Puh-Puh-Puh-Poker Face

The positively remarkable success of Roderick Kingsley and his cohort Quentin Beck was a resounding feat. Overnight, the duo went from scrupulous ex-cons, to a cult duo of eccentric celebrities. The overwhelming amount of videos and photos and stories of these two gadget weilding rogues vanquishing the terroristic threat of Sin, spread like a wild fire across the web. They were heroes, they were celebrities, all in one day they were suddenly thrusted into the limelight and swarmed by paparazzi, all begging, screaming, and demanding answers. Some relevant, like what contract or covenant they'd formed with the government, others stupid and pointless like their favorite childhood drinks.... Needless to say, the feds only declassified the answers of only the most pointless and inane questions. The questions were disinteresting at best to the goblin king Kingsley, though Beck likely wholeheartedly welcomed the adoration and adulation of the roaring crowds. No, what Beck likely saw as fans to be blessed and consumed with, Kingsley saw as opportunity... The opportunity for money... A whole damn lot of money... The potential for franchising this were infinite. The movie rights alone would make them fabulously wealthy, beyond their wildest dreams. The capitalistic mania surging through his warped and deranged mind was overwhelming. "Got a whole lotta money that's a'ready to burn ~ so get those stakes up higher!"

This particular trip, whilst officially a contract and mission from Uncle Sam (a mission that was only accepted by Kingsley for the free plane tickets), this was entirely meant for the celebration and commemoration of Beck and Kingsley's first major victory as "super heroes". While the contract money would be the crémé de la crémé on top, Hobgoblin's main objective of fun and booze was blatantly obvious to those around him. "There's a thousand pretty woman'a waitin' out there"

Las Vegas, Nevada; the dabauchery capital of the world. Gambling, prostitution, the glam and glitz of this grand and glorious city was rivaled only by the gold paved streets of Hollywood. Neons lights flickered and flashed by, the sky sparkled with artificial stars of red, blue, white, green and everything in between. A city you'd recognize from the moon. Basking in this glorious land of lights and glitter was the limousine of none other than the aforementioned Roderick Kingsley. "Stop." The vehicle sped violently through a green lit stoplight and galloped down the ebony roads of Las Vegas Boulevard. The devious devil, Hobgoblin held his head out the backseat window, howling out lyrics into the shrill Vegas nightscape. Wind breezed through his bleached hair, and rattled his glasses slightly. A jolly grin, far less malicious than his usual smile, found itself etched into his face. Flashes of red, green, and yellow all flickered off his very human face and reflected off his lenses as the Sinister Two's personal transport zipped past dull traffic. "And they're all livin' the devil may care ~ and I'm just the devil with love to spare"

"Stop singing." Kingsley had the volume turned up to deafening levels. It made even the angelic voice of Elvis Presley into some ear damning howls, blasting so that even the passing traffic could hear. Half decently, the ghoulish goblin echoed the music, though only proceeded to irk his fellow passengers within the limousine. One in particular was seated in the front passenger side. A government stiff, and perpetual frowner, his name was Henry. Henry Gyrich. His hair was a slicked back strawberry blonde with a few streaks of grey. His face was wrinkled, and in the position of that very same ever present frown, with eyes grimly shaded by a dull pair of square glasses. He wore a simple, bland green suit with a yellow bottom up and tie just underneath. This was a stark contrast to Kingsley, whom was quite obviously dressed to gamble tonight. "Viiiivaaa Las Vegas!! Viiiiiivaaaaaa Las Vegas!" The Hobgoblin howled into the night sky. It was at these high notes when Henry had his fill. The last straw. With a scolding ire, the ill-tempered agent turned to Kingsley from the front seat. Gyrich's icey glasses meeting the deep blue of Kingsley's irises. It was haunting, really, the cold and grim glare of Henry Gyrich could rattle even the staunchest of souls, and Roddie K. Was far from an exception. "You aren't here to gamble. You aren't here to have fun. You're here undercover."

There was a tense silence following Gyrich's monotonous outburst. It seemed as though even the great Elvis Presley (may God rest his soul) had fell still. Childishly, the sixty year old man child scowled, crossing his arms and glaring to Gyrich. "Lighten up, Henry! Eeeesh!" Rather then heeding Kingsley's request, Gyrich went straight to the point. As to be expected with all business no pleasure type that he was. "We have reason to suspect that a Neo Human has found himself in a seat of power in the Vegas underworld."

