Blind Date

The decision to sign up for that blind dating service had been made in a fit of manic desperation, or perhaps just a moment of drunken bravado. But now, as he stood outside the agreed upon meeting spot, {{user}} found himself questioning the wisdom of that choice as a multitude of horrible outcomes roiled through his mind.

It was a quaint little dive bar, the kind of place that served overpriced IPAs and soy shots to hipsters and yuppies alike. The very thought of stepping inside made {{user}}'s skin crawl. But there was no turning back now. He had made a commitment, and he was going to see it through, even if it killed him.

With a deep breath and a muttered curse, {{user}} pushed open the door and stepped into the lion's den. The scent of Pabst Blue Ribbon, beard oil and vegan leather assaulted his senses. He scanned the room, searching for any sign of his mystery date.

Would she be a raving beauty, the kind of woman who could stop traffic with a single glance? Or would she be a complete lunatic, the type who collected her own toenail clippings and sang to her houseplants? The possibilities were endless, and most of them weren't particularly comforting.

But there was no use in speculation - it was time to venture forth. The die had been cast, and {{user}}'s fate was now inextricably linked with that of his blind date that the agency had chosen. The hostess of the joint, a cute little brunette with perky tits and a cheery smile, greeted {{user}} with enthusiasm usually reserved for the very young and mentally challenged. "Oh hey there! I think you're from... ummm..." she runs a well manicured nail down a list before stopping. "Oh yeah, Last Chance Romance! Wow, you must really be desperate to do something like that," she giggles, leading {{user}} towards the table where his date is already seated...

Well, well, well! If this wasn't the most goddamn preposterous thing a gal like {{user}} ever did. She must have been three sheets to the wind or higher than a giraffe's ass when she filled out that online dating profile. What in the ever loving fuck was she thinking?! Probably wasn't, that was the problem. Story of her life.

But screw it, she was here now, wasn't she? Might as well see this shitshow through to the bitter end. She slapped on some red lipstick, squeezed into a dress two sizes too small, and waltzed into that filthy shithole of a bar like she owned the place. The chick at the door, some perky little college tart, gave her this look that was half pity, half amusement. "You must be the one from that Last Chance dating service, yeah? Oof, good luck with that, honey. Hope you brought some pepper spray, just in case!" The hostess giggled as she led the way to the table.

She plopped herself down in the chair, hiking her skirt up to scandalous heights on the off chance this bastard was worth it. First impressions were important, after all. Her date wasn't there yet, which figured. At least it gave her a chance to scour the drink menu and get well lubricated before the inevitable horror show. She settled on a Singapore Sling, heavy on the gin, light on the dignity. Nothing like hard booze to numb the pain of shattered expectations.

Just then, the waitress guided her date to their table...

The scorching, sun-beaten asphalt of the parking lot shimmered with heat haze as {{user}} stepped out of his oversized gas guzzler of a truck. He squinted against the harsh glare, eyes squinting against the invasion of his sensitive optical nerves.

The "bar" was little more than a ramshackle assemblage of driftwood and corrugated tin, held together by a combination of luck, duct tape, and the sheer force of will of its regulars. "Suds n' Sands" was emblazoned across the front in peeling, sun bleached paint, the "d" hanging upside down in a way that somehow felt both accidental and intentional. It was the kind of place where you went to drown your sorrows, make questionable life choices, and possibly contract some strange disease from a toilet seat.

{{user}} took a deep breath, inhaling the heady mix of salt air, stale beer, and what he could only assume was the tears of broken dreams. But he'd come too far to back out now. He'd signed up for this shady dating service on a whim, a desperate attempt to prove to himself (and his ex-wife) that he wasn't a completely dickless loser. And now, for better or worse, he was going to see it through.

He pushed through the creaky screen door, the rusted hinges squealing in protest. The interior was dim, the stink of re-used fry oil and cheap beer permeated the atmosphere. A few red-eyed regulars glanced up from their drinks, their gazes hollow and their faces weathered by too much sun and disappointment. They sized him up with a brief, disinterested gaze before returning to their silent contemplation of the bottom of their glasses.

The bartender, a woman with a face like a catcher's mitt and a voice like sandpaper, jerked her head towards the balcony. "She's out there," she rasped, her tone suggesting that she'd seen this particular trainwreck play out more times than she cared to remember. "Good luck. You're gonna need it." She finished her statement with a phlegmy cough that made {{user}} cringe.

{{user}} followed her gaze towards the backdoor to the patio and walked towards his destiny...

The pavement shimmered under the relentless sun like asphalt on the highway to hell as the beat up Chevy Caprice rattled into the sandy parking lot at Suds 'n Sands, the notorious beachside dive that served as neutral ground for the desperate and hopeless souls brave or foolish enough to take their chances on a blind date with a complete stranger.

{{user}} climbed out of the rusted hulk, scattering cigarette butts and fast food wrappers, and stood there for a long moment, trembling fingers clutching a rumpled scrap of paper with the cryptic instructions that had led her to this godforsaken place.

A salt caked sign creaked in the wind, advertising cheap beer and poor choices. Sea birds squawked overhead, their screeching cries drowned out by the ceaseless pounding of the surf and the tinny sound of Jimmy Buffet music, a battered jukebox on the weathered boards of the ramshackle deck telling everyone it's 5 o'clock somewhere.

"Well hey there, ain't you a cute thang!" A trashy bleached blonde waitress with an impressive set of tits spilling out of her low cut top walked over, a tray of colorful cocktails balanced on one hand. "You're from that dating thingy… yeah, here it is, your date's already here. although between you and me, honey, he looks like ten miles of bad road. Good luck with that!" She jerked her head towards a lone figure hunched over the bar, and then stepped away, leaving them to their fate...

The Black Hole. A dive bar in the seediest quadrant of the Ceres 6 space station, an old mining outpost that's seen better years. The kind of joint where dreams went to die and the desperate clung to the illusion of hope like an escape pod in a galaxy of broken promises. It was here, in this neon soaked den of depravity, that {{user}} found himself, a prisoner of his own desperation, overly full testicles and the machinations of the Last Chance Romance dating service.

The hostess, a voluptuous Venusian with emerald skin and eyes like shimmering supernovae, led him through the smoke filled bar, past tables occupied by beings from a dozen different worlds, all united in their pursuit of oblivion or companionship, or perhaps some unholy combination of the two. Snatches of conversation in a babel of alien tongues assaulted {{user}}'s ears, the strange words lost in their meaning but the tone often unmistakeable. "Your date's waiting at the back table. Lucky girl." The hostess' words dripped with sarcasm as she deposited {{user}} at his destination with a knowing wink and a shake of her tail.