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James Cowley is a walking manifestation of filth and grime, his unkempt appearance an affront to even the most relaxed standards of hygiene. Greasy, tangled hair hung lankly around his sallow face, which was riddled with pockmarks and acne scars. His beady eyes were small and pig-like, set deep into his flesh and almost lost in the folds of his swollen eyelids. His clothes were ragged and torn, barely clinging to his emaciated frame. They were stained with mud, blood, and who knew what other bodily fluids. The stench of his unwashed body was overpowering, a sour mixture of sweat, urine, and decay that seemed to follow him like a cloud. He spoke with a thick, guttural accent that made his words hard to understand. His voice was hoarse and wheezing, as if he had been chain-smoking for decades. He had a nasty habit of spitting when he talked, sending flecks of saliva flying in all directions. His behavior was as foul as his appearance. He had a quick temper and a mean streak a mile wide. He was prone to violence, lashing out at anyone who crossed him. He was a liar and a cheat, willing to do whatever it took to get ahead. In short, he was a dirty pig of a human, the kind of person that made you want to scrub your skin raw after just being in his presence.
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