Daftwager Fan Mail

Daftwager Email:

Dear Lord Fitzwilly Daftwager, Doctor Von Quatloo, The Third, Esquire,

What is the deal with your name? Seriously, who has a name that long? Why would anyone have a name that is longer than this sentence?

Yours faithfully, Amanda Hugenkiss.


Dear A-man-duh,

Good question, to which there are four basic answers:

(a) My first name, Fitzwilliam, comes from my uncle on my father’s side, William. Yes, Fitzwilliam usually means ‘son of William’, but I assure you, I was not illegitmately fathered in the fevered, rutting embrace of inbred-incompetent adulterers. Not that I’m naive enough trust my mother on this, but rather because Uncle William was famously impotent. Very famously so. He used to tell people at parties.

He had become so in the course of crushing a rebel insurgency in one of the Queen’s post-colonials, being subject to impromptu castration by an enemy mine. Uncle William would then ask people if, in the privacy of his study, they would like to see exactly where he received his wounds. Once the morbidly curious had been seated, Uncle would lay out a map of the world and point out the region in question (somewhere in North Africa during the 1960s I believe). Sharing a laugh to relieve their tension and a glass of whiskey to reward their courage, Uncle William would then gesture to his pickled meat and two bits, kept in a jar over the fireplace. William considered the vomiting that followed a sufficient caution for curiosity. A caution that William admitted he himself could have used when younger, against curiosity concerning foreign parts that might have caused him to keep his private parts.

Regreting his genital disinheritance of genetic parental guidance, he asked my father if I might be named Fitzwilliam, son of William, so that he might have some sort of sword carrier into the future. My father agreed, because my Uncle also promised to take care of my inheritance, and because my father’s name was Muriel, which he kept like an STD – quietly, shamefully, with no urge to pass on.

(b) My title, Lord Daftwager, I inherit from my father. Technically it is the province of my still-living father, but as he resides entirely in the country all year round, I keep up upkeep on the family name in town during the fashionable seasons. On the event of Lord Muriel Daftwager’s death, the title passes to my elder brother and the chief inheritor, the then-Lord Allan Daftwager. However, as Allan is currently and constantly out in the countrysides of other countries, I still will be obliged to upkeep the family name in town, and all the pert-buttock & prod-bear perks that come with it.

Theoretically, I would become Lord Daftwager truly if Allan died, or if he was physically unfit to spawn an heir. As Allan and I have jovially been poisoning each other from childhood in our respective cots and cradles, I think the former option unlikely, no matter how many monkey cities he adventures in. Much more likely, due to his dangerous lifestyle, is the second option – as this is exactly what happened with the early-Lord William Daftwager and his younger brother, the later-Lord Muriel Daftwager. But that would be a below the belt move, which would not be below me, but one which revenge by my brother would be swift and unfortunately survivable, and leave us both equally frustrated financially, progenitively and sexually.

Therefore I usually just strangle, shoot, drown, poison, decapitate, disintegrate, burn, blow up or melt those insane, inbred and or indulged members on the outer edges of the family who suckle on a small percentage of the inheritance and are insufficiently Daftwager enough to expect any death at any second and defend themselves accordingly. Or if they haven’t sent my mother a Christmas card in ten years.

(b) My doctorate, Doctor Von Quatloo, I inherit from my mother. Not a technical inheritance – I did have to attend and complete evil college and evil medical school – but I do use her maiden name of Von Quatloo to associate myself with her own medical studies. True, I could just have pretended to be a doctor if all I wanted was to see women naked in social situations, but for that ambition I have found ‘almost Lord’ works a lot better than ‘amateur gynacologist’, so the only real reason was the mad science.

Also, as a younger son, I had to have a ‘trade’ to fall back on if the laser-wielding madman arts didn’t work out. Oh come now, the medical profession is a trade. It is practically an engineering-repair job on a particularly unintelligent design. The fuel intake valve on the same pipe as the oxygen intake? Dear hells below. Besides, those pansy doctors can’t operate on themselves, and I am the only one I know worth saving.

As for the Von Quatloo, my mother’s maiden name and the one she pursues in her own experiments with, it comes from the famed German Meinschaft engineering empire, as does my mother. I however have no claim to the Meinschaft fortune, no matter how many people I kill. By tradition, the present Herr Meinschaft may have as many biological children as he wants, all of whom take his wife’s maiden name, but his only inheritor can only be one of the foundlings, found at the front door of the Schaftworks. The tradition began with the very first Meinschaft forge-foundry, and adoption each subsequent generation doing for the Meinschaft’s business of weapons what such adoption did for Bonka’s business of chocolates. Becoming a force in the world weapon’s industry, the orphan heirs become entirely dedicated to the work which gives him his singular origin. This has made the Meinschafts, the ones who would sell to anyone, and could sell to anyone, unquantifiably rich.

