Interview With an Octopus, Part 8: Mysterio

"Richard Deacon. So your qualifications are-"

 

Splooge

 

"Your quali-"

 

Schplatt

 

"Mr. Deacon your qualifications are that-"

 

Spluutch

 

"Okay Pete!" Octavius shouts, turning to the man clad in purple and gold, currently spraying the hole made by Osborn with glue. "I believe the wall is sealed well enough."

 

"Nah-ah, Doc," Petruski says, jamming his thumb into his chest, "I'm the Trapstah' now!"

 

"Right," Octavius sighs, looking at the clipboard held by one of his mechanical arms. "Your application has you listed as Paste Pot Pete, so that is how I'll refer to you."

 

"Ah, doesn' mattah,'' Petruski mumbles, walking towards the door with a smug grin. "We'll both remembah this little 'favah' I did for ya, wink wink."

 

Octavius inhales deeply as the man leaves, turning back to The Human Fly, who sits in front of him, an oblivious smile on his face. "Where were we," he initiates, attempting to regain his composure.

 

"Δεν μου αρέσει ο άνθρωπος της αράχνης."

 

Octavius sits frozen for a moment, staring at the man in front of him utterly gobsmacked. "What?" he questions, looking back down at the application, face falling as he realizes multiple sentences are structured worse than many of the incompetent villains' apps he's read today. "Did you fill out this form with Google translate?"

 

"Έχω φτερά στην πλάτη μου. rhey μου επιτρέψτε να πετάξω!" the man explains, twisting his torso slightly and pointing to his back.

 

"I-I don't understand you," Octavius stresses, attempting to signal the man with hand motions. "What is that, Italian? Greek?"

 

"Είχα γιαούρτι για πρωινό! ήταν πολύ νόστιμο, σε ευχαριστώ που ρώτησες καλαμαράκι!" Deacon smiles, giving Octavius two thumbs up.

 

"I… I'm sorry, no job," he says, shaking his head no. "Please leave?"

 

"Είμαι προσληφθείς;" Deacon asks, pointing towards the door.

 

"Yes yes, please leave!" Octavius exclaims with a sigh of relief.

 

Deacon stands from his seat, grabbing onto one of Octavius' metal arms and shaking it wildly. "Ευχαριστώ για την ευκαιρία! Δεν θα σε απογοητεύσω!" he gleefully says, running out of the room with a newfound pep in his step.

 

Octavius leans back in his chair, pressing his palm to his face. His metal arms pull a bottle of Excedrin from the desk's drawer, popping the cap and dumping two of the pills into it. Octavius reaches up, taking the cap and downing the pills, allowing another arm to pour some water into his mouth.

 

Two hundred forty one applicants… two have been accepted. He doesn't want to be here any longer. "Please, god," he mumbles, opening his eyes, "please be someone sane…"

 

Taking a look at the file, a loud, drum-like sound causes him to jump, dropping the clipboard onto the desk, knocking over the glass of water. In the middle of the room spawns a cauldron of bats, all dispersing into a green cloud of smoke. Octavius sighs, looking down at the application.

 

"The Master of Illusions, the Duke of Deception, the Baron of Boondoggling," a voice calls from the mist, stepping out into the light, "Mysterio, at your service."

 

Octavius stares at the man, clad in green and gold, a magenta cape wrapped around his dome helmet and draping to the floor. "There is a door that you could have walked through, Quintin…" he sighs, making a small mark on the clipboard.

 

"Uh, I did," Beck admits, jutting his thumb to the corner of the room as his other hand rubs the back of his dome. "I slipped in just before Osborn's stunt."

 

"You've been sitting in here… cloaked?"

 

"Yes I have."

 

Octavius bits his lip, stopping himself from insulting the man. "Okay, Quintin, we have worked together on numerous occasions," he begins, dabbing his pen on his tongue before scribbling down notes. "You are a master illusionist, have a high-level intellect, are proficient in both electrical and micro engineering, and have a slightly above-average physique. All things that are desirable for the Six."

 

"Yes, all correct," Beck chuckles, taking a small bow, causing Octavius' eyes to roll. "Now, there was a second part of the audition, no?"

 

"I-interview…"

 

"Yes, that," he disregards, reaching behind his back. From a fold in his cape, he pulls a stack of papers all stapled together.

 

"What is that… where did it come from?"

 

"My tale of how I almost got Spider-Man!" Beck announces, causing a flash of fake lightning inside the room.

 

"That looks like a novel," Octavius mumbles, counting the pages in awe as Beck flips through.

 

"No no, a novel is much too long," he reassures, pulling out a second copy and placing it on Octavius' desk. "This is more akin to a novelette."

 

"Okay… just… just start," Octavius sighs, gritting his teeth. "Please, god, start."

 

"My pleasure!"

