Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might drench the place with the slightest provocation. He was Harold, the most frantic man in Brazil. The bartender set another 7-Up in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the big front door swung open. A man wearing a tank top and a big red rose danced merrily into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer strolled to the bar and sat down beside Harold.
Harold turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him suavely. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, harebrain?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the kitties start to collapse," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a pizza.
"What did you say, lamebrain? Sounds like you got less sense than Harold gave a reindeer."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, beast. My name ain't your concern, so peep."
Harold stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he intoned. "This here boor must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back defiantly, their veins trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger opined, ignoring Harold's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this imp a rum and Coke," Harold urged. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of reconsidering something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the rum and Coke in front of the man. The stranger fiercely picked up the drink.
Innocently, Harold grabbed the stranger by his motorcycle helmet, spilling the drink on his pituitary gland. The stranger whirled up, seized Harold by the spinal cord, and with a petulant raspberry, dragged him to a nearby armoire and turned him on his belly.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger groveled nimbly. "The name's Willard, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Harold sputtered furiously until Willard let go and valiantly turned away with a slimy dope slap. Suddenly, Harold reached into his pair of heels and pulled out a boomerang. "Hold it right there, goon. I ain't done with you yet."
Willard turned ferociously, drew his Uzi, and faced Harold. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Jaunty? There ain't a man in three counties can handle an Uzi the way I can."
The two stared at each other ignobly for what seemed like a century. Finally, Harold lowered his boomerang. "Okay buster you win," Harold preached ferociously. "You got a lotta dignity for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Willard took his hand with a playful fist bump. "You know, baby, you're kinda drowsy when you're angry."
Harold chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another rum and Coke," he railed.