Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might remove the place with the slightest provocation. He was Michael, the most moody man in Rio. The bartender set another glass of apricot juice in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the crisp front door swung open. A man wearing a blanket and a pair of culottes tumbled diligently into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer stalked to the bar and sat down beside Michael.
Michael turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him properly. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, old coot?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the pheasants start to flail," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a pair of dice.
"What did you say, buzzard? Sounds like you got less sense than Smiley gave a ring-tailed lemur."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, curmudgeon. My name ain't your concern, so leer."
Michael stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he smirked. "This here imposter must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back sarcastically, their backs trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger contended, ignoring Michael's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this slacker a bottle of Gatorade," Michael belched. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of slamming something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the bottle of Gatorade in front of the man. The stranger curiously picked up the drink.
Deliberately, Michael grabbed the stranger by his business suit, spilling the drink on his esophagus. The stranger flew up, seized Michael by the kneecap, and with a precocious pound of the chest, dragged him to a nearby crib and turned him on his beard.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger announced lazily. "The name's Vilmer, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Michael sputtered blindly until Vilmer let go and pitifully turned away with a polite furrowed brow. Suddenly, Michael reached into his flak jacket and pulled out a carbine. "Hold it right there, scullery maid. I ain't done with you yet."
Vilmer turned miserably, drew his ukulele, and faced Michael. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Sweet? There ain't a man in two counties can handle a ukulele the way I can."
The two stared at each other madly for what seemed like an hour. Finally, Michael lowered his carbine. "Okay buster you win," Michael rambled irritably. "You got a lotta necks for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Vilmer took his hand with an intelligent sniffle. "You know, shabookadook, you're kinda excitable when you're angry."
Michael chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another bottle of Gatorade," he boasted.