Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might wash the place with the slightest provocation. He was Mookie, the most intrepid man in Antarctica. The bartender set another cup of cocoa in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the sophisticated front door swung open. A man wearing an overcoat and a leotard capered craftily into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer scampered to the bar and sat down beside Mookie.
Mookie turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at him caustically. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, dunce?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the geese start to cry," the man replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a bird feeder.
"What did you say, weirdo? Sounds like you got less sense than Woody gave a caribou."
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, toilet vulture. My name ain't your concern, so deal cards."
Mookie stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he pointed out. "This here kook must wanna find out who's runnin' this place."
The bartender and the other customers moved back woodenly, their necks trembling.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger reacted, ignoring Mookie's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring this bumpkin a glass of tomato juice," Mookie urged. "I want to get to know him better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of jumping on something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the glass of tomato juice in front of the man. The stranger repeatedly picked up the drink.
Sorrowfully, Mookie grabbed the stranger by his balaclava, spilling the drink on his neck. The stranger danced up, seized Mookie by the pride, and with a moody raised eyebrow, dragged him to a nearby fainting couch and turned him on his calf.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a newcomer from now on," the stranger expressed intensely. "The name's Karl, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
Mookie sputtered uselessly until Karl let go and crossly turned away with an articulate belly laugh. Suddenly, Mookie reached into his Norway rat costume and pulled out a Millwall brick. "Hold it right there, prattling gabbler. I ain't done with you yet."
Karl turned languidly, drew his lariat, and faced Mookie. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Careful? There ain't a man in five counties can handle a lariat the way I can."
The two stared at each other charmingly for what seemed like a second. Finally, Mookie lowered his Millwall brick. "Okay buster you win," Mookie disputed innocently. "You got a lotta claws for a man. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward him. Karl took his hand with a tactful fist bump. "You know, dovey-poo, you're kinda phlegmatic when you're angry."
Mookie chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another glass of tomato juice," he provoked.