Bathroom Monologue: Bathroom Dialogues?

Taskmaster: So then why am I here?
Man in the ridiculously immaculate grey suit: Because the Masters of Evil have need of your services again, Mr. Taskmaster.
Taskmaster: I've never worked for them before.
Man in the ridiculously immaculate grey suit: Oh, yes you have. There are very few shadowy organizations with eleven digits of disposable cash and designs of world domination you haven't worked for. You've worked for the Serpent Society, Hydra and the Hand. You've even stolen from Reed Richards for Iron Man, which surprised me, because I thought they were friends. And in the eighties, you worked for the Masters of Evil for thirteen days.
Taskmaster: The tissue donor thing?
Man in the ridiculously immaculate grey suit: Yes, that little Jackal project. Your photographic reflexes are really the envy of all spies and hitmen, especially those who wouldn't admit it, and that made you one hot commodity. And since you didn't seem able to train any perfect pupils, the Masters of Evil tried cloning you.
Taskmaster: They clone everybody.
Man in the ridiculously immaculate grey suit: They sure try. But in your case, it didn't so much work out. Thirteen days of running every test they could imagine, and all they got were eleven dead fetuses and two moron children who not only couldn't copy the moves of martial artists from watching, but could barely walk straight.
Taskmaster: Remind me to have you talk to the missus next time she asks about having kids.
Man in the ridiculously immaculate grey suit: These two kids were absolute clutches. No-good assassins, fighters, arms dealers, pickpockets. Even failed at crooked accounting. And one of these twins enjoyed failing at everything, because that let him get back to his cozy apartment and play Nintendo.
Taskmaster: He probably inherited more of that from me than I'd like to admit. But the other?
Man in the ridiculously immaculate grey suit: The other went quiet for a week. Manic depressive for another week. Suicidal the next. Then he noticed the failure sharing an apartment with him had the same face as the one in the mirror. Something went *click* in his head, and he strangled his twin with the cord to the spare SNES controller. Next thing the organization knew, he went to business college out of Harlem, and came back as a legitimately twisted and competent applicant for a desk job. Kind of awkward. Talks in the third person all the time, but he keeps his clothes very clean. Worked diligently up until last week.
Taskmaster: I'd like to meet that one.
Man in the ridiculously immaculate grey suit: You have. He's giving you the tour now.