"Yes, we know why we're here... But... Why are you here? Huh, Henry?" Spoken with obvious sarcasm, Roderick's voice had just a tinge of hostility in it as he addressed his "superior" with a question. Unphased by the Hobgoblin's impudent attitude, Gyrich provided a blanche, stern, and honest answer. "Because of the tax payer money spent clearing all the damage you both caused yesterday" Kingsley rolled his eyes and blurted a protest "Well it was mostly her fault!" That her being Sam Calloway, the terrorist the Sinister Two took out a mere day earlier (an astounding victory that was, and the whole reason Kingsley accepted a contract in Vegas). "You're telling me, she reached into your satchel, pulled out those unlicensed explosives, and made fourty-five creators?"

"Well no... But-" Kingsley attempted a rebuttal to that last snide comment to no avail. "And I suppose she crashed your glider through Taco Bell?" Hobgoblin shrunk at that lady remark, tugging at the collar of his suit anxiously as sweat slowly began to accumulate on his usually smug face. "Heh-heh, about that I-" Before he could fumble over some slimey excuse, Gyrich interjected a third time. "And of coarse she was the one that left twenty dead animatronics scattered across the highway." Kingsley looked pleadingly to his cohort Mysterio, as if begging the domed daredevil for some help against this insurmountable enemy. "I don't like this!" The goblin protested to deaf ears.

"The taxpayer doesn't like this either. You better listen, Kingsley. You and your little enterprise are-" A slow rising black window rose between Henry and the sinister duo, cutting off the agent just as he was lecturing the pair. The perpetrator of this heinous act was none other than Roderick Kingsley, grinning maniacally at this petty act. "Oops... Heh-heh-heh-heh-heh-heh-heh-hah-hah-hah-hah-hah!" In that fit of maniacal laughter, Roderick Kingsley's true colors emerged. His skin peeled and flaked off, yellowish scales bubbled like reptilian leather. His pearly whites were like fangs, long and pointed. Snarling and drooling fangs which made his maniacal cackle all the more sinister. The hideous grin of the Hobgoblin was clearly visible in this elderly human's face. The manic glee was unmistakeable, and that slimy and sleazy laugh was indescribably iconic. The vague cackling outline of Hobgoblin was there, yet it was just a human. A very cruel and very sordid human, but still a human nonetheless. "Heh-heh! What a maroon...." Kingsley chuckled slyly, pulling out a crinkling a dull newspaper highlighting their exploits from beneath his seat. He snickered to himself for minutes afterwards, the snickers and giddy little chortles of a deranged and manic child. After so long, the giggling faded into awkward silence. A shrill and cold quietness of two teammates which hardly knew eachother. A quiet and intolerable atmosphere, Kingsley wasn't quite sure what to say, so instead he cowered behind the crinkly articles of the Washington Post. They were business partners, Beck and Kingsley, yes. In this endeavor of heroism at least. But, they hardly knew one another. They were vague acquaintances at best. Sure, they could bounce a few quips and some snarky ball-busting here and there, but there really wasn't much of a connection. In fact, Mysterio was such a, well, mystery to him that it was on several occasions just tonight he'd misspoken Beck's name. Whatever the reactions were at the time are irrelevant, but the mistakes are of note. Hobgoblin, specifically Roderick Kingsley as Hobgoblin, was not really that well acquainted with those others in his rogues gallery. As a villain, he mostly worked alone, perhaps aiding the odd Z-Lister in a costume or two, but mostly he kept to himself with his schemes. A stark contrast to Sinister Six regular, Quentin Beck. Awkwardly, the goblin goon cleared his throat, coughing a little behind his papery wall before finally deciding to make small talk. "Oh yeah, did I tell ya? I got us booked for Colbert next week" He announced in an almost disinterested tone. His face and hair veiled entirely by the oversized bunch of papers "I think Ellen's interested in is too, but I haven't reached out yet"

