davis

If fault had a name, it would be called Davis.  Davis was, by all accounts, a faulty appliance; one that after purchase works once then dies in a wisp of smoke named Parfum de Molten Plastique.  A "made in Taiwan" sort of fellow, which was ironic him being a janitor from Taipei.  Davis was not his real name, obviously.  His real name started with an "x" and ended with "z", had a "q" in it which didn't have a regular "q" sound, and the rest interspersed with a random assortment of vowels.  But he called himself Davis, a less faulty-sounding name for a flimsy wooden hut on a cataclasite rock formation, shaped exactly like himself, but less pungent.  Davis was the conspirator of naught, the orator of lip-curling foreign mumblings, the protagonist extraordinaire of nonsensical vignettes.