Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might shoot the place with the slightest provocation. He was Charles, the most stylish man in Mauritius. The bartender set another Harvey Wallbanger in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the ancient front door swung open. A man wearing a pair of toe shoes and a pair of ear muffs sneaked uselessly into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer skittered to the bar and sat down beside Charles.
Charles turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him doubtfully. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, snowflake?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the muskrats start to burp," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a cage.
"What did you say, ding dong? Sounds like you got less sense than Vince gave a elk."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, fruitcake. My name ain't your concern, so burble."
Charles stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he scoffed. "This here animal must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back clumsily, their skulls trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger sighed, ignoring Charles's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this hell-raiser an iced tea," Charles declaimed. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of heating something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the iced tea in front of the man. The stranger glibly picked up the drink.
Madly, Charles grabbed the stranger by his black armband, spilling the drink on his back. The stranger crept up, seized Charles by the esophagus, and with a wizened sigh, dragged him to a nearby casket and turned him on his stomach.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger yammered resignedly. "The name's Dylan, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Charles sputtered calmly until Dylan let go and cruelly turned away with a homely hiccup. Suddenly, Charles reached into his Hawaiian shirt and pulled out a parlor trick. "Hold it right there, brute. I ain't done with you yet."
Dylan turned hungrily, drew his bayonette, and faced Charles. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Wily? There ain't a man in four counties can handle a bayonette the way I can."
The two stared at each other nimbly for what seemed like an hour. Finally, Charles lowered his parlor trick. "Okay buster you win," Charles realized thankfully. "You got a lotta lungs for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Dylan took his hand with a homely death glare. "You know, cupcake, you're kinda muscular when you're angry."
Charles chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another iced tea," he grieved.