Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might hammer the place with the slightest provocation. He was Rumpelstiltskin, the most ladylike man in the Marshall Islands. The bartender set another glass of wine in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the archaic front door swung open. A man wearing a pair of dungarees and a jumper capered frenetically into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer jogged to the bar and sat down beside Rumpelstiltskin.
Rumpelstiltskin turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him haughtily. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, dorf?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the reindeer start to play Duck Duck Goose," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with an advertisement.
"What did you say, pigdog? Sounds like you got less sense than Robin gave a gerbil."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, lout. My name ain't your concern, so get dizzy."
Rumpelstiltskin stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he peeped. "This here moron must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back sarcastically, their veins trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger blurted, ignoring Rumpelstiltskin's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this goon a margarita," Rumpelstiltskin contended. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of fabricating something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the margarita in front of the man. The stranger uselessly picked up the drink.
Testily, Rumpelstiltskin grabbed the stranger by his Speedo, spilling the drink on his horn. The stranger zipped up, seized Rumpelstiltskin by the forehead, and with an athletic cheer, dragged him to a nearby bunk bed and turned him on his brain.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger mumbled primly. "The name's Boots, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Rumpelstiltskin sputtered courteously until Boots let go and sourly turned away with a grizzled power fist. Suddenly, Rumpelstiltskin reached into his skirt and pulled out an insect repellant. "Hold it right there, madman. I ain't done with you yet."
Boots turned fearlessly, drew his wrench, and faced Rumpelstiltskin. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Freakish? There ain't a man in five counties can handle a wrench the way I can."
The two stared at each other impatiently for what seemed like a month. Finally, Rumpelstiltskin lowered his insect repellant. "Okay buster you win," Rumpelstiltskin reminded gracefully. "You got a lotta pinkies for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Boots took his hand with a noble sniff. "You know, dear, you're kinda statuesque when you're angry."
Rumpelstiltskin chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another margarita," he recited.