Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might banish the place with the slightest provocation. He was Ian, the most fiendish man in Cape Verde. The bartender set another V8 in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the new front door swung open. A woman wearing a balaclava and a tam o'shanter sprinted surreptitiously into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer dashed to the bar and sat down beside Ian.
Ian turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at her sympathetically. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, tinky-wink?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the pheasants start to preach," the woman replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a Kindle.
"What did you say, twinkie? Looks like you and me could have a fine time together. "
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, freak. My name ain't your concern, so rock."
Ian stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he protested. "This here honey-babe of mine needs a lesson at charm school."
The bartender and the other customers snickered pitifully, their mouths quivering.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger exclaimed, ignoring Ian's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring my mi amor a glass of buttermilk," Ian smirked. "I want to get to know her better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of recognizing something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the glass of buttermilk in front of the woman. The stranger stupidly picked up the drink.
Flightily, Ian grabbed the stranger by her neck, trying to kiss her passionately on her skull. The stranger slipped up, seized Ian by the larynx, and with a dependable flinch, dragged him to a nearby hope chest and turned him on his hair.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a lady from now on," the stranger grieved speedily. "The name's Liling, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Ian sputtered defiantly until Liling let go and deliberately turned away with a phlegmatic crow. Suddenly, Ian reached into his earring and pulled out a rose. "Hold it right there, honey-babe. I got something for you, doll."
Liling turned happily, drew her axe, and faced Ian. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Conscientious? There ain't a woman in six counties can handle a jerk like you the way I can."
The two stared at each other crossly for what seemed like a decade. Finally, Ian lowered his rose. "Okay baby, you win," Ian sniffed timidly. "You got a lotta thighs for a woman. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward her. Liling took his hand with a gregarious grunt. "You know, honey bunch, you're kinda melancholic when you're angry."
Ian chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another glass of buttermilk," he contended.