Kill Cupid: Internet dating just got dangerous by J. Brandon Best Page A
Authors: J. Brandon Best
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the driver who started the engine. The driver in turn handed the map back to Bronte while mumbling obscenities in Russian and they set out.
The stranger appearing out of the night had done them a favour and when Bronte thought about it, recalled it was the guy with the overcoat who strolled in and out of the canteen earlier. With the taxi on its way, he sat back to take in the city at night.
Time passed while they said nothing, each man resigned to the mutual language barrier. They drove and drove in silence until they seemed to have driven for hours and covered hundreds of streets and city blocks. They could have passed a million restaurants and bars and with each one, hope they’d finally arrived at the place. On numerous occasions the taxi slowed or stopped, only to speed off after the driver sized up the building or address. Bronte had no idea where he was and he guessed neither did the driver.
‘Okay, I think this is the place’, Bronte figured that was what the pointing cabbie said. They were in a dark and seedy part of town by the riverfront, with factories and container yards surrounded by chain link fences. In the shadow of warehouses on his side of the street was a bar with neon lighting hanging over an entrance running downstairs off the pavement. The cab wasted no time disappearing. Bronte thought he could have been in a gangster film from 1930’s Chicago, the orange fluorescent street lighting giving everything an eerie night vision effect.
It was even foggy in this part of town due in large to the river only one hundred metres away. Defining its boundaries and banks was impossible, the mist emanating from the thing like smoke from water. Bronte didn’t like the look or feel of the place, or the location and appearance of the club. But figuring Rolf didn’t appear dressed to be playing a 5 Star venue, he headed for the stairs leading down to the bar.
Prostitutes almost sat on the handrail of the stairwell. As he approached, an attractive looking brunette motioned a kiss. He shuddered, thinking of Rex Hunt kissing fish. With purple hair and blue face from the flashing neon, she sat with her fingers poking through holes in her black nylons.
Standing in the passageway shadows on a lower step, a big man dressed in black – the security pimp he guessed - stretched out his leg rather aggressively to block Bronte’s path. When he grumbled something in Russian, Bronte pushed passed, using the same no nonsense technique polished at Moscow airport adding, ‘Fob off’.
It was dark and dingy inside with only a handful of people sitting at small tables scattered across the room. Alarmingly, it was immediately evident there was no sign of Rolf and the band. In fact, there was no evidence there had ever been a band in there and judging by the size of the room, it would be an exclusive gig for a harmonica player. A band with a drummer would never fit. Instead, they had bad Russian music blasting from a poor quality stereo.
And from the moment he walked in, all eyes were fixed on him. Even the pimp had muscled in from outside and seemed to be looking for him. The sight of the large bald figure dressed in black approaching made his heart jump. Bronte headed for the bar which appeared the safest place to be if such place existed. At least it was deserted and in full view of the room. The place was obviously an underworld bar and had an eerie feel about it. He wanted to turn and walk out, but visions of the security pimp pounding him into the curb while he prayed for a cab deterred him. Bronte was stuck.
He sat there alone at the bar, like a lemonade stall in the middle of the desert. He even began to wonder if he really did look like the Abominable snowman with a suntan… there had to be some reason why everyone just stared! A seedy looking barmaid in her early 30’s swaggered over and without saying a word stood waiting to take his order. He asked for an Efes beer and as she turned to fetch a bottle he noticed
The stranger appearing out of the night had done them a favour and when Bronte thought about it, recalled it was the guy with the overcoat who strolled in and out of the canteen earlier. With the taxi on its way, he sat back to take in the city at night.
Time passed while they said nothing, each man resigned to the mutual language barrier. They drove and drove in silence until they seemed to have driven for hours and covered hundreds of streets and city blocks. They could have passed a million restaurants and bars and with each one, hope they’d finally arrived at the place. On numerous occasions the taxi slowed or stopped, only to speed off after the driver sized up the building or address. Bronte had no idea where he was and he guessed neither did the driver.
‘Okay, I think this is the place’, Bronte figured that was what the pointing cabbie said. They were in a dark and seedy part of town by the riverfront, with factories and container yards surrounded by chain link fences. In the shadow of warehouses on his side of the street was a bar with neon lighting hanging over an entrance running downstairs off the pavement. The cab wasted no time disappearing. Bronte thought he could have been in a gangster film from 1930’s Chicago, the orange fluorescent street lighting giving everything an eerie night vision effect.
It was even foggy in this part of town due in large to the river only one hundred metres away. Defining its boundaries and banks was impossible, the mist emanating from the thing like smoke from water. Bronte didn’t like the look or feel of the place, or the location and appearance of the club. But figuring Rolf didn’t appear dressed to be playing a 5 Star venue, he headed for the stairs leading down to the bar.
Prostitutes almost sat on the handrail of the stairwell. As he approached, an attractive looking brunette motioned a kiss. He shuddered, thinking of Rex Hunt kissing fish. With purple hair and blue face from the flashing neon, she sat with her fingers poking through holes in her black nylons.
Standing in the passageway shadows on a lower step, a big man dressed in black – the security pimp he guessed - stretched out his leg rather aggressively to block Bronte’s path. When he grumbled something in Russian, Bronte pushed passed, using the same no nonsense technique polished at Moscow airport adding, ‘Fob off’.
It was dark and dingy inside with only a handful of people sitting at small tables scattered across the room. Alarmingly, it was immediately evident there was no sign of Rolf and the band. In fact, there was no evidence there had ever been a band in there and judging by the size of the room, it would be an exclusive gig for a harmonica player. A band with a drummer would never fit. Instead, they had bad Russian music blasting from a poor quality stereo.
And from the moment he walked in, all eyes were fixed on him. Even the pimp had muscled in from outside and seemed to be looking for him. The sight of the large bald figure dressed in black approaching made his heart jump. Bronte headed for the bar which appeared the safest place to be if such place existed. At least it was deserted and in full view of the room. The place was obviously an underworld bar and had an eerie feel about it. He wanted to turn and walk out, but visions of the security pimp pounding him into the curb while he prayed for a cab deterred him. Bronte was stuck.
He sat there alone at the bar, like a lemonade stall in the middle of the desert. He even began to wonder if he really did look like the Abominable snowman with a suntan… there had to be some reason why everyone just stared! A seedy looking barmaid in her early 30’s swaggered over and without saying a word stood waiting to take his order. He asked for an Efes beer and as she turned to fetch a bottle he noticed
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