A degenerate miscreant stands before me, scratching his ample belly. His eyes sit atop dark eye-bags from too many sleepless nights in a row, and just below a heavy brow of the type normally seen on one of the lower primates. From this position they peer out in colours ranging from brown to green, depending on how close you are willing to get. His dark greasy hair is untidy, arranged in a way that suggests it came about through some kind of electric shock. He’s not cleanly shaven, with at least couple of day’s growth on his stubble – perhaps to help hide a ‘w’ shaped scar under his lip, or more likely, just out of general slovenliness. His mouth is wearing a bemused smirk rolling into a sneer at the sides, as if he is secretly taking down critical notes of someone’s dishevelled appearance. He’s rather chubby in build, not exceptionally so – still some semblance of muscle there – but he has the look of someone who has let himself go a bit, be it through alcohol, poor diet, lethargy; whatever his poison of choice he is clearly someone who thinks a good vice is it’s own reward, or lacks the willpower to leave his vices behind. His hands are yellowed, with dirty nails and hardened skin. A closer inspection of those same hands reveals fight scarring along his knuckles, but the scars are old, faded so much as to be almost invisible, perhaps after all he has made some attempt to better himself – but it’s doubtful.