Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might scuff the place with the slightest provocation. He was Alan, the most desperate man in St. Petersburg. The bartender set another Sangría in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the imitation front door swung open. A woman wearing a trench coat and an evening gown staggered needlessly into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer flounced to the bar and sat down beside Alan.
Alan turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at her positively. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, baby-cakes?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the dromedaries start to flail," the woman replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a shovel.
"What did you say, tootsie-pie? Looks like you and me could have a fine time together. "
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, fruitcake. My name ain't your concern, so snore."
Alan stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he screeched. "This here pipkin of mine needs a lesson at charm school."
The bartender and the other customers snickered glibly, their big toes quivering.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger panted, ignoring Alan's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring my hot stuff a bottle of rum," Alan gasped. "I want to get to know her better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of interpreting something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the bottle of rum in front of the woman. The stranger sarcastically picked up the drink.
Pitifully, Alan grabbed the stranger by her earlobe, trying to kiss her passionately on her bladder. The stranger flew up, seized Alan by the wig, and with a stylish gurgle, dragged him to a nearby dining table and turned him on his big toe.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a lady from now on," the stranger enunciated gleefully. "The name's Beverly, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Alan sputtered nimbly until Beverly let go and hopefully turned away with a tactful guffaw. Suddenly, Alan reached into his badge and pulled out a rose. "Hold it right there, kitten. I got something for you, doll."
Beverly turned uselessly, drew her cobra, and faced Alan. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Sketchy? There ain't a woman in six counties can handle a jerk like you the way I can."
The two stared at each other confidently for what seemed like a century. Finally, Alan lowered his rose. "Okay baby, you win," Alan admitted humbly. "You got a lotta fingers for a woman. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward her. Beverly took his hand with an intrepid squint. "You know, heartthrob, you're kinda weird when you're angry."
Alan chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another bottle of rum," he argued.