 

It was a night, one not like any other. The cold, harsh winds of December rattled the tree branches, now stripped bare of their crimson foliage. The light flakes fell against my cape and helm, dusting both cloth and glass with the winter's bite. The light of the moon bathed overtop the men who accompanied me, as well as myself, giving me an ethereal glow that outmatched even polaris its-"

 

"Beck… what are you doing?" Octavius interrupts, stopping the green-suited man's story.

 

"Is there a problem, Dr. Octavius?" Beck asks, lowering the papers and eyeing a very confused Octavius. "If you didn't catch it, I can restart."

 

"Wh… what is all of the flowery exposition?" he asks, dumbfounded as he flips through the pages of his script. "It goes on for 10 pages…"

 

"I beg your pardon?"

 

"The purple prose," Octavius says, one of his mechanical arms tapping his head as if he was jogging his own memory. "All the extra adjectives and descriptions aren't needed."

 

"I am setting the scene, Otto," Beck gasps, a look of disgust hidden beneath his bowl as he enunciates 'Otto'. The villain crosses his arms, sneering at Octavius. "Would you rather I leave out important details?"

 

"I don't care about the snow, or the color of mook number one's hair," Octavius groans, dragging his palm down his face, "I just want your story…"

 

"M'kay," Beck mumbles, pouting. "You want my story?"

 

"Yes… Quintin…"

 

"I set a trap for Spider-Man, it didn't work, I lost. There is your story."

 

Octavius stares at the man, frozen in disbelief. "Are you a toddler?" he asks, genuinely unsure whether Beck was being serious or not.

 

"I gave you what you wanted!" Beck snaps, his voice raising an octave. "Nooooo extra details, just as you asked."

 

"I want you to tell the story of how you almost killed Spider-Man, but I don't need you tacking on a 200 page description of his mask's color!"

 

"His mask took two pages if you'd read it…"

 

"This is not a game, Quintin!" Ock shouts, slamming his claw onto the table, leaving a crack down the middle of the desk. "I have been here for HOURS. I am not in the mood for your failed script!"

 

"If you think my art is merely a 'game', then I shall be leaving through the goblin sized hole in the wall that is dripping of white goo," Beck frowns, pointing to the hole.

 

Octavius sighs, watching the glue from the botched repair job fall to the floor. "That's fine, Beck. If you will not listen to my simple requests," Octavius announces, bringing himself to a stand and opening the interview room's door, "then you can leave."

 

"Hmph," Beck pouts as he walks out into the waiting room.

 

"Alright, wh-" Octavius begins, pausing as he eyes who was left in the room. Petruski sits tapping his foot with one finger stuck up his nose. The Living Brain and Will O' the Wisp chat, the former speaking in a series of beeps, morse code. Finally was The Looter, who munched on a hotdog he swore was thrown into the trash by Boomerang earlier today.

 

"Oh, Mr. Ock, is it my turn?" Trapster asks giddly, standing from his seat and wiping the booger he dug out onto the chair in the process.

 

Octavius' metal arm clamps down onto Beck's shoulder, stopping him in his exit. The illusionist turns, a small question mark of smoke appearing above his head.

 

"Quintin, please take the job," he begs, holding up the script. "I'll let you read it to the rest of the team when we meet up."

 

"What!?"

 

"This is unacceptable."

 

"We've been sitting here all day!"

 

".-.. .. ..-. . / .. ... / .- / -.-. .-. ..- . .-.. / -- .. ... - .-. . ... ... .-.-.-"

 

"I knew you'd come around, Doctor Octavius," Beck smiles, taking a bow and vanishing in a cloud of smoke.

 

"God I hate it when he does that," Octavius coughs, not missing the magenta cape slipping through the building's door as it shuts. "Alright, you're all free to go. Perhaps next time."

 

"But Doc," Petruski cries, jumping to a stand, "I filled ya' hole up nice and tight!"

 

"That… don't say it like that," Octavius cringes in disgust at the thought. "I appreciate your help, Pete, but we are the Sinister Six, and currently need no more members… and the glue didn't stick."

 

"But the Trapstah'..."

 

"Get. Out. Now!" Octavius screams, watching as the four stood and left the building.

 

"We can make our own team…"

 

"The fuckable four!"

 

".... ..- -- .- -. .. - -.-- / .-- .- ... / .- / -- .. ... - .- -.- ."

 

"Boomerang missed out on that dog."

 

Ock sighs as the four leave. He turns, re-entering the interview room and plopping down onto his desk chair. Two of his tentacles immediately come to his head, rubbing his temples gently as he closes his eyes.

 

"Long day?"

 

Octavius looks up to see Spider-Man himself hanging upside-down in the wall's hole. He stares at the wall crawler, a rush of several emotions running through his mind. His eyes, however, shut once more as he opts to lean back in his chair.

 

"You have no idea."

 

~ Fin ~

Done