(OOC: The web page below obviously doesn't exist.  Don't bother trying to go to it.)

"Electronic leashes."

When the young beauty passing by slowed and looked his way, Paul smiled wide and clarified, "Cell phones.  My wife, God rest her soul, used to call them electronic leashes."  He waggled a finger toward the pocket into which Kat had deposited her cell phone, then continued, "She used to turn her cell off as soon as she left work, then didn't turn it back on until just an hour before she had to leave for work the next day."

Paul stood and walked closer to Kat, not so near or so quickly as to alarm her with a [i]stranger danger[/i].  He smiled politely, hoping that she would pay more attention to his relatively nice looks than to the fact that she didn't know him.  Paul had often been attractive.  One lover had often referred to him as [i]tasty[/I].   He had the dark, dramatic facial features of Keanu Reeves in his 40s and the deliciously sculpted body of Mark Wahlberg in his 20s.  His near perfect smile was the result of a lifelong obsession with brushing and flossing, not tens of thousands of dollars in caps and polishings; and his hazel-green eyes sparkled when he was happy, or when he was on the make, as he was with Kat now.

He only had two conspicuously noticeable physical flaws: the first was a slight limp in his right leg when he walked slowly -- as he was now -- which was the result of a bullet fragment still lodged in his hip bone; and the second was a three inch long scar on the left side of his neck -- which he concealed by approaching Kat on her right -- that was the result of a knife fight in Munich six years earlier.

"I'm Paul," he said offering out his hand, still at enough of a distance that if Kat wanted to take it she would have to take a step forward.  "And you're Kat Malloy."

He smiled wider, then laughed attempting to alleviate any tension that might be brewing from a [i]stalker vibe[/i].  "I meant to find you at the benefit tonight, but I noticed you coming outside.  I'm covering it, the benefit.  I'm a contributor, for [i]Good People[/i] ... [i]Good People Doing Good Things dot com[/i]."

He laughed, feigning embarrassment.  "I know, I know.  Silly name for an online magazine."

[i]GoodPeopleDoingGoodThings.com[/i] had been one of the easiest elements of setting up Paul's new identity.  Paul's [i]go-to[/i] hackers-slash-web designers -- he called them [i]Tweedle Do[/i] and [i]Tweedle Did[/i] -- had created [i]Good People[/i] to automatically sift through and pirate from thousands of already existing charity and social services websites, reposting articles from those sites.  The [i]Tweedles[/i] had faked a following of millions, which had led to [i]Good People[/i] making hundreds of Top Ten Online Site lists, which had led to millions of [i]actual[/i] followers, which then had led to advertisers paying for a presence on the page.  And now -- despite Paul never having meant for the site to do so -- [i]Good People[/i] was pulling down more than $10,000 a month in revenue, which he let the [i]Tweedles[/i] keep as payment for services rendered.

"I was hoping maybe to pick your brain," he continued, "maybe over a cup of coffee...?"