Beginnings are such delicate times...

I was building a sandwich at my kitchen counter when the demon appeared. Fresh-baked Russian rye -- I enjoy baking bread, the sensual touch of kneading the loaf, the heady aromas of first the damp flour and then the rising yeast and then the baking. Anyway, fresh-baked rye bread just cool enough to slice, parchment-thin Westphalian ham layered with equally-thin Emmenthaler Swiss, stone-ground Raye's honey mustard from a mill about as far east as you can get in the continental US. I'm passionate about good food. It shows on my so-called waistline.
And I glanced up and this golden liquid condensed out of the air next to my kitchen table and took the shape of a man. Demons, angels, spirits, whatever you call them -- they don't waste time with doors. They don't have to.


(Fat Wizard, of course.)