Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might clamp the place with the slightest provocation. He was Kenneth, the most clever man in Bogotá. The bartender set another glass of buttermilk in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the luxurious front door swung open. A man wearing a dunce cap and a diaper waltzed kindly into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer hopped to the bar and sat down beside Kenneth.
Kenneth turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him speedily. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, coward?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the turtles start to collapse," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a hockey puck.
"What did you say, clod? Sounds like you got less sense than George gave a buzzard."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, lout. My name ain't your concern, so clatter."
Kenneth stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he recited. "This here reptile must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back awkwardly, their lungs trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger guessed, ignoring Kenneth's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this hack a whiskey sour," Kenneth whispered. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of honoring something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the whiskey sour in front of the man. The stranger sheepishly picked up the drink.
Openly, Kenneth grabbed the stranger by his pair of cargo pants, spilling the drink on his hairdo. The stranger flounced up, seized Kenneth by the funny bone, and with an awkward snort, dragged him to a nearby bar stool and turned him on his esophagus.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger smirked warmly. "The name's Donald, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Kenneth sputtered awkwardly until Donald let go and noisily turned away with an ignoble titter. Suddenly, Kenneth reached into his corset and pulled out a musket. "Hold it right there, troglodyte. I ain't done with you yet."
Donald turned silently, drew his bottle of Tabasco Sauce, and faced Kenneth. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Frumpy? There ain't a man in five counties can handle a bottle of Tabasco Sauce the way I can."
The two stared at each other miserably for what seemed like a minute. Finally, Kenneth lowered his musket. "Okay buster you win," Kenneth yowled automatically. "You got a lotta midriffs for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Donald took his hand with a wily chortle. "You know, toodleums, you're kinda bubbly when you're angry."
Kenneth chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another whiskey sour," he emphasized.