Big Ron and the author were sitting at the bar when a lean, long-headed young man, perhaps 21 [We didn’t want to get the owner in trouble, so decided he was 21] overheard us speaking about knife-fighting and military melee in the Pacific. The young fellow began telling us about his supernatural adventures. Ron bought him two beers and shook his hand when we left. In the meantime, this fellow, who looked like he might be able to defeat a paper bag large enough to imprison him—told us a tale of, well you be the judge:

“I’m part Blackfoot Indian and know some of the spells, so when I found myself afflicted by evil spirits at my family home, I cast a rooting spell in the yard to ward them off.

[Big Ron suggests, “Did you use a post hole digger, a snake, or a real big boring screw?”]

Shaking his head as if Big Ron were daft, the youth continued, “This sent a ripple through the neighborhood. Soon, every time I went out in Hamilton I would have encounters. There was one werewolf that was with these dogs in a yard. They thought he was a dog and the owners I guess didn’t see him, he was only visible to me. Then once, down on Bayonne, this black demon rose up before me and was levitating about level with the roof eves.”

[The youth stopped, and looked askance as Ron laughing silently but uncontrollably as the author typed like a grinning automaton.]

Big Ron encouraged him and said, “I’m not laughing at you buddy, I’m just laughing because I’m glad to be alive and you’re one of the reasons.”

“The demon circled buildings and descended behind trees, rising up behind fences, as black as night, always peering down, always down at me. I couldn’t get away from him but fences seemed to hold him back. A roof or a building did not stop him, but a fence—particularly thus one white picket fence—seemed to send up a barrio he could not cross. But his gaze was damaging. I retreated to my family home, to the yard, under the tree fortified with the rooting spell and set out warding spells. My Indian ancestors lived under these great trees, so I believe that this black demon—a thing of the city, of man’s polluted places—lost power near trees which enabled my spell-casting. I am also an expert in wrestling, boxing, karate, Tae-Kwon-Do, Jeet Kune Do, Kung Fu, Gung Fu and Filipino Jiu Jitsu.”

As the author folded up my laptop Ron said, “Take care, buddy and don’t let the black demons get the jump on you.”

We left him in the bar waiting for his father, who was already an hour late, a phantom parent, perhaps, but very real to him, as real as the black demon of the Hamilton.

Outside, climbing into his pickup truck and scanning for enemies, Ron commented, “I have a soft spot for kids like that. There is a difference between low down and down and out. In my experience, the mentally ill have generally been abused. This kid really got the short end of the stick. And the way he looks and as little as he is and growing up around here, I well imagine he’s been attacked by more than a few black demons.”