Maximilian "The Poker" Crawford's Questionnaire

I live in the Manhattan borough of New York City, New York. I'm sure you've heard of it. Specifically, London Terrace. I maintain a small residence there that is close to my place of employment. I choose to live there as a point of status, not a true desire. Housing costs are expensive, but manageable with my comical salary. My father owns the firm I work for, Parsifal & Crawford, so employment is hardly an issue. My apartment is a cramped, Spartan thing, with little more than basic amenities. I have a small area devoted to personal exercise, and a desk with a personal computer and 3D printer. My bedroom has nothing in it save for a bed, closet, and nightstand, and I have a little shoe rack just by my apartment door. It seems humble, but is only the case due to how much of my income goes into renting this obscenely small home.

As stated, I work at Parsifal & Crawford, as a Senior Junior Executive Investment Banker. My father, Pascal Crawford, owns the company, and could reasonably be stated as the sole reason I work there. My income is disproportionately high for how little work actually perform, so I try to spend it as absurdly as possible. I own about three different cars across the country in random parking garages racking up fines, cars I quite frankly have no intent or ability to drive. I live in a century-old apartment complex out of sheer novelty, even though there are dozens of more suitable locations to reside. Finally, I "invest" almost all of my disposable income into online gambling. Just for fun. I have no illusion that I may turn a profit, but I have enough money that I don't know what to do with but not enough to actually warrant or morally require philanthropy.

My ambition is to kill rich people. I think that personal wealth is not a metric of no value, but allowing too much creates a disproportionate economy. If those with almost all of the money refuse to part with it, the only reasonable solution is to create more money, which sabotages those with little more than it sabotages those with a lot. So my solution is an unreasonable one. Simply kill the rich. Give them something to fear other than losing their money. Mortality is the only string that binds us to those with so much wealth and nothing to spend it on, and I intend to abuse that. Cut their ties, and nobody remains to maintain their mountain of greed. I will be the hero that nobody wants, but that they desperately need. I doubt I can do it alone, but I will start a new wave, one that recognizes the false god-monarchs for what they are: just as human as we.

When I was a young child, I was a source of scorn to other children. My father was not yet the owner of what was then Parsifal & Daxton, and while we were still quite wealthy, we were not as comically rich as we are now. Because of this, I was somewhat of an easy target of schoolyard bullying, and I would frequently be poked with rocks and sticks and other various sharp objects. They would even do it while I was in class. Then winter morning, I decided I was done taking their ire. I devised a persona for myself - The Poker - someone who would take vengeance. I poked all of them back with a foam sword my father purchased for my birthday. I recieved disciplinary action, of course, but my father said he was proud of me for standing up for myself despite the consequences. Even to this day, if I have spent too long accepting the burdens of someone else, I release The Poker - and he frees me from their burdens.

The first person of note in my life would be my father, Pascal Crawford. He is a wealthy man of whom I have little interaction with outside of work e-mails. Still, he is responsible for my good fortune, so I owe him much. He taught me how to fence with rapier, as he claimed it was much more proper than the Olympic styles. He is the foundation of much of my beliefs, though certainly not all of them.

The second would be my secretary, Daniel Shaye. To be frank, he does most of my work, as it mostly boils down to scheduling meetings with important people to talk about unimportant things. I still have to attend said meetings, but I'm sure he could figure out a way for me to avoid that, too. Daniel is a nice person, and I try to treat him the best I can, though, being the person I talk to the most, he is not unfamiliar with my temper.

The third, and whom I would say I am closest to, is not someone I know by name. Their online pseudonym is T0x1ph0b1a, and that is as much as I know and can say. We engage semi-frequently, but I would call them my closest friend as they are responsible for much of my latent changes in beliefs. They are the one that truly exposed the horrors of the world to me, and with their aid I wish to rid the world of the avarice of the obscenely wealthy. I know that I am strong enough to do so.

My childhood has already been discussed to some degree. My parents are Anita and Pascal Crawford. My mother died when I was very young. Other than my father, there is my elder sister, Jean. We are on amicable terms as of current. Last I checked, she was somewhere in Europe attempting to "find herself". She's been looking for twenty years. She's coasted off some useless art degree from Rutgers while I worked my ass off at Harvard. Still, us privileged kids can't all be success stories. She's a good woman, if a tad noncommittal.

