Phylum Moridoc's Questionnaire

I live on a private estate near Manhattan, though I maintain an apartment in Boston and Los Angeles as well (plus the Munich penthouse, but we don't really talk about that). It's really not very interesting as to why I live here - it's a very large house and I inherited it when my dear parents experienced that tragic plane crash, so why not make use of it? The estate is actually a small compound - sort of a village on its own, all things considered. The staff all live on-site - they generally keep out of my hair and that suits me just fine. There's a wall that encircles the compound - the servants' apartments are near the front wall in three separate buildings, each of which is divided into studio apartments with shared recreational spaces. The other building of significant size on the campus is the castle - where I live. A tall and imposing gothic structure my grandfather had constructed as a vanity project, festooned with steeples, gargoyles, and a horrible old clock tower.

I fucking love the place. It even has a dungeon!

My income is primarily from the form of interest statements, dividends, and the business ventures I inherited from my parents. I don't really know the details on where it comes from - I have accountants for that. I'm what the magazines would call a socialite if they cared to get close - fortunately for me, my potential for public scandal was used up in about six months when I was 12, and they haven't bothered me since. I use my money to do whatever the fuck I want - meet hot people, go on wild trips, try out strange new drugs, that sort of thing. Sometimes I'll buy a sports car and trash it, or ruin fancy hotel rooms.

A lot of my money goes to cleaners, though. I have particular hobbies that could get me in trouble if the spoilsports in the police department found out about them - fortunately for me, there are loads of people who are very good at clearing out dirty laundry to help me hide mine.

The whole world is a huge fucking fraud.

Everyone acts like they know things: scientists, politicians, philosophers. The only one of the bunch who ever had a good idea was Socrates, and his only good idea was to recognize that he didn't know shit. Everyone is so sure of themselves, trundling along their silly little lives doing all the horrible things humans like to do as though they have any kind of control until bam - plane crashes and they're dead.

I'd do anything to change that.

People need to be made to understand that they don't have control, that there is no such thing as control and there is no such thing as actually knowing anything. The only part of the world anyone ever experiences is all qualia - individual experiences perceived by flawed sensory organs and filtered through unique lumps of temporary fat fueled by electrochemical processes. Everyone only thinks that they know anything because when Bob sees what he calls red Jane sees what she calls red, even if those things are totally fucking different.

I would do anything to change that.

When I was 10 years old, my parents' plane went missing on a business trip to Germany. Everyone assumes it crashed, but technically, it just disappeared over the atlantic - here one moment, gone the next, like the Bermuda fucking triangle. For my whole life before then, it was always "later" - we'll go to the ball game later, we'll play piano later, we'll see a movie later. Like any good kid, I believed my parents when they said that right up until the point I realized "later" was never going to happen. I was angry about it for a long time, but in hindsight that's the event that made me understand how the world really works - the illusion of certainty, of control.

Clarice, my driver. She's a middle aged woman who I think used to be a pilot in the airforce, before some scandal with flying high took her out of the sky. She's surly, but I like that about her. She listens to my problems and doesn't lie to my face when I ask her advice on them, and she doesn't ask questions when I'm out too late - just gets me home and helps me clean up. She'll never hesitate to let me know if she thinks I'm being a jackass, and I truly truly appreciate that about her. She's basically my right hand.

Sebastian Ludvig von Dietrich, my butler. I think he might actually be a zombie - tall, gaunt, thin lipped and he was old when my dad was young. Absolutely terrifying man of very few words, but he doesn't need many words to keep the staff in line. He's decidedly gray. Great head for finances, though.

Danny Buzz, my tattoo artist. He's a total sellout, but he's damn good with a needle, takes cash, and doesn't think he knows better than his clients, unlike most of the assholes I tried before I met him. He's a bit out of the way though - I have to go to Boston to get new ink.