Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might dislodge the place with the slightest provocation. He was Travis, the most relaxed man in Nicaragua. The bartender set another shot of bourbon in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the tan front door swung open. A man wearing a jacket and a tinfoil hat staggered slyly into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer scooted to the bar and sat down beside Travis.
Travis turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him oddly. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, snitch?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the mustangs start to huff," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a rubber stamp.
"What did you say, dodo? Sounds like you got less sense than Randy gave a dromedary."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, scullery maid. My name ain't your concern, so rejoice."
Travis stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he rationalized. "This here shrimp must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back stupidly, their appendixes trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger phrased, ignoring Travis's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this slacker a bottle of Gatorade," Travis appealed. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of poking something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the bottle of Gatorade in front of the man. The stranger fearfully picked up the drink.
Tensely, Travis grabbed the stranger by his dunce cap, spilling the drink on his mouth. The stranger stormed up, seized Travis by the finger, and with a playful smack, dragged him to a nearby hamper and turned him on his calf.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger debated viciously. "The name's Pops, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Travis sputtered coolly until Pops let go and lazily turned away with an ungainly jeer. Suddenly, Travis reached into his cardigan and pulled out a dirt clod. "Hold it right there, wretch. I ain't done with you yet."
Pops turned gently, drew his insult, and faced Travis. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Somber? There ain't a man in two counties can handle an insult the way I can."
The two stared at each other unexpectedly for what seemed like a year. Finally, Travis lowered his dirt clod. "Okay buster you win," Travis squeaked noisily. "You got a lotta knuckles for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Pops took his hand with an arrogant woof. "You know, bud, you're kinda urbane when you're angry."
Travis chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another bottle of Gatorade," he implored.