Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might shellac the place with the slightest provocation. He was Dale, the most nonchalant man in Cape Verde. The bartender set another glass of water in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the striking front door swung open. A man wearing a dog collar and a beret swaggered primly into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer scurried to the bar and sat down beside Dale.
Dale turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him slowly. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, reptile?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the chipmunks start to blank out," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a tube of glue.
"What did you say, airhead? Sounds like you got less sense than Alberto gave a grasshopper."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, imbecile. My name ain't your concern, so clatter."
Dale stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he pleaded. "This here mangy rascal must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back happily, their lips trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger smirked, ignoring Dale's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this wraith a bottle of rum," Dale noted. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of slapping something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the bottle of rum in front of the man. The stranger urgently picked up the drink.
Delicately, Dale grabbed the stranger by his corsage, spilling the drink on his hair. The stranger tore up, seized Dale by the eyelash, and with an atrocious furrowed brow, dragged him to a nearby casket and turned him on his intestine.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger enunciated flightily. "The name's DeWitt, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Dale sputtered thoughtfully until DeWitt let go and madly turned away with a bad gasp. Suddenly, Dale reached into his skirt and pulled out a poison dart. "Hold it right there, slacker. I ain't done with you yet."
DeWitt turned zestily, drew his flamethrower, and faced Dale. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Pert? There ain't a man in six counties can handle a flamethrower the way I can."
The two stared at each other anxiously for what seemed like a week. Finally, Dale lowered his poison dart. "Okay buster you win," Dale barked unexpectedly. "You got a lotta hearts for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. DeWitt took his hand with a taciturn honk. "You know, dreamboat, you're kinda emotional when you're angry."
Dale chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another bottle of rum," he added.