In near-darkness after the evening lights click off, Marcellus the octopus describes the comfort of dimness that recalls the deep sea he once inhabited. He remembers the feel of open water more than specifics and frames his present as captivity.

Marcellus names himself and notes that most humans simply call him “that guy.” He identifies his species from the plaque beside his enclosure and states, contrary to human expectations, that he can read. The plaque advertises octopus intelligence and camouflage, facts that amuse and slightly annoy him.

He introduces Terry, who runs the aquarium and sometimes tells visitors the octopus’s chosen name, Marcellus, bestowed by Terry’s small daughter as “Marcellus McSquiddles.” Marcellus finds the full name preposterous and resents that some assume he is a squid.

Turning to mortality, Marcellus notes the plaque’s claim that giant Pacific octopuses live about four years. He calculates his own span—1,460 days—and discloses that this is Day 1,299. Brought in as a juvenile, he expects to die in the tank, estimating roughly 160 days remain until his “sentence” ends.