I can recall little details of either of my parents. My father worked himself to the bone to get to where he is, so I knew few details of him when I was growing up. Jean took care of me, for the most part, and I achieved much. My schooling days are not something I look fondly upon, but they taught me how to take a blow. I am quite accustomed to receiving and doling out pain, and do so with little hesitation. I suppose I did not fit in due to my obviously superior nature. The other children resented how close I was to perfection, and when I inevitably reached it they simply snapped. Of course, it didn't take long for me to understand the necessity of swooping down to their level. How cruel children can be.

Love is a fool's emotion. Romantic attraction is not something I can say I have experienced, and I am glad for it. I have considered taking a spouse for the sake of keeping up appearances, but it is not an idea that I favour. It seems awfully distracting, caring about someone enough to prioritize their life over yours. There are individuals in my life that have earned my respect, but not once have I ever felt that I would sacrifice more than I would receive for their benefit. I do not understand the compulsion to love so deeply and so freely, nor do I particularly want to. I fear if I did, I would be a much weaker man.

I fear nothing, for why should I? Nothing possessing of any power to harm me has the will, and vice versa. The dark, monsters, and public speaking are nothing to the likes of me. I used to fear my father at times, but I have grown out of such a childish proclivity. Of course, that was his intent, but for good reason! An unruly child has no future. Jean was evidence enough of that. So old Pascal Crawford made do without a mother for his son and was forced to use a little fear-mongering. Who can blame him? I certainly don't. The threat of pain and other punishments kept me in line, and now I am the best of the best. The elite. A Senior Junior Executive Associate. Obviously there are higher positions within Parsifal & Crawford, but if I was raised to where I ought to be my father would be accused of all sorts of nepotism. Pascal Crawford would never partake in something so vain! But the mere accusation would tarnish his reputation, so I must work twice as hard to achieve half as much. It makes me strong, and knowing that I am fourfold better than those that call me "peer" makes it all the more manageable.

I have no prized possessions. Everything I own can be replaced, save for my newest pair of glasses. I have the means to purchase anything I require, and I require little. I attach no sentimental value to objects, for objects can be taken away. On that same track, I attach no sentimental value to anything, since anything can be taken away. People killed, building burned. Even memories can be forgotten. If anything will be dust anyway, why care? I strive to give people a positive impression of me, and I frequently aid others to help that impression. But I only do it for that. Not out of the kindness of my heart, not even convenience - I'd be more than happy to go out of my way to make someone life slightly worse. But if they knew it was I who did it, their impression of me would worsen. If I am to start a revolution I must appear pure so as to be untouchable by my opponents. Silencing me makes me a martyr if it is done too soon, but if it is always too soon, I become immortal.

The biggest problem in my life right now is that I don't know what to do. I assumed getting all this power would make the next step in my grand plan much easier, but all it has done is make my troubles seem foolish. Instead of the iron hand of the ruling class, I must instead chafe under the grip of powers beyond comprehension. I've never imagined the enlightened beings would be so malicious - but it feels like with every Contract I participate in, I only get a better view of how little I can truly glimpse. My intentions remain - I will usher in an age of fear for those that choose to hoard their resources. However, simply running up to a billionaire with my sword drawn seems a good way to get arrested - if I can even finish the job before being incapacitated. I have no qualms about being imprisoned, but I get the impression that the beings relying on my assistance might be somewhat miffed about having to break me out of prison every month - not to mention the hideous shade of orange I would have to wear.

I wake up seething to be working the capitalist yoke. I usually crack open a window and have a toke before fixing something for breakfast - I like to get up earlier so that I have extra time to cook. After eating, I try to sneak in some exercise before calling a car to work. I don't have the wealth or desire to have a vehicle on standby, so I just request one early and hope it arrive on time. I could, of course, walk to work - it would only be 20 or so minutes - but one must keep up appearances. Being so willing to sully myself by walking on the ground will make it much less surprising when I finally "snap". Of course, I won't be snapping at all - I've thought this out for years. However, if the public believes me to be an ordinary privileged asshole that finally sees the light, I believe I will make a better martyr. 

