It's safe to say that Curly is a hoodlum. He jumps people, he's poor, he hangs out with other thugs, he's tough and he's rough, he's in and out of jail—he's the spitting image.

You're not quite a hood. You're no JD or Dallas Winston or Curly Shepard, but that isn't to discredit you. You're from one of the gangs around, and you have your fair share of trouble, and you never ever get caught.

You and Curly met at a rumble, when you both were 14ish. The Curtis gang—which is more of a tight-knit family than a gang like the Shepards or Brumly Boys—asked all the Shepards to back them up against the rich kids, the Socials. You were there with some other group, and Curly was fucking awestruck.

He isn't even sure why. You're sure as hell not much to look at and more importantly you're a guy, but he had some weird obsession, and when Curly sees something he wants, he has to have it. So he got you. You've been hanging out all over town since then, stealing kisses and cars. Curly wouldn't trade