People had all kinds of theories about Stu. Off-kilter hitman, disgraced spy, lazy drifter were just a few of the less flattering ideas. Trust-fund-flunky, globe-trotting adventurer, or adrenaline junky were the interpretations that he liked to foster.
He tossed his knife deftly from one hand to the other, blade flashing as it rolled through the air. To a casual observer, what he’d done seemed like a trick. But he was born to the knife and the knife to him.
Ten times he had flicked it up, landing blade down on the table. Each time the stack of bills wagered against him had grown. Everyone stared at the tight circle of fresh gouge marks in the wood and then at the man who had let the blade come down between his fingers. He collected the pile of dirty bills, turned toward the bar and then turned back.
With a flick of his wrist he tossed the blade into the air one last time. It hit hilt first on the heavy wooden table letting out a baritone “bonk”. He didn’t say a word; no one laughed. He snatched it by the handle as it clattered toward the edge. Flipping it closed; he shoved it in his pocket and walked to the bar.
I’d known Stu since our youth on the brutal streets of Basseterre, Saint Kitts, where he had killed me with that very knife the talisman through which I haunted him.
Utilitarian.
Stu lived a true utilitarian lifestyle – not the philosophy; he seemed to give a rat’s ass about happiness, although he seemed happy-go-lucky. No, for Stu utilitarian meant taking what was available, using it to purpose and moving on. He was like a virus and yet those who spent ten minutes with him and survived usually thought something like, “This guy has his shit together. This guy knows something that I need to know.”
No one knew what haunted his dreams or the specter that drove him toward disaster – me.
I’d watched the hair rise on more than one person as I whispered in their ear, “He’s nuts, but brilliant and driven – ooh wee.” Inevitably, their eyes widened in fear as they realized that the knife had come for them.
“Nice trick with the knife there.” The flat tone and stiff cadence identified the bar’s solitary occupant as American. He was, in fact, the American. He’d built this modern banking and gambling Mecca. “How’d you end up in my Caymans?” The cigar chomping old man with a deep tan asked rather rudely.
Stu ignored the question preferring his own.
“So you’re the guy who invented Styrofoam cups?”
Comfortable with the presence of his body guards nearby, the old man spoke. “That was my dad. I’m the guy who made them ubiquitous.”
The man was too rich to fear the likes of me. He didn’t believe that the knife could come for him.
Stu pulled the talisman and stabbed the Styrofoam cup guy through the heart, twisting the blade to insure irreparable damage. The knife collected another impoverished soul joining it to mine, increasing my power over its beleaguered prisoner.