I always look my best. I often have somewhere special to be, so I always put a great deal of effort into my appearance. It used to take me nearly an hour to get ready in the morning, but with practice I have cleaved that time down to a brisk twenty-two minutes. Gelling and styling my hair, ensuring my facial hair is properly groomed, moisturizer, make-up, and that is not even mentioning the clothes. A suit, solid colour, with a matching paisley tie and pocket square. A complimentary white or black button-up shirt beneath it, then an appropriate pair of footwear. I wear subtly-platformed shoes, to better accentuate height, and must always wear them so as not to break the illusion. I have several pairs, in different styles and colors, and keep them immaculately polished. It can sometimes take longer to get ready in the evening, for I must send my suit to my dry-cleaner and clean all the muck off my shoes. It is tiring work, but worth it to prove my superiority.

Yes, my birthday. An event celebrating the time at which I entered this world. I do not particularly care for it, for it is merely a reminder of how much I have left to accomplish before I exit this plane. I have not yet left my mark on this realm. I grow stronger by the day, but not fast enough for meaningful, sudden change. Some say that violent uprising does not lead to stability due to the accelerated nature of reclaiming authority, but I say that those revolutions merely did not happen fast enough. Hit those who would keep you down-trodden out of left field. No gods, no masters.

Regret?

Regret.

In my time with this profession, I have met several other Contractors, of which I would organize into three categories.

The first: the boring. The people whom I either did not interact with substantially or did not particularly invoke an opinion. I would not necessarily hope to work with them again, but I also would not be particularly annoyed if I did have to.

The second: the promising. Those who impressed me in some way, were of like mind, or seemed useful allies to have. Should I require aid outside of a Contract, I would be inclined to call on them.

The third: the marked. Those that severely disappointed me, or committed an injustice. Few have fit this category, fortunately, but it still exists. Not all have attracted my ire enough to warrant hunting down, but should we cross paths again, I would have trouble swallowing my rage once more. And should I succeed in doing so, I would certainly regret it.

An interesting question. I have not made any direct wishes, though the powers I have recieved seem tailored to my preferences. My first gift was a rapier of extreme quality, that eventually gained the ability to extend in length for extra reach. Second, my blood seemed to gain some regenerative properties that I have adapted into cigarettes that mend scarred tissue. For my third, I manifested supernatural dexterity on top of my already extreme ability, and my fourth seemed to be an enhancement to my training with thrusting blades. My most recent has been reinforced skin, it seems, as my body is practically like iron. I doubt that these capabilities are innate, and merely being brought out, though they are clearly personalized. My abilities contribute to my fighting style, though I will admit to being a little disappointed in the delayed manifestation of any flashy magics. Though, such abilities would make keeping up The Masquerade much more difficult.

I would not besmirch religion or spirituality from another, but I cannot say I subscribe to any particular belief system. If there is a capital 'g' God, they'd have to be a pretty awful one to allow things to be the way they are. More likely is an ignorant or unintentional lowercase 'g' god, that accidentally created what we see and is powerless to change it. More likely still is that there is nothing but the cosmos above us, and we are responsible for ourselves. That thought is terrifying, which is why so many flock to oddity and justification, absurd as it may seem. I do not believe in any god or divine creator. If such a thing exists, I should hope to meet it to question it. And should I find its answers less than satisfactory, I would attempt to kill it. Justice. Vindication. Many suffer at its hands, and if it has the power to cease that suffering and refuses, then it is the worst kind of scum.

For nearly all of my life, the paranatural has been known to be real. It is no longer a question of if something absurd exists, but rather how true to its rumors it remains. I do not struggle with the knowledge of the existence of these things. Many odd creatures were known to exist before the confirmation of the alien, so it is only reasonable that more absurd things are to be found. The justification for their existence is perhaps lost, but they are known to be, even if their history is shrouded.

It is not an occurrence I have witnessed where I completely misunderstand the situations I am thrust into. I have strong instinct and a sharp wit, which allows me to determine the best course of action in any scenario. Should my deductions be incorrect, I imagine I would be quite flummoxed, as it is such an unlikely hypothetical. Still, I would get back to my feet in no time, and adjust accordingly.