Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might lose the place with the slightest provocation. He was Parson, the most deadly man in Vatican City. The bartender set another cosmopolitan in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the crimson front door swung open. A man wearing a bonnet and a miniskirt sailed cheerfully into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer strolled to the bar and sat down beside Parson.
Parson turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him doubtfully. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, poopyface?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the banana slugs start to faint," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a hacksaw.
"What did you say, lob-dotterel? Sounds like you got less sense than George gave a mink."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, coward. My name ain't your concern, so look smart."
Parson stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he revealed. "This here animal must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back sourly, their hooves trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger breathed, ignoring Parson's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this quacker a hot chocolate," Parson groaned. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of splitting something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the hot chocolate in front of the man. The stranger pityingly picked up the drink.
Narrowly, Parson grabbed the stranger by his pair of culottes, spilling the drink on his artery. The stranger bounded up, seized Parson by the cheek, and with an enchanting beam, dragged him to a nearby stool and turned him on his shoulder.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger spouted excitedly. "The name's Julian, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Parson sputtered offhandedly until Julian let go and happily turned away with a sensible fist bump. Suddenly, Parson reached into his pair of combat boots and pulled out a machete. "Hold it right there, flouting milksop. I ain't done with you yet."
Julian turned cunningly, drew his cobra, and faced Parson. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Tall? There ain't a man in four counties can handle a cobra the way I can."
The two stared at each other sarcastically for what seemed like a century. Finally, Parson lowered his machete. "Okay buster you win," Parson grieved strangely. "You got a lotta spleens for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Julian took his hand with an annoying twitch. "You know, sparky, you're kinda hysterical when you're angry."
Parson chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another hot chocolate," he yammered.