The people at the table beat him, took his money, his suit, his watch, his shoes, and dumped him five miles off the coast with nothing but his underwear and a life preserver. Luckily he was picked up by an actual fishing boat and made it home safely, although with a few cracked ribs and one hell of a sunburn.

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"So, you guys feel like playing some cards on the way back to port?"

Another acquaintance of mine, let's call him Abraham, doesn't have two fingers that point in the same direction because they've each been broken by some of his more perceptive and violent marks. I last spoke with him in 2011, just after Christmas. He was in the hospital with broken ribs and a shattered collarbone after one of his cons went wrong. But he didn't plan to stop, because he wasn't doing it for the money (he was actually sorta rich). He was doing it for the thrill. So what I'm saying is, don't invite a magician to your card game.

I remember one guy who would routinely make lewd comments to women and just generally make everyone around him feel uncomfortable. We told the guy to clean his act up, but he didn't listen. Once his attitude started turning people away from all of us, we reported the asshole to the city council office, to no avail. One day he just stopped showing up. His section of the street stood empty and was eventually taken over by a kindly Jamaican man who played the drums. I later found out that someone dumped all of the asshole performer's equipment off a pier and beat the left side of his face most of the way in. I'll never know if the guy who did it had, like, six musical instruments strapped to his body at the time.

And then there are the customers.

Street performers are powerful figures to the people around them. We have complete control over the atmosphere and the mood of the crowd, and sometimes that becomes intoxicating for all involved. Unluckily for me, it also means that guys who probably bench press refrigerators sometimes accuse me of using my act to try to steal their girlfriends.

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Avoid the big dudes with "Hate" and "Magic" tattooed across their knuckles, in particular.

I've had sober boyfriends try to pick a fight with me a half dozen times, and who knows how many drunk ones. Some have even tried following me to my car to start a fight with me. This is where that "no touching the public" rule from earlier comes in really handy, because you never know how people are going to react to you. You're a charismatic, talented individual performing in front of a crowd, everyone's energy is up, but when emotions run that high, it's a very short step from a guy wanting to buy you all the beer in the world to threatening to shove a bottle in your eye socket because "HOLY SHIT YOU SMILED AT MY GIRL, WHAT THE FUCK BRO, LET'S FIGHT!"

When you first start performing magic on the street, you mainly worry about messing up a trick in front of a crowd or finding a suitable birthday present for David Blaine after he inevitably sees your act and wants to become your best friend. I was the same in the beginning ... until I got mugged. And then mugged again. And then stabbed. Think about it -- it's a cash-only business, performed alone, on the street. We're the world's most obvious mugging target for every criminal who isn't secretly worried that we have real wizard powers.

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Try yelling "Crucio!" when using pepper spray to help cement the idea.

So, one day after work, I was heading to the car with my props and cash box under my arms. Momentarily forgetting the wisdom of Batman, I made the wrong decision to take a shortcut through an alleyway when a junkie jumped out and made a move for the cash box. Unfortunately, unlike the time David Copperfield was almost robbed but used his training to convince the robber he had nothing in his pockets, my guy already had my money in his hands, leaving me no other choice but to wrestle him for it. That's when he pulled out a kitchen knife and plunged it into my left side, just above the hip bone.

A lot of things go through your head when you get stabbed, usually along the lines of, "There's a long piece of metal inside my body. I may require assistance to deal with this." Funny thing, though: When those thoughts leave your head through your mouth, they apparently take the form of a blood-curdling scream of pants-shitting terror.

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"And for my next trick I'll make my knife disappear ... into you!"

But, as luck would have it, doing an impression of an air raid siren is apparently the only weakness of crazed, knife-wielding lunatics, because it caused mine to run away and leave me to bleed out on the ground. I thankfully managed to call for help and took a ride to the hospital where I got 21 stitches and a 3-inch scar to remember that day by. Ever since then, by the time the sun goes down my ass is already safely back home, trying not to think about what would've happened if my attacker had a gun like the ones who mugged that American magician in South Africa.

Fortunately, I've only been mugged, uh, three other times.

Other than the law, that is -- for some strange reason a lot of cities now frown on this and have made it illegal for street performers to use fire, except at certain city-sponsored events (where they can have emergency personnel on hand to deal with any spontaneous Ghost Rider situations).

So why the hell would somebody put themselves through all of this? Well ...