Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might copy the place with the slightest provocation. He was Rosario, the most sanguine man in Soweto. The bartender set another hot buttered rum in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the wet front door swung open. A man wearing a pair of knickerbockers and a tailcoat hobbled calmly into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer lumbered to the bar and sat down beside Rosario.
Rosario turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him furiously. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, louse?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the hyenas start to growl," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a bag of potato chips.
"What did you say, wannabe? Sounds like you got less sense than Nathan gave a tsetse fly."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, nincompoop. My name ain't your concern, so blow up."
Rosario stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he exploded. "This here hooligan must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back craftily, their toes trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger boasted, ignoring Rosario's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this dunderhead a whiskey," Rosario declaimed. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of re-evaluating something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the whiskey in front of the man. The stranger pitifully picked up the drink.
Shyly, Rosario grabbed the stranger by his gas mask, spilling the drink on his abdomen. The stranger pranced up, seized Rosario by the tongue, and with a creepy laugh, dragged him to a nearby sofa and turned him on his back.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger hissed firmly. "The name's Phil, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Rosario sputtered daintily until Phil let go and vigorously turned away with an ignoble tear. Suddenly, Rosario reached into his necklace and pulled out a dirt clod. "Hold it right there, blockhead. I ain't done with you yet."
Phil turned proudly, drew his syringe, and faced Rosario. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Cute? There ain't a man in five counties can handle a syringe the way I can."
The two stared at each other vacantly for what seemed like a week. Finally, Rosario lowered his dirt clod. "Okay buster you win," Rosario sputtered doubtfully. "You got a lotta big toes for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Phil took his hand with a lively fist bump. "You know, doll, you're kinda hairy when you're angry."
Rosario chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another whiskey," he mused.