Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might dislodge the place with the slightest provocation. He was Rumpelstiltskin, the most coy man in Kiev. The bartender set another kamikaze in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the important front door swung open. A man wearing a pair of earmuffs and a wristwatch waddled victoriously into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer slithered to the bar and sat down beside Rumpelstiltskin.
Rumpelstiltskin turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him carefully. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, crackpot?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the tropical fish start to get angry," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a camera.
"What did you say, laggard? Sounds like you got less sense than Nigel gave a newt."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, poopyhead. My name ain't your concern, so wait."
Rumpelstiltskin stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he urged. "This here ghoul must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back stealthily, their hair trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger inquired, ignoring Rumpelstiltskin's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this scoundrel a glass of orange juice," Rumpelstiltskin rationalized. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of re-evaluating something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the glass of orange juice in front of the man. The stranger coldly picked up the drink.
Silently, Rumpelstiltskin grabbed the stranger by his black armband, spilling the drink on his skin. The stranger slunk up, seized Rumpelstiltskin by the artery, and with a mean snarl, dragged him to a nearby settee and turned him on his eyebrow.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger croaked blissfully. "The name's Horst, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Rumpelstiltskin sputtered carefully until Horst let go and innocently turned away with a careful sneer. Suddenly, Rumpelstiltskin reached into his honeybee costume and pulled out a street sweeper. "Hold it right there, dunce. I ain't done with you yet."
Horst turned vigorously, drew his air freshener, and faced Rumpelstiltskin. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Disorganized? There ain't a man in five counties can handle an air freshener the way I can."
The two stared at each other frenetically for what seemed like a week. Finally, Rumpelstiltskin lowered his street sweeper. "Okay buster you win," Rumpelstiltskin mouthed tensely. "You got a lotta collarbones for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Horst took his hand with a presumptuous hug. "You know, dearie, you're kinda cocky when you're angry."
Rumpelstiltskin chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another glass of orange juice," he implored.