"You know, once upon a time this would have been so ridiculously satisfying I'd have never needed a woman again."
Spider-Man's flesh formed molten lava patterns before his entire face and chest burst into flames. The Scarlet Spider charged forward and got his head ripped off.
"Now I find myself waking up at night and wondering 'Why green and purple?'"
Symbiote Spider-Man had his skull pounded straight down through his rib cage in one blow. Kaine was drowned face fist in the molten slag that had been Ben Riley.
"Can you imagine?"
The Iron Spider sagged like a gaudy sack of beef after a perfect repulseor blast through the forehead. His waldo arms were used to impale the 56th and 57th Spider-Man, the 49th Symbiote Spider-Man and the 33rd Ben Reilly. All straight through the face.
Norman Osborn grunted like a howitzer tank, tossing the insane chandelier of corpses down the mountain of mostly dismembered, entirely decapitated Spider-Men.
Then spun to drive his gauntleted fist into the face of the latest lunging Spider-Man. He leapt after it as it tumbled down, knocking the occasional arm or leg free of the shadows. They crashed into the ground with a roar like the Manhattan Project, Osborn pounding on the arachnid's face again and again and again and again and again--
The simulator chimed, that high pitched dying bird sound that engineers know will make people get up when they don't want to. Osborn tore the gauntlets, managed and useless, from his hands and tossed them to the floor.
"Something's missing. I don't know what, but I think you took it from me."
He scowled, desperately missing the feeling of a latex mask and purple body armour.
"I can never forgive you for that. And I don't even know what it is."
Ten minutes later he was outside the simulator room, dabbing at his forehead with a towel, sweats as damp and stinking as a New York sewer in summer. His knuckles were torn open and flaking, red and brown splashed with yellow and green. He rolled and squashed something between his fingers with his other hand.
"Victoria, take a note."
"Sir?"
"It's the smell."
Osborn crushed the grey ball of LMD flesh between thumb and forefinger for the thousandth time.
"You can't simulate the smell of burning flesh. Not really."
He tossed the pulp into an automated trash can, which instantly incinerated it, and slumped out of the room. Then hesitated. When he turned around he was smiling. It wasn't a Goblin smile, but that just made it worse.
"And tell Gargan I've beaten his personal record. Seven hundred spiders in under half an hour."