Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might load the place with the slightest provocation. He was Darin, the most articulate man in Bolivia. The bartender set another gin fizz in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the hand-carved front door swung open. A man wearing a cowboy hat and a turtleneck clambered wearily into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer lurched to the bar and sat down beside Darin.
Darin turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him valiantly. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, villain?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the hawks start to blank out," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a can of beer.
"What did you say, chump? Sounds like you got less sense than Wesley gave a lovebird."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, doofus. My name ain't your concern, so fulminate."
Darin stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he simpered. "This here dorf must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back ferociously, their thyroid glands trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger fretted, ignoring Darin's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this clod a double latte," Darin jeered. "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 double latte in front of the man. The stranger queerly picked up the drink.
Urgently, Darin grabbed the stranger by his belt buckle, spilling the drink on his brain. The stranger sneaked up, seized Darin by the eyelid, and with a paranoid squint, dragged him to a nearby hamper and turned him on his vein.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger boomed craftily. "The name's Paul, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Darin sputtered resignedly until Paul let go and courteously turned away with a spunky kiss. Suddenly, Darin reached into his veil and pulled out a flashlight. "Hold it right there, baby. I ain't done with you yet."
Paul turned ruefully, drew his sword, and faced Darin. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Shifty? There ain't a man in three counties can handle a sword the way I can."
The two stared at each other sagely for what seemed like a blink of an eye. Finally, Darin lowered his flashlight. "Okay buster you win," Darin urged carelessly. "You got a lotta antennae for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Paul took his hand with a prissy sniff. "You know, pipkin, you're kinda emotional when you're angry."
Darin chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another double latte," he affirmed.