In the midst of trying to stuff his intestines back into his open gut.
All this talk about a “spider-bloke” got him in the swingin’ mood, forgot about the cleanup.
“Years fly by like the flutter of a bird’s wings, or the poundin’ of a victim’s heart just before their last. A month? Hardly even notice it come or go.”
Didn’t even let her get to two, he braced his upper back against the car door and extended his legs like a pair of pistons as they stretched out unnaturally long to force her out of the car, door likely in tow.
“Sorry, sweets! Love hurts!”
Enough of his flesh has regenerated to pass as the common man, save for that sickly blue complexion. Now that he has a pair of lips, he’s using them to hold a lit cigarette as he loiters between chaos and mayhem.