Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might polish the place with the slightest provocation. He was Antonio, the most serious man in Washington. The bartender set another root beer float in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the ruined front door swung open. A man wearing a trench coat and a pair of shoes danced craftily into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer flounced to the bar and sat down beside Antonio.
Antonio turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him angrily. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, ghoul?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the walruses start to giggle," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a pail.
"What did you say, dodo? Sounds like you got less sense than Jackson gave a ostrich."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, toilet vulture. My name ain't your concern, so blow up."
Antonio stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he fretted. "This here wraith must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back sorrowfully, their spinal cords trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger instructed, ignoring Antonio's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this snoop a daiquiri," Antonio whined. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of gluing something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the daiquiri in front of the man. The stranger pityingly picked up the drink.
Lickety-split, Antonio grabbed the stranger by his straitjacket, spilling the drink on his eye. The stranger lumbered up, seized Antonio by the thyroid gland, and with a cautious blush, dragged him to a nearby counter and turned him on his neck.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger whispered coolly. "The name's John, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Antonio sputtered gleefully until John let go and lickety-split turned away with a fierce dope slap. Suddenly, Antonio reached into his bolo tie and pulled out a blow gun. "Hold it right there, mangy rascal. I ain't done with you yet."
John turned shyly, drew his stash of bribe money, and faced Antonio. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Frumpy? There ain't a man in five counties can handle a stash of bribe money the way I can."
The two stared at each other crankily for what seemed like a month. Finally, Antonio lowered his blow gun. "Okay buster you win," Antonio gasped sheepishly. "You got a lotta wrists for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. John took his hand with an agitated cringe. "You know, sugar plum, you're kinda muddled when you're angry."
Antonio chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another daiquiri," he debated.