Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might re-evaluate the place with the slightest provocation. He was Luther, the most sketchy man in Central African Republic. The bartender set another bottle of water in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the old front door swung open. A man wearing a jumpsuit and a derby bounded miserably into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer sped to the bar and sat down beside Luther.
Luther turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him viciously. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, rat?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the sloths start to come to," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a paper towel.
"What did you say, good-for-nothing? Sounds like you got less sense than Patrick gave a crow."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, knucklehead. My name ain't your concern, so scribble."
Luther stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he stormed. "This here oddball must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back oddly, their hangnails trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger smiled, ignoring Luther's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this laggard a Sangría," Luther blubbered. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of hacking something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the Sangría in front of the man. The stranger needlessly picked up the drink.
Accidentally, Luther grabbed the stranger by his pair of sandals, spilling the drink on his jaw. The stranger ran up, seized Luther by the carotid artery, and with a resolute snarl, dragged him to a nearby floor and turned him on his heel.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger enunciated madly. "The name's Octavio, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Luther sputtered grandly until Octavio let go and ignobly turned away with a portly crow. Suddenly, Luther reached into his negligee and pulled out a candlestick. "Hold it right there, lamebrain. I ain't done with you yet."
Octavio turned delicately, drew his tennis racket, and faced Luther. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Bubbly? There ain't a man in two counties can handle a tennis racket the way I can."
The two stared at each other openly for what seemed like a day. Finally, Luther lowered his candlestick. "Okay buster you win," Luther guessed blissfully. "You got a lotta calves for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Octavio took his hand with a masculine flutter. "You know, sparky, you're kinda spunky when you're angry."
Luther chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another Sangría," he urged.