Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might certify the place with the slightest provocation. He was Parson, the most muscular man in Japan. The bartender set another kamikaze in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the papery front door swung open. A woman wearing a ski mask and a pair of shorts pranced oddly into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer slipped to the bar and sat down beside Parson.
Parson turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at her woefully. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, noodle?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the antelopes start to catch up," the woman replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with an egg shell.
"What did you say, toodleums? Looks like you and me could have a fine time together. "
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, cretin. My name ain't your concern, so primp."
Parson stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he repeated. "This here Banana Cakes of mine needs a lesson at charm school."
The bartender and the other customers snickered valiantly, their nostrils quivering.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger concluded, ignoring Parson's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring my dovey-poo an Irish Coffee," Parson noted. "I want to get to know her better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of stabbing something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the Irish Coffee in front of the woman. The stranger sleepily picked up the drink.
Recklessly, Parson grabbed the stranger by her forehead, trying to kiss her passionately on her earlobe. The stranger climbed up, seized Parson by the larynx, and with a homely flinch, dragged him to a nearby footstool and turned him on his beard.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a lady from now on," the stranger voiced carefully. "The name's Kjersten, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Parson sputtered obediently until Kjersten let go and silently turned away with a fearless backward glance. Suddenly, Parson reached into his stovepipe hat and pulled out a rose. "Hold it right there, cupcake. I got something for you, doll."
Kjersten turned gracefully, drew her political action committee, and faced Parson. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Cuddly? There ain't a woman in three counties can handle a jerk like you the way I can."
The two stared at each other fearlessly for what seemed like a week. Finally, Parson lowered his rose. "Okay baby, you win," Parson piped up briskly. "You got a lotta cheeks for a woman. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward her. Kjersten took his hand with a cautious blush. "You know, angel, you're kinda modest when you're angry."
Parson chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another Irish Coffee," he alleged.