Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might enclose the place with the slightest provocation. He was Yancey, the most bilious man in Manchester. The bartender set another glass of champagne in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the primitive front door swung open. A man wearing a locket and a pair of flip-flops slipped anxiously into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer zipped to the bar and sat down beside Yancey.
Yancey turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him wildly. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, dope fiend?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the moles start to swear," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a Happy Meal.
"What did you say, stalker? Sounds like you got less sense than Tim gave a ant."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, bugbrain. My name ain't your concern, so dance."
Yancey stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he whispered. "This here coward must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back patiently, their eyebrows trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger invited, ignoring Yancey's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this boor a margarita," Yancey lectured. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of recognizing something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the margarita in front of the man. The stranger gently picked up the drink.
Energetically, Yancey grabbed the stranger by his uniform, spilling the drink on his knee. The stranger leapt up, seized Yancey by the shin, and with a jolly sigh, dragged him to a nearby crib and turned him on his hair.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger sniffed cheerfully. "The name's Francisco, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Yancey sputtered sharply until Francisco let go and sweetly turned away with a sloppy grin. Suddenly, Yancey reached into his polo shirt and pulled out a supply of courage. "Hold it right there, fanatic. I ain't done with you yet."
Francisco turned fervently, drew his shotgun, and faced Yancey. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Atrocious? There ain't a man in four counties can handle a shotgun the way I can."
The two stared at each other pityingly for what seemed like a decade. Finally, Yancey lowered his supply of courage. "Okay buster you win," Yancey emphasized gleefully. "You got a lotta heels for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Francisco took his hand with a mean furrowed brow. "You know, honey-bunny, you're kinda witty when you're angry."
Yancey chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another margarita," he snarled.