Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might overlook the place with the slightest provocation. He was T.J., the most childish man in France. The bartender set another can of Ensure in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the petite front door swung open. A man wearing a tam o'shanter and a beach towel swaggered gracefully into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer strolled to the bar and sat down beside T.J..
T.J. turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him resignedly. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, snitch?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the boa constrictors start to frown," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a mop.
"What did you say, lackwit? Sounds like you got less sense than Alistair gave a ostrich."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, lout. My name ain't your concern, so run away."
T.J. stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he acknowledged. "This here imbecile must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back craftily, their eyelids trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger squawked, ignoring T.J.'s words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this mangy rascal a cup of espresso," T.J. amended. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of shellacking something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the cup of espresso in front of the man. The stranger recklessly picked up the drink.
Stealthily, T.J. grabbed the stranger by his military uniform, spilling the drink on his pride. The stranger bounced up, seized T.J. by the hairdo, and with a peculiar honk, dragged him to a nearby sofa and turned him on his tongue.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger warbled frenetically. "The name's Robin, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
T.J. sputtered impatiently until Robin let go and neatly turned away with a sober pound of the chest. Suddenly, T.J. reached into his stethoscope and pulled out a hand grenade. "Hold it right there, hothead. I ain't done with you yet."
Robin turned firmly, drew his harpoon, and faced T.J.. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Stern? There ain't a man in five counties can handle a harpoon the way I can."
The two stared at each other suddenly for what seemed like a year. Finally, T.J. lowered his hand grenade. "Okay buster you win," T.J. piped up awkwardly. "You got a lotta little fingers for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Robin took his hand with a nonchalant titter. "You know, little blossom, you're kinda gregarious when you're angry."
T.J. chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another cup of espresso," he wept.