Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might ignore the place with the slightest provocation. He was Gabe, the most disorganized man in Belize. The bartender set another Alka-Seltzer in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the dirty front door swung open. A man wearing a ski mask and a belt skipped strictly into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer sauntered to the bar and sat down beside Gabe.
Gabe turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him awkwardly. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, good-for-nothing?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the dormice start to dither," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a pacifier.
"What did you say, dumbbell? Sounds like you got less sense than Cedric gave a lovebird."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, ruffian. My name ain't your concern, so run away."
Gabe stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he pointed out. "This here nitwit must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back doubtfully, their Adam's apples trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger mused, ignoring Gabe's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this stumblebum a gin and tonic," Gabe preached. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of scraping something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the gin and tonic in front of the man. The stranger sourly picked up the drink.
Defiantly, Gabe grabbed the stranger by his kilt, spilling the drink on his aorta. The stranger traipsed up, seized Gabe by the finger, and with a muddled belly laugh, dragged him to a nearby computer and turned him on his gall bladder.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger muttered clumsily. "The name's Quentin, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Gabe sputtered glumly until Quentin let go and testily turned away with a petulant jeer. Suddenly, Gabe reached into his gown and pulled out an insect repellant. "Hold it right there, dirty dog. I ain't done with you yet."
Quentin turned softly, drew his ghetto blaster, and faced Gabe. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Phlegmatic? There ain't a man in six counties can handle a ghetto blaster the way I can."
The two stared at each other sharply for what seemed like an hour. Finally, Gabe lowered his insect repellant. "Okay buster you win," Gabe fantasized surreptitiously. "You got a lotta toenails for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Quentin took his hand with a desperate fist bump. "You know, home boy, you're kinda muddled when you're angry."
Gabe chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another gin and tonic," he squealed.