Name: Davis Mortimer Sinclair, “Morgan”

Born
Place: New York, New York
Date: Friday, October 27, 1950
Family
Father: Frederick Michael Sinclair (D.O.B. September 17, 1913)
Mother: Rebecca Lynn (Carver) Sinclair (D.O.B. May 6, 1917)
Brother: Donald Michael Sinclair (D.O.B. October 28, 1950)

History (transcripted from an interview by noted ruthless tabloid reporter Roger O’Neill, c 1997)
Roger: Testing. One, two, three. *break* Alright, the tape’s working. Let’s get this interview underway. Ready?
Morgan: Of course.
R: Good. First would you please tell me your name for the record?
M: You’re the investigative reporter, why don’t you tell me?
R: Hmm. Alright, “Morgan.” Or should I say Mr. Davis Morgan Sinclair?
M: Close. Mortimer was my middle name, not Morgan. And I thought you were a good reporter.
R: Hey, it was tough enough finding out what I did, so lay off that shit.
M: *sigh* Sure. So tell me, what else did you find out about me?
R: No. Un-unh. I’m asking the questions here, not you.
M: Mr. O’Neill... *static begins* Roger... I think it would be better my way. *static ends* You tell me what you’ve found out so far, and I’ll fill in the gaps.
R: Yea... OK. That does sound better. Allright. *deep breath* You were born... forty-seven years and four days ago in New York, happy birthday by the way. you had a twin brother born about two hours later, but after midnight, so he was technically born the next day.
Your parents, Frederick and Rebecca, were well-to-do. Old money if I’m not mistaken. *pause*
M: You’re not. Continue.
R: OK. The major events in your childhood: Korea, ’Nam, Nixon—
M: I was too young when Korea happened, I never really gave a flying fuck about Vietnam, and Nixon was just a petty little Hitler wannabe. And I don’t consider them major events in my childhood. Exapmle: on my seventh birthday dad bought me a Leggo set and I discovered my love of building. For the next two years, that’s what i dumped my allowance into. *chuckles* Mom hated that, said I was wasting my time with "those foolish things." So... what other major events did I have in my childhood?
R: The next one would be... *rustling of papers* in nineteen sixty. Your uncle Gerald, from your father’s side if I’m not mistaken, was staying over for some reason or other. Unfortunately, he fell asleep in the basement with a whiskey in one hand and a cigar in the other. The chair he was sitting in caught on fire, which quickly spread to the rest of the house. Lucky for the rest of the family the dog started barking his head off and woke everyone up in time to get out.
M: Interesting...
R: What? Did I get something wrong?
M: Not exactly. Dad’s friends must have been in some pretty high places to keep the story up this long.
R: You’re saying it might not have been an accident?
M: I’m saying that Gerald locked me and my brother in the basement and was having his way with mom when dad got home from work. Dad shattered that whiskey bottle over Gerald’s bald head and shoved the rest into what was left of the face. The fire insurance had been in place or almost two years, so dad set him up downstairs with a new bottle and a lit cigar. When the fire was put out, he called up some friends in the 17th presinct and arranged to have the autopsy say what he wanted.
R: Your father was a murderer?
M: Fratrecide, technically, but yea. That's the only one I know of though. We never talked of it afterwards either. So, can yo tell me how that affected me?
R: It taught you a lesson in the lowered value of human life?
M: Not really. It melterd all my Leggo constructions into one solid rainbow-hued puddle. Now can you guess the lesson I learned from that?
R: Shit happens?
M: More than that. Nothing lasts forever, everything changes, everything breaks down. And there's not a damn thing you can do about it. The old breaks way and makes room for the new. You see, if the house hadn't been burnt down, I never would have been able to see the cunstruction workers in action—
R: —and never would have had such a head start in architecture.
M: Exactly.
R: So next would be... *more rustling of papers* May twenty-fifth, nineteen sixty three, the day you stumbled into the Underground Railroad tunnel in the basement of the museum. Your brother had won first place in the school art show, the prise being fifty bucks and a one-week showing of his painting. You probably got bored and slipped away to go
M:
R: