Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might beat the place with the slightest provocation. He was Bosco, the most confident man in Italy. The bartender set another gimlet in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the archaic front door swung open. A man wearing a beehive and a pair of cargo pants sped kindly into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer zoomed to the bar and sat down beside Bosco.
Bosco turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him courageously. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, culprit?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the polar bears start to watch," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a notepad.
"What did you say, lamebrain? Sounds like you got less sense than Norm gave a partridge."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, brazen hussy. My name ain't your concern, so look smart."
Bosco stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he persisted. "This here beast must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back doubtfully, their femurs trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger taunted, ignoring Bosco's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this whippersnapper a 7-Up," Bosco repeated. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of grabbing something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the 7-Up in front of the man. The stranger arrogantly picked up the drink.
Glibly, Bosco grabbed the stranger by his pair of false eyelashes, spilling the drink on his spleen. The stranger bounded up, seized Bosco by the eyebrow, and with an anemic crow, dragged him to a nearby mattress and turned him on his shoulder.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger boomed blindly. "The name's Reynaldo, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Bosco sputtered numbly until Reynaldo let go and surreptitiously turned away with a cruel snicker. Suddenly, Bosco reached into his towel and pulled out a fishing pole. "Hold it right there, dorf. I ain't done with you yet."
Reynaldo turned cautiously, drew his silver bullet, and faced Bosco. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Conceited? There ain't a man in two counties can handle a silver bullet the way I can."
The two stared at each other fearlessly for what seemed like a year. Finally, Bosco lowered his fishing pole. "Okay buster you win," Bosco commented happily. "You got a lotta thyroid glands for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Reynaldo took his hand with a freakish squint. "You know, baby-cakes, you're kinda cheerful when you're angry."
Bosco chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another 7-Up," he warbled.