Apologies for the wait. Here we go:

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"Did Jim send you?"

The room is swathed in darkness; there is the discernible stench of smoke and traces of human filth. The shape huddled in a chair in the far corner taps a booted foot against the dirty ground. [I]Tap, taptap, tap, tap[/I]. Sometime later he rises - you estimate a height of about 5'10" - and stretches, arms unfurling outward in a theatrical, catlike manner. The body is thin, but wiry with muscle; red-rimmed brown eyes swivel suspiciously in your direction - they are the unremarkable shade of mud, graced with a manic gleam, bloodshot. A bony hand palms his shaved head, fingertips tracing listlessly the swirls of blue tattoos running about the skin of his skull. "Jim sent you didn't he?" He repeats; the voice is gruff, throaty and surprisingly baritone. He pauses; a pointed chin inclines briefly to the left. "What did you mean you didn't send no one?" Silence. One second, two seconds, three. "I told you I already took care of him. He ain't gonna be a problem no more."

The eyes return to you.

"Don't worry 'bout Jim, he's an asshole. Likes to play games." He extends a hand. "You can call me - " He pauses, glares daggers at you; sucks a mouthful of saliva and spits loudly to the side. "No, not PR-451. What the hell is that, anyway? No, no. I'm Craig. That's my name." The accent - American. Craig scratches the hollow of his right cheek, skin stretched tautly over high, pronounced cheekbones. He keeps a lingering gaze on you - a hawkish, wary stare. You take his hand and shake - his grip is firm and his fingers close on yours with unrelenting force, like a vice. You pull away abruptly once those grimy nails start to really dig in. He reads your expression and grins up at you, a hoarse chuckle against the back of his throat. "You're real twitchy, aren't ya?" A rat scuttles into the room's bare glow, then slinks back into the dark.

"There's one thing I'm gonna tell you, so listen close. Real close." He hisses. "Don't trust 'em. Don't trust me." He hacks a laugh, wheezes. "I got thirty years experience in the lyin' department. You?" 

You start to back away, toward the exit. The light flickers and you see the rest of the tattoos spanning his body; numbers, pictures. A death's head, hellfire, a series of lines which looked like they'd been scratched in with a blade. Old scars, raised ridges of damaged flesh. A hand raises and performs a mocking little wave; you see a bracelet dangling, light sparking off its precious stones. An urge arises to question him of its origins, but you decide it is better not to. The hand lowers; the fingers pluck insouciantly at a tarnished silver earring. The cold eyes continue to trail you keenly, and for a moment you think you catch a glimpse of weakness, the minutest smidgen of self-doubt. But then it is gone, and the strange man begins to hum a lilting tune, a mangled variation of 'The Itsy Bitsy Spider'. His foot has resumed its tapping. 

As the door slams shut, the last ring of his voice bursts through. "Aw, leavin' so soon? Well, Jim says bye."