Mysterio's moping was not overlooked by Hobgoblin, despite expectations. Kingsley was a manipulator, and a conman, if there was one thing he knew (besides money), it was emotions. Not that it wasn't painfully obvious anyway. The tells were outright blatant. Quiet, disinterested, lost in some la-la land. Hell, Q didn't even provide his usual dry wit to Kingsley's bumbling. (How uncharacteristic!) At Beck's response, Hobgoblin simply lowered his paper. Glaring daggers at the showman through piercing blue eyes. Damnit! This was f#%&ing Las Vegas! Not Mopesville, Nevada. No one was going to ruin this not. Not some government stiff, not some Neo-Human freak, and certainly not some bowl-head, bowl-cut, ball-baby! If Quentin wanted to sulk, then he could do it on his own time! But this... This was a company field trip; and God damnit, Roderick Kingsley was going to enjoy it. With a long and furious and nigh-unending glare, a flurry of angry selfish thoughts ran through his mind. A flotilla of furious rumination and schemes for either murder, or fun (and in some cases, both). Damnit! We're gonna have a good time if it kills him!

With a devious little smirk that was both conniving and cunning, Kingsley fiddled around his pockets and pulled out a small plastic baggie. The contents of this were three orange tablets, all of which had the Hobgoblin emblem etched into them. A little idea he had during his supervillain days; Hobstacy, a better form of Evstacy. It was really just Tombstone's recipe with a little orange dye, and Hobgoblin's grinning mug etched into it. This outta spike things up... Hehhehhehheheh! The deranged degenerate thought to himself with a delighted giggle. He watched his comrade carefully as he moped. Quentin would simply look to the floor, and occassionally out the window, with his occasional sip of brandy here and there. A pattern Kingsley took note of, and took full advantage of. With manic glee, and as Beck turned away, Kingsley plopped a little tablet of ecstasy into his drink. One for you! Two for me! Hee-heehehhahhahhaaaah! He giggled madly to himself, plopping the two other pills to the tip of his tongue. Give or take roughly a half hour, the fun was about to begin! To commentate this, Kingsley poured himself a glass of Limo scotch held it to the air. "Becky, old boy![" the grand old goblin cried out. "A toast! From C-List villains, to A-List heroes!" He held the drink up high with hoped they'd clink glasses, giggling childishly at his next remark. "Spider-Man's so screwed! Hehhehhahhahhahhahhaah!"

After a roughly fifteen minute ride, (an excruciatingly awkward ride at that), the team at long last stumbled upon their destination. The Ying and Yang Hotel Plaza. It was quite large actually, and had recently been renovated. It was a very modern looking structure, a tower with several smaller buildings attached. The tower, the grandest of the structures, was a large stone structure with a great many windows. On one side, the stone was black with white dots, on the other, white with black dots. Both of which were dotted with many windows. At the very center, keeping both colored stones apart was a wall of glass which jutted up into a triangular peek. The buildings around it stretched from either colored side, and apropriately matched each respective side. Swarms of people gathered around the entrance, cheering, and crying, all swarming to see the three celebrity guests to the casino that night. Hobgoblin grinned like a child out the window, it had been so long since he could enjoy Vegas. No cops hounding him, no Spider-Man in pursuit, just fun, and gambling, and money. "Aaaaaaaaah, we're here! This is gonna be great! You ready, Q?" Kingsley reached under his seat and yanked out two briefcases, both of which were filled with a great deal of money. He could feel a bit of a churning in his stomach, anxious and eager for what came next. Butterflies in his stomach you could say. He gave a jovial grin, tossing one of the cases to his cohort. "Half for you, half for me. Keep the change ya filthy animal! Heh-heh!"

The pair's driver pulled into the round-about entrance of the plaza. They were instantly greeted paparazzi and a small cheering crowd. "Huh... Wasn't expecting this many people... Overnight we've got this many fans? That's superheroing for you, I guess." A bellhop opened the door for them, Kingsley grinned maniacally and waved to the crowd as he stepped out. He soon stretched as he stepped out of the vehicle, looking back at the passenger front seat only to see Henry giving the "my eyes on you". He was promptly given the middle finger by Hobgoblin. "Well" Kingsley grinned to his employee. Four, very stunning woman strolled up to them, smiling and jittering in a flirtitious manner. Kingsley accepted his pair, (one for each arm of coarse) and the other two strolled up to Mysterio. "Awaaaaaay we go!"