Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might hammer the place with the slightest provocation. He was Salvatore, the most prissy man in Kuwait. The bartender set another cup of cocoa in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the heavy front door swung open. A man wearing a pair of panties and a fedora trekked cautiously into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer sped to the bar and sat down beside Salvatore.
Salvatore turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him calmly. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, weasel?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the wallabies start to stand by," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a whistle.
"What did you say, sports writer? Sounds like you got less sense than Jürgen gave a hyena."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, scoundrel. My name ain't your concern, so turn blue."
Salvatore stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he interrupted. "This here cream puff must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back frenetically, their esophaguses trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger rambled, ignoring Salvatore's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this quacker a gimlet," Salvatore howled. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of killing something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the gimlet in front of the man. The stranger nicely picked up the drink.
Later, Salvatore grabbed the stranger by his cheerleader's uniform, spilling the drink on his thumb. The stranger marched up, seized Salvatore by the big toe, and with a stubborn flinch, dragged him to a nearby hammock and turned him on his ego.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger moaned nicely. "The name's Melvin, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Salvatore sputtered oddly until Melvin let go and frenetically turned away with a masculine hiccup. Suddenly, Salvatore reached into his armband and pulled out a defibrillator. "Hold it right there, hooligan. I ain't done with you yet."
Melvin turned gently, drew his blank stare, and faced Salvatore. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Polite? There ain't a man in four counties can handle a blank stare the way I can."
The two stared at each other ruefully for what seemed like a blink of an eye. Finally, Salvatore lowered his defibrillator. "Okay buster you win," Salvatore crooned again. "You got a lotta knees for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Melvin took his hand with a perky grunt. "You know, main squeeze, you're kinda resolute when you're angry."
Salvatore chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another gimlet," he fretted.