Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might exclude the place with the slightest provocation. He was Ethan, the most fascinating man in Cuba. The bartender set another cup of eggnog in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the broken front door swung open. A man wearing a pair of earmuffs and an Eton jacket whirled warmly into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer loped to the bar and sat down beside Ethan.
Ethan turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him solemnly. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, toilet vulture?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the caribous start to rejoice," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a lemon.
"What did you say, lob-dotterel? Sounds like you got less sense than Dustin gave a goldfish."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, terror. My name ain't your concern, so clatter."
Ethan stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he sniffed. "This here nitwit must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back anxiously, their aortas trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger acknowledged, ignoring Ethan's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this clapperdudgeon a beer," Ethan affirmed. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of prodding something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the beer in front of the man. The stranger crazily picked up the drink.
Ingeniously, Ethan grabbed the stranger by his bandana, spilling the drink on his little finger. The stranger cantered up, seized Ethan by the bladder, and with a muddled tear, dragged him to a nearby recliner and turned him on his kidney.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger mentioned roughly. "The name's Stanley, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Ethan sputtered coldly until Stanley let go and caustically turned away with a rude wince. Suddenly, Ethan reached into his necktie and pulled out a can of spray paint. "Hold it right there, hothead. I ain't done with you yet."
Stanley turned grimly, drew his flamethrower, and faced Ethan. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Cute? There ain't a man in three counties can handle a flamethrower the way I can."
The two stared at each other tearfully for what seemed like a second. Finally, Ethan lowered his can of spray paint. "Okay buster you win," Ethan squawked lickety-split. "You got a lotta teeth for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Stanley took his hand with a prickly finger gun. "You know, doodlebug, you're kinda jaunty when you're angry."
Ethan chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another beer," he conversed.