As one would imagine, this causes a veritable army of orphans to be dropped on the Meinschaft doorstep. No matter. The boys, as they all are, are raised in the Schaftworks, each given a first name of a founder Meinschaft, each given equal training, opportunity and incentive to advance upwards in the Schaftworks, until the retirement of the current Herr Meinschaft, and all his properties are passed on indiscriminately to his chosen orphan.

When my maternal grandfather retired, my mother’s elder sister married the new Meinschaft. My mother bet on the wrong orphan, (as I do so often myself at the orphanage’s race night and knife fights) and remained Heimlich Von Quatloo, her mother’s having the maiden name Von Quatloo, and being a sadist. She was a fully qualified medical doctor, as all of the Von Quatloo children were aware of the day the money would move on. She met my father when he was taken with the gout during his Grand Tour of the continent. She told me ‘almost Meinschaft’ doesn’t work as well ‘amateur guy-nacologist’ to see young men naked in social situations. Thus the German mad scientist took the title of Lady Daftwager for public discretion, and remained Dr. Von Quatloo for private profession.

(c) The Third comes from being both the third Lord Fitzwilliam Daftwager (the second being my uncle, the first being my name-sadist paternal grandfather), and the third Doctor Von Quatloo (the second being my mother, the first being my name-sadist maternal grandmother). And, yes, I was the younger child of two evilly-named younger children, both of whom whose birth order decided their birthright. I received more hugs than was healthy.

Also, it is occassionally a signal to my membership of the Thirds, an organisation much headlined, in this dimension at least, by fellows such as Top Hat, Bill Eldritch, Hell Boyle, etc. I am nothing more than a lowest level brother, but its wide diversity allows a few simple signs and silly sayings to get oneself into nice situations and out of bad ones. Generally I consider this Illuminati-Mason mumbo jumbo to be nothing more than the mutual mastubatory impulse of those whose love of hidden hideouts and secret handshakes for the sake of secret handshakes. And it is.

Especially in the Third’s case. But should these conspiracy covens ever actually lose the love of ‘deftly affecting world events from behind the scenes’ and actually start shooting people for power like the rest of us, then something of a war will be on. Particularly with the Seconds and the Firsts. Essentially, the Thirds are the Third Estate. The Third Prince. The Third Planet. The Third Dimension. The First and Second Estates, be they Nobility and Church, Capitalists and Communists, Masons and Illuminati, Superheroes and Supervillains, Wizards and Mathemagicians, Martians and Venusians, Mad Library Scientists and Barbarian Librarians, Angels and Demons, Monad Kings of the First Dimension and the Anarchy Gods of the Fifth Dimension, etc., will always be locked in eternal struggle and will always produce a Third, innocent third party pawns through whom the war is acted out, or third-level enemy agents who find themselves to have more in common with their immediate opposite numbers than they do with their distant superiors. The Thirds are angels that never really fell, or rose. The Thirds are vigilantes who steal to fund their operations and mob bosses who protect and develop their neighbourhood territory. The Thirds are thaumaturges who were neither awful evil or lawful good, which is a roundabout way of saying they have a lot more fun shooting wildly into melees. An average Third has little alignment but to quietly make a fortune, and aren’t ideologically wedded to either order or chaos, good or evil, one-dimesional squares or five-dimesional tesseracts.

The Thirds call this a revelation. I call this merely Not Being One Of Five Main Characters In A Story, i.e., Almost Everyone Else. This is why they wage their war for Third control through everyday instances and obscure dimensions, and why I myself am nothing more than a lowest level member of the Thirds. And the Seconds. And the Firsts. I can’t actually do wrong. Its a liberating feeling from which one must step back, or I would simply start shooting shotgun shells into the street. Pirate Pete Pequod has had the same revelation, but does not subsequently see the need to rein back the shoot-up-the-street impulse.

(d) The fourth basic answer on the origins of my name is that your first name, Amanda, obviously is the code your parents used to imply that they actually wanted a boy. Your second name should release you from your grief of being unable to fulfil your parent’s baby-boy hopes, because it seems to be fake name given to your ancestors upon emmigration by some frustrated customs official, so your parents probably come from a history of murder.

However, its not as if you haven’t become a mannish murderer girl yourself. After all, I did hack the password to your email account (‘uglyduckling’) and tracked your usual IP address. A brief roadtrip and I was watching those hairy hands of yours stuff a dismembered body into a garbage bag after yet another unsuccessful pity-date. Did he tease you about your name too?

Also, your hair smells like poo.

Fondest regards, Lord Fitzwilly Daftwager, Doctor Von Quatloo, The Third, Esquire.


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