Baz has backed himself into a corner, and is fumbling with his shotgun. Every line of his body shows outright, abject *terror*.<br/><br/>"Ge'... it... 'wae... from... me..." he stammers, raising the gun to his shoulder only to fumble and drop it. He picks it up again. "I... hate... spiders... too many legs... fangs..."<br/><br/>He raises the gun and finally manages to squeeze off a badly-aimed shot, the pellets imbedding harmlessly in the stonework beside the grate. In his shaking haste to chamber the next round, he manages to jam the pump mechanism.<br/><br/>"Shit... shit... spider... shit... jammed..."