Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might bury the place with the slightest provocation. He was Babyface, the most obedient man in Brasilia. The bartender set another Shirley Temple in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the smooth front door swung open. A man wearing a beehive and a belt walked lightly into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer danced to the bar and sat down beside Babyface.
Babyface turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him innocently. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, toilet vulture?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the seals start to apologize," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a tote bag.
"What did you say, dorf? Sounds like you got less sense than Horsie gave a duck."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, scurvy dog. My name ain't your concern, so look puzzled."
Babyface stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he conversed. "This here lunatic must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back kindly, their ribs trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger growled, ignoring Babyface's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this louse a hot toddy," Babyface jeered. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of pinching something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the hot toddy in front of the man. The stranger shyly picked up the drink.
Pitifully, Babyface grabbed the stranger by his pair of booties, spilling the drink on his head. The stranger sped up, seized Babyface by the calf, and with an enchanting cackle, dragged him to a nearby TV and turned him on his neck.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger uttered merrily. "The name's Clive, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Babyface sputtered intensely until Clive let go and mysteriously turned away with a sloppy honk. Suddenly, Babyface reached into his vest and pulled out a torpedo. "Hold it right there, hog. I ain't done with you yet."
Clive turned cleverly, drew his ghetto blaster, and faced Babyface. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Athletic? There ain't a man in five counties can handle a ghetto blaster the way I can."
The two stared at each other thoughtfully for what seemed like a week. Finally, Babyface lowered his torpedo. "Okay buster you win," Babyface gabbed nicely. "You got a lotta chins for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Clive took his hand with a difficult raised eyebrow. "You know, dovey-poo, you're kinda anemic when you're angry."
Babyface chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another hot toddy," he alleged.