The harsh light of a grocery store was not what Crawford had wanted to deal with that day. His head felt like a rotten melon ready to burst, because he'd spent his night off doing exactly what he hated his customers for. Getting belligerently drunk. But when he'd finally been able to get to his feet without feeling sick, he discovered that he'd forgotten to go to the store. For the last three weeks. So it was either the stale dredges shoved into the back, or dragging himself out to buy something.

He didn't even get a basket, intent on just getting as many frozen dinners as he could carry and getting out as fast as he could. But as he made his way into the store, he realized he should probably grab something moderately fresh for if Donavin showed up. But thoughts of produce left his head the moment he approached the area. He didn't logic or reason to know what he was looking at, the way the man perched atop the display.

Working in a bar put him in the territory of easy targets. Weak minded, impaired, desperate people. Those who would not give a demon much of a fight. Through sheer exposure, he'd learned how to spot the difference between the average drunk lunatic and one who was possessed. One had even tried to take a ride with him. Once. It had latched on one night when he'd had too much to drink, but by the next day it had a fair bit to deal with. Crawford wasn't quite the same after that, picking up a few new bad habits. But after that, he wasn't afraid of them anymore.

He didn't think. He just acted. He rushed in, moving rather quickly for a man of his size for compromised he was at the moment. A fist grabbed the thing's hair, a knee slamming into its stomach. It took no time at all, pinning the thing face-first on the floor, with a knee driven between it shoulder blades.

"Don't know who you're prayin' to," he drawled, his voice still thick an Irish accent despite having been in the city for a long time. "But they'll do fuck all to help."