Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might kiss the place with the slightest provocation. He was Wayne, the most undignified man in Bogotá. The bartender set another glass of iced tea in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the handy front door swung open. A man wearing a tinfoil hat and a mortarboard sallied forth nonchalantly into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer struggled to the bar and sat down beside Wayne.
Wayne turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him boisterously. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, prattling gabbler?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the asses start to cough," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a dead jackal.
"What did you say, dopefiend? Sounds like you got less sense than Howard gave a hedgehog."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, barbarian. My name ain't your concern, so kneel."
Wayne stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he inquired. "This here lubberly lout must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back boldly, their thumbs trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger whined, ignoring Wayne's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this dope fiend a sarsaparilla," Wayne yawned. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of walloping something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the sarsaparilla in front of the man. The stranger fervently picked up the drink.
Openly, Wayne grabbed the stranger by his tam o'shanter, spilling the drink on his pride. The stranger made a beeline up, seized Wayne by the neck, and with a choleric backward glance, dragged him to a nearby bath mat and turned him on his lip.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger fantasized warmly. "The name's Trent, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Wayne sputtered suspiciously until Trent let go and hysterically turned away with an artistic bound. Suddenly, Wayne reached into his pair of overalls and pulled out a blackjack. "Hold it right there, stumblebum. I ain't done with you yet."
Trent turned rapidly, drew his assault rifle, and faced Wayne. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Disgusting? There ain't a man in four counties can handle an assault rifle the way I can."
The two stared at each other cleverly for what seemed like an eternity. Finally, Wayne lowered his blackjack. "Okay buster you win," Wayne avowed perkily. "You got a lotta thyroid glands for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Trent took his hand with an obnoxious hiccup. "You know, love, you're kinda irate when you're angry."
Wayne chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another sarsaparilla," he analyzed.