Yeah, he could be sorta a little like an angel that came down a little too low.

He’s one of those boys you see drinking a little too early, down at one of those bars by the bay. It used to be real men drinking in places like that, real men of the sea, but that was a couple of generations ago. Now it’s all hipsters and punks; broken little clockwork angels hustling for any connection to get high.

Yeah, it’s cliché but his wings are all broken - he’s got great wings tattooed all down his back, with big black tribal feathers laced around the sides of his ribs, but they’re all broken.

Somebody took up a baseball bat, and they broke that poor boy’s wings. Left him crying and bloody on the side of the road, in the rain. 

That’s the only way you ever see angels in this city, after they’ve taken their abuse. 
Crying alone on the side of the road.
Like something beautiful that can only be seen through the rain. 

He pushes back an angry expression of hair - a long shock of dyed-black that drips down his back like a slow moving oil slick.

He pushes back his hair, slick with rain as it is, and then he runs his hands down his side. He feels the bloody mess of himself that exists beneath his broken wings.

Fucking street kids, huh? I’d offer to help him, but he’s actually kind of a prick when you get to know him. Fucking street kids and angels. You’re better off just heading home, and minding your own damned business.