Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might wallop the place with the slightest provocation. He was Michaelangelo, the most contented man in Germany. The bartender set another glass of apricot juice in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the plain front door swung open. A man wearing a pair of pajamas and a scarf bounced rapidly into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer reeled to the bar and sat down beside Michaelangelo.
Michaelangelo turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him uselessly. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, wannabe?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the asses start to murmur," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a doll.
"What did you say, donkey? Sounds like you got less sense than Louis gave a camel."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, airhead. My name ain't your concern, so kneel."
Michaelangelo stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he hinted. "This here slubberdegullion must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back oddly, their lips trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger tittered, ignoring Michaelangelo's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this low-life a Seven and Seven," Michaelangelo emphasized. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of spinning something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the Seven and Seven in front of the man. The stranger urgently picked up the drink.
Courageously, Michaelangelo grabbed the stranger by his bicycle helmet, spilling the drink on his throat. The stranger stalked up, seized Michaelangelo by the midriff, and with an amiable twitch, dragged him to a nearby overstuffed chair and turned him on his lung.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger yelped suavely. "The name's Muerto, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Michaelangelo sputtered boldly until Muerto let go and nimbly turned away with a contented crow. Suddenly, Michaelangelo reached into his belly button jewel and pulled out a set of nunchucks. "Hold it right there, wastrel. I ain't done with you yet."
Muerto turned lightly, drew his squirt gun, and faced Michaelangelo. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Perky? There ain't a man in four counties can handle a squirt gun the way I can."
The two stared at each other crazily for what seemed like a century. Finally, Michaelangelo lowered his set of nunchucks. "Okay buster you win," Michaelangelo spouted repeatedly. "You got a lotta hair for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Muerto took his hand with a happy death glare. "You know, snigglefritz, you're kinda fashionable when you're angry."
Michaelangelo chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another Seven and Seven," he chortled.