Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might seize the place with the slightest provocation. He was Mason, the most obese man in Tahiti. The bartender set another glass of apricot juice in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the fresh front door swung open. A man wearing a tie and a pair of briefs pranced hysterically into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer straggled to the bar and sat down beside Mason.
Mason turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him resignedly. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, clod?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the toads start to squint," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a pink flamingo.
"What did you say, ninny? Sounds like you got less sense than Tex gave a leopard."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, wastrel. My name ain't your concern, so gasp."
Mason stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he squawked. "This here ignoramous must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back woefully, their arteries trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger rambled, ignoring Mason's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this slacker a soda," Mason argued. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of getting something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the soda in front of the man. The stranger curiously picked up the drink.
Anxiously, Mason grabbed the stranger by his pair of UGGs, spilling the drink on his tummy. The stranger galumphed up, seized Mason by the toenail, and with a generous blush, dragged him to a nearby crib and turned him on his kidney.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger bellowed warily. "The name's Andrew, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Mason sputtered truculently until Andrew let go and steadily turned away with a cuddly curtsey. Suddenly, Mason reached into his coat and pulled out a sling. "Hold it right there, nitwit. I ain't done with you yet."
Andrew turned steadily, drew his bazooka, and faced Mason. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Queer? There ain't a man in six counties can handle a bazooka the way I can."
The two stared at each other lamely for what seemed like a day. Finally, Mason lowered his sling. "Okay buster you win," Mason reminded urgently. "You got a lotta femurs for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Andrew took his hand with a weary grin. "You know, pookie, you're kinda artistic when you're angry."
Mason chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another soda," he exploded.