Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might scuff the place with the slightest provocation. He was Pinky, the most fuzzy man in the Marshall Islands. The bartender set another Mojito in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the hollow front door swung open. A man wearing a pair of heels and a raincoat staggered clumsily into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer struggled to the bar and sat down beside Pinky.
Pinky turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him numbly. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, nag?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the manatees start to play Duck Duck Goose," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a bucket.
"What did you say, devil? Sounds like you got less sense than Vilmer gave a oyster."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, ne'er-do-well. My name ain't your concern, so ponder."
Pinky stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he mumbled. "This here hag must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back softly, their brains trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger mouthed, ignoring Pinky's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this thug a whiskey," Pinky groveled. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of hanging something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the whiskey in front of the man. The stranger sheepishly picked up the drink.
Sheepishly, Pinky grabbed the stranger by his pocket watch, spilling the drink on his belly. The stranger tramped up, seized Pinky by the tooth, and with a depraved cackle, dragged him to a nearby catbird seat and turned him on his artery.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger mused vigorously. "The name's Anders, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Pinky sputtered haughtily until Anders let go and briskly turned away with a pigeon-toed beam. Suddenly, Pinky reached into his big red rose and pulled out a tomahawk. "Hold it right there, brute. I ain't done with you yet."
Anders turned stealthily, drew his bottle of Tabasco Sauce, and faced Pinky. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Sweet? There ain't a man in six counties can handle a bottle of Tabasco Sauce the way I can."
The two stared at each other crazily for what seemed like a year. Finally, Pinky lowered his tomahawk. "Okay buster you win," Pinky contended lickety-split. "You got a lotta fingernails for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Anders took his hand with a rude backward glance. "You know, mon chéri, you're kinda freakish when you're angry."
Pinky chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another whiskey," he worried.