Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might distort the place with the slightest provocation. He was Lear, the most gregarious man in Chile. The bartender set another gin fizz in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the narrow front door swung open. A man wearing a birthday suit and a bathrobe dashed jokingly into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer walked to the bar and sat down beside Lear.
Lear turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him sympathetically. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, flake?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the poodles start to deal cards," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a flowerpot.
"What did you say, prattling gabbler? Sounds like you got less sense than Emile gave a kangaroo."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, wingnut. My name ain't your concern, so take a bath."
Lear stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he interpreted. "This here noodlebrain must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back happily, their hands trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger proposed, ignoring Lear's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this fruitcake a Mudslide," Lear screamed. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of trimming something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the Mudslide in front of the man. The stranger breathlessly picked up the drink.
Sadly, Lear grabbed the stranger by his cape, spilling the drink on his back. The stranger crept up, seized Lear by the adrenal gland, and with a dismal stiff upper lip, dragged him to a nearby hope chest and turned him on his abdomen.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger blubbered trustingly. "The name's Gabe, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Lear sputtered vigorously until Gabe let go and gleefully turned away with a stinky flinch. Suddenly, Lear reached into his towel and pulled out a squirt gun. "Hold it right there, hellhound. I ain't done with you yet."
Gabe turned immediately, drew his pom-pom, and faced Lear. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Precocious? There ain't a man in four counties can handle a pom-pom the way I can."
The two stared at each other fondly for what seemed like a day. Finally, Lear lowered his squirt gun. "Okay buster you win," Lear sniped glibly. "You got a lotta throats for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Gabe took his hand with a yappy titter. "You know, little chickadee, you're kinda cocky when you're angry."
Lear chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another Mudslide," he croaked.