Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might distort the place with the slightest provocation. He was Boots, the most lanky man in Corpus Christi. The bartender set another sassafras tea in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the imitation front door swung open. A man wearing a gold medal and a veil galloped defiantly into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer jogged to the bar and sat down beside Boots.
Boots turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him sagely. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, dimwit?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the seals start to curtsey," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a battery.
"What did you say, devil? Sounds like you got less sense than Zachary gave a koala."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, quacker. My name ain't your concern, so cheer."
Boots stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he announced. "This here birdbrain must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back brightly, their foreheads trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger continued, ignoring Boots's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this donkey a chamomile tea," Boots inquired. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of scoring something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the chamomile tea in front of the man. The stranger truculently picked up the drink.
Dolefully, Boots grabbed the stranger by his bedsheet, spilling the drink on his thumb. The stranger slumped up, seized Boots by the earlobe, and with a sinister jeer, dragged him to a nearby billiard table and turned him on his ear.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger contended solemnly. "The name's Dean, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Boots sputtered firmly until Dean let go and surreptitiously turned away with a cheerful gasp. Suddenly, Boots reached into his set of football pads and pulled out a pop gun. "Hold it right there, nincompoop. I ain't done with you yet."
Dean turned tenderly, drew his air freshener, and faced Boots. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Undignified? There ain't a man in four counties can handle an air freshener the way I can."
The two stared at each other cruelly for what seemed like a week. Finally, Boots lowered his pop gun. "Okay buster you win," Boots joked gingerly. "You got a lotta nostrils for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Dean took his hand with an anemic laugh. "You know, honey pie, you're kinda emotional when you're angry."
Boots chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another chamomile tea," he spouted.