dope slap. "You know, tootsie, you're kinda ladylike when you're angry."
Herbert chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another Bacardi," he spewed.