Rogue Sashimi Italienne

He was an artist. A rogue street sashimi artist trawling the fish market for a workable slab of tuna, tilapia, or Atlantic cod. He would throw the wax paper-wrapped side of dorsal muscle into a custom crafted freezer backpack with electric green radiator tubing coiled all around. He had a plan that day... mafia-switchblade sushi roll.
Toting his kit into the rambling brown and gray brick of Little Italy, he found a shady spot where the concrete was cold despite the the early spring pleasance. He gazed up at the light plashing over, around, and through the young beech leaves, waiting for for a likely accesory to his next edible art masterwork.
"You, hey, you there, sir!" he called quickly, shedding his hermit crab shell of sushi mats, bonito flakes, bud-green wasabi paste, and mica-sparkly seaweed sheets. He stood and addressed the portly gentleman with his chinstrap mustache and slick, helmety hair. He felt a bit guilty for playing to stereotype, only to be pleasantly surprised at the refined tone of the tough.
"How might I help you?" the man asked, with a hint of Northern Italy at the margins, in spite of his Sicilian stockiness.
"Would you happen to have a 'knife'?" the artist asked, leaning in and nodding to make it clear that he wasn't looking for a fingernail Swiss Army edge.
"When does one have a knife, really?" queried the man in reply. "And who is asking?"
"Marcus Rumiel," replied the artist, poised to explain his request.
The man cut him off. He turned back to look down the street and yelled in almost bellicose Italian. The only word Marcus caught was "'Ey, Giovanni," and then a string of drunken piano pitches in words.
An even swarthier figure ambled up at that, and began a conversation punctuated with much finger-pointing towards the sushi-fier. The newcomer produced a fine butterfly knife, lighting a glint in Marcus' eye.
In a flash of zippers, the clacking of hardwood, and the miniscule whuff of a butane lighter, he set up his tiny table and lit a candle, the forlorn flame blowing in the breeze. The tuna (for that was the catch of the day) made a bloody quadrilateral for him to carve with the butterfly knife he had only moments before run through the fire. He opened a stoneware crock of fine short grain rice and ladled it out over a seaweed wrapper. Behind his whir of flashing steel and flaking papery green green, steam rose lazily out of the freezer backpack, curling around the lotus-folded legs of Marcus Rumiel.
On a delicate platter whipped out from a crackling sleeping bag of bubble wrap, the street sashimi artist presented to the mobsters his new and exciting mafia-switchblade tuna roll.