He lived at the end of our street when I was a kid growing up, nowadays he’d be labeled one of those guys to watch out for around your kids, but he was harmless, a gentle old soul who’d withered with age. He always sat on the porch of his run down house, the doors hung off, most of the windows broken, but he didn’t care, and he’d always smile when I went to visit. Then he’d tell me stories, fascinating, unbelievable stories, stories that would put a glimmer in his eye, and a broad smile on his face.

I was fifteen when Marty Tonks passed away, but, I think he stayed with me long after that, I think part of his excitement for stories rubbed off on me, I guess that’s why I named my characters after him.