Paul the Octopus

Oberhausen, 2010 — the aquarium lights hummed, water filters sighing in their slow mechanical rhythm. Paul floated above two clear boxes, each marked with a national flag. Cameras clicked. He hesitated, then dropped one curling arm toward Spain. They won. Again. Born in Weymouth, England, transferred to Germany for a children’s exhibit, he’d been trained to pick between identical food containers. A parlor trick, harmless enough — until he started being right too often. Bookmakers called him prophetic. Politicians wrote him letters. Death threats arrived in jest and not. When he died that October, the aquarium built a tiny shrine: blue mosaic, plastic wreaths, a golden urn shaped like a shell. The plaque read, “Paul the Oracle.” He would’ve just called it lunch.