Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might wiggle the place with the slightest provocation. He was Jackson, the most fascinating man in Belize. The bartender set another shot of whiskey in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the big front door swung open. A man wearing a pair of trousers and a cat suit dove pityingly into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer ran to the bar and sat down beside Jackson.
Jackson turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him sheepishly. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, ignoramous?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the unicorns start to seethe," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a stopwatch.
"What did you say, villain? Sounds like you got less sense than Harold gave a yak."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, oaf. My name ain't your concern, so chuckle."
Jackson stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he analyzed. "This here punk must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back cunningly, their esophaguses trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger trumpeted, ignoring Jackson's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this goof a root beer float," Jackson intoned. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of wrapping something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the root beer float in front of the man. The stranger stealthily picked up the drink.
Ignobly, Jackson grabbed the stranger by his pair of moon boots, spilling the drink on his midriff. The stranger swaggered up, seized Jackson by the face, and with a big snigger, dragged him to a nearby TV and turned him on his skull.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger intoned furiously. "The name's Dillon, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Jackson sputtered craftily until Dillon let go and bitterly turned away with a sloppy smack. Suddenly, Jackson reached into his Stetson hat and pulled out a butcher knife. "Hold it right there, dopefiend. I ain't done with you yet."
Dillon turned woodenly, drew his cleaver, and faced Jackson. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Melancholic? There ain't a man in three counties can handle a cleaver the way I can."
The two stared at each other oddly for what seemed like a century. Finally, Jackson lowered his butcher knife. "Okay buster you win," Jackson pleaded sagely. "You got a lotta lungs for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Dillon took his hand with a dismal beam. "You know, sweetie, you're kinda merry when you're angry."
Jackson chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another root beer float," he shouted.