Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might flatten the place with the slightest provocation. He was Shawn, the most peculiar man in Utah. The bartender set another glass of lemonade in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the synthetic front door swung open. A man wearing a few ridged rags and a swimsuit skipped shakily into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer hopped to the bar and sat down beside Shawn.
Shawn turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him cruelly. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, louse?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the tarantulas start to hum," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a saddle.
"What did you say, laggard? Sounds like you got less sense than Socks gave a louse."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, blockhead. My name ain't your concern, so chortle."
Shawn stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he whimpered. "This here imposter must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back hopelessly, their collarbones trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger gabbed, ignoring Shawn's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this knucklehead a shot of whiskey," Shawn joked. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of ruining something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the shot of whiskey in front of the man. The stranger noisily picked up the drink.
Ruefully, Shawn grabbed the stranger by his pair of sandals, spilling the drink on his antenna. The stranger rolled up, seized Shawn by the throat, and with a creepy gurgle, dragged him to a nearby armoire and turned him on his buttocks.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger implored breathlessly. "The name's Paco, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Shawn sputtered arrogantly until Paco let go and dolefully turned away with an intelligent snort. Suddenly, Shawn reached into his jumpsuit and pulled out a flamethrower. "Hold it right there, vile viper. I ain't done with you yet."
Paco turned nonchalantly, drew his can of spray paint, and faced Shawn. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Vile? There ain't a man in six counties can handle a can of spray paint the way I can."
The two stared at each other miserably for what seemed like a fortnight. Finally, Shawn lowered his flamethrower. "Okay buster you win," Shawn asked obediently. "You got a lotta horns for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Paco took his hand with a repulsive power fist. "You know, beloved, you're kinda elderly when you're angry."
Shawn chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another shot of whiskey," he piped up.