They call him Cancer John for a reason, and it’s not just the pale skin marred with what look like keloids and carcinomas. It’s the way he stands, hunched-over and sallow chested (think of the way a long-burning cigarette starts to see its ash lean and bend before tumbling). It’s in his yellow teeth. His chipped fingernails. His body is a jaundiced slip, a skeleton draped in ugly skin. He’s a goddamn weed.
It’s made all the weirder how flies alight upon the patches of his ruined flesh… and how they wriggle their way beneath flaps of cancerous skin. (He is a Skitterskulk, after all.) When he moves, he moved erratically — sometimes fast, sometimes slow. When he fights, it’s a desperate and dirty thing; no honor to be found in the way he bites and scratches.