Kill Cupid: Internet dating just got dangerous by J. Brandon Best Page B

the pimp approach a table where an older woman drank vodka with another couple. The big man mumbled in her ear while she stared at Bronte and from all appearances they were talking about him. Even the music seemed to have ‘comin-ta-get-cha’ as the hook.
    The old woman looked like she’d been around the block a few times. Her face was hard and wrinkled, suggesting she was trying to hide high mileage under an ounce or two of makeup. By the time Bronte acknowledged the waitress returning with his beer, he’d missed the outcome of the pimp’s conversation with the old maitre-de. Except now the lump in black skivvy was talking to one of the young hookers. Standing back against the wall in the shadows at the rear of the room with arms folded in front, he looked like he used to wear tights and makeup, bounce bodies off the turn-buckle and throw people around the squared circle. Maybe he called himself Power Pimp or The Tourist Terminator back then, on the TV wrestling channel? His bald head was an extension of his shoulder muscles. He had no neck; his head perched on his shoulders like a giant cyst with eyes. In the black at the back of the room, he was as stealth and menacing as a great white shark. Shades of deep grey again, no wonder it smells in this place Bronte thought. 
    A young working girl approached from the back of the room and slipped onto the stool next to him. Placing her bag on the bar, he was surprised to see what appeared to be a wedding ring on her right hand. He pondered her life; hard at work on the night shift, hubby at home with the kids, reading bedtime fairy tales of honour and chivalry.
    ‘Hello, how are you? Where are you from?’
    ‘Australia… ‘ Here we go again , Bronte thought.
    ‘Wow Avstraliya… kangaroo! I am Ksusha… you want some company? You look lonely. Why you here? You okay?’
    ‘Hi Ksusha, I’m not too bad I guess… but ask me later… if I get out of here…’
    ‘Sorry… my English is not so good…’
    ‘I am sure you are a very nice… but I am waiting for someone… so thanks, but not tonight’ . Bronte guessed she didn’t understand.
    ‘You will buy me a drink?’ She sat upright and pulled her two sizes too small skirt toward her knees, hoping that was enticing. He hoped it wasn’t a sign she felt conscious she was sitting with her dad.
    ‘No, I’m sorry but I want to drink alone now - please.’ To Bronte’s surprise she simply collected her bag and phone from the bar, slid from the stool tugging on her mini skirt as she strutted away. After a brief word with the gorilla in back she disappeared onto the street from whence she came.
                 
    It is interesting that not everyone takes kindly to the great and timeless expletive, the F word. Some people hear it as an abrupt he or she wishes to be left alone and leave it at that. There are others however, who hear it as a declaration of war and much more than the sum total of its mere four letters. These people hear something completely offensive, further proof of the word’s origin dating back to the Tower of Babel and the subsequent confusion of languages. When Bronte used the expletive earlier, he guessed that the heavy in the back staring motionless at him must have heard something like, move your leg you bald headed moron before I snap it off and shove it down your neck, if I can find you have one.
                  Minutes passed all too uneasily while Bronte contemplated how he’d put himself in this mess and more important now, how he’d get out of it. The muscle bound gorilla in the back of the room looked to be holding a tarot card with the death graphic. Bronte had hoped the place would fill up with people or that Rolf would show up with the Good Ol’ Boys and do their best rendition of Stand by your Man , but not a soul entered.
    Twenty minutes passed, twenty five minutes and all the while the reject wrestler up the back had not once shifted his gaze from him. The