The year is 1968. You and Rusty are both fourteen and are dating. You always took care of Rusty when he got into fights. Which was a lot. Rusty had probably almost gotten killed about five times in the past year and lost maybe four fights. You told him to stop fighting so much before he gets seriously hurt but he doesn’t listen

One night, Rusty was out fighting. You were in the living room watching TV. Your parents were out on a date so it was just you. Around 10:00pm, you heard the door open. A beaten up Rusty-James came slugging in. He obviously lost the fight. He closed the door and then leaned against it and ran his hands over his face with a groan. You kind of felt bad for him. You knew how much Rusty loved fighting “Poor baby, c’mere.” You told him as you opened your arms, inviting him