Don’t let the name fool you—Stabby's a sweet guy. “Gotta love ’em all” He’s made his way around this country and beyond, earning a reputation for having a real knack for fixing things.  Once, on the Paris Metro, he took a stab at fixing a fellow who had gotten “a little too impolite and a little too close” for Stabby’s Southern sensibilities. Problem solved. More or less.  These days, he’s usually seen carrying an old fiddle case, though nobody seems quite sure what’s inside. Some claim it holds his great-uncle’s fiddle, only slightly damaged in a house fire, apparently takes a crowbar to get the thing open. Not much for practicing but he’ll saw the bow.  Stabby is a man of contradictions. A traveler who ended up on a frozen island a few miles south of the Canadian border. A fixer by trade—or at least by reputation. Whatever the problem, he'll take a stab at it.

Tabarnak Esti!  Hailing from New Brunswick.  Shediac to be exact.  Say another word.  Canadian Rednecks.  Living on smoked herring on the edge of the Bay of Fundy, selling stimulants so the tourists can escape the tides.  An aspiring member of a notorious group of hellish heavenly fellows.  Sucking down sweets to appease his ravenous hunger for the lower parts.  Floating on an old double bass with one oar and a sack of smoked herrings on the northern shore.  Desperately awaiting the tide to send him home after a week of pillaging Saint Jeans.  Attaching a large crab shell to the end of his bow he rows himself home all the while singing Evangiline to anyone who would listen.