The Lung was never late. He was, in fact, almost always early. That you could count on. He carried his apeskin everywhere, clutching it's tufted, rubbery mass to himself like a shield or a lover. When things got bad, as they so often did in our chosen profession, he would duck under it and breathe deeply of its rank synthetic perfume. His spotty, birdlike hands would lovingly stroke the wiry black mane. 'Apeskin', came the low moan from under the simian shroud. 'Apeskin'.