He's huge, even bigger next to the two slight women he's accompanying, but he's one of those triangular guys who tapers down from broad shoulders to these skinny little legs squeezed into skinny jeans. His mullet is a work of art, fluffed and expertly coiffed above, trailing down from dark black to bleached orange at the tips which fan across his broad, sweatshirt covered back. Out from underneath the sweatshirt peek the tails of a Hawaiian shirt, and, for all his obvious muscle, he walks a bit like a duck, which undercuts his good looks and muscularity.
He and his companions discuss (in, perhaps, Portugese?) something of some import, judging by his tone, but he sounds like he's storing all his words in his cheeks, and the words sound like they're pushing out through the rest of his words to get out, all thick and glutenous, but he seems to speak cautiously and with consideration, not at all the musclehead he appears, as he duckwalks down the street.