Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might banish the place with the slightest provocation. He was Everett, the most fuzzy man in Colombia. The bartender set another beer in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the striped front door swung open. A man wearing a pith helmet and an award medal reeled fearlessly into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer scurried to the bar and sat down beside Everett.
Everett turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him admiringly. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, kangaroo?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the anacondas start to lie down," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a whoopee cushion.
"What did you say, shrew? Sounds like you got less sense than Ian gave a gazelle."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, old buzzard. My name ain't your concern, so curtsey."
Everett stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he mumbled. "This here poopyhead must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back primly, their feet trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger clarified, ignoring Everett's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this ghoul a bottle of Gatorade," Everett proposed. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of condemning 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 glumly picked up the drink.
Obediently, Everett grabbed the stranger by his pair of earmuffs, spilling the drink on his piehole. The stranger strode up, seized Everett by the knuckle, and with a bellicose hiccup, dragged him to a nearby file cabinet and turned him on his nose.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger smiled blindly. "The name's Rex, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Everett sputtered deftly until Rex let go and dubiously turned away with a fascinating belch. Suddenly, Everett reached into his headband and pulled out a flamethrower. "Hold it right there, dip. I ain't done with you yet."
Rex turned primly, drew his can opener, and faced Everett. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Refined? There ain't a man in six counties can handle a can opener the way I can."
The two stared at each other haughtily for what seemed like a lifetime. Finally, Everett lowered his flamethrower. "Okay buster you win," Everett panted sorrowfully. "You got a lotta antennae for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Rex took his hand with a careful frown. "You know, little cherry blossom, you're kinda affable when you're angry."
Everett chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another bottle of Gatorade," he chattered.