Thurston Howell V

Thurston Howell V


Thurston Howell V gladly accepts his grandfather’s name and the bank that comes with it, but has no interest in carrying on the family legacy. Thurston asks the simple question “why plan for the future and work to ensure a strong Howell estate for generations to come when I can spend it all now?”

So he did, on his own private isle in the South Pacific. He lived there among the wilderness in a hut he built of cane. The cane also made a fine rum. Life was floating along just fine until the melting ice caps finally submersed his island paradise.

Afloat at sea on an outrigger made of kelp and coconuts with nothing but a guitar and several cases of fine cane rum, Thurston was eventually able to stow away on an ore boat returning from the orient to the burg he now calls home. It was belly up to the bar at the Owls Club where he made his first acquaintance. “That’s a fine looking rum, care for some tequila?” His name was Rain Clave, “We have much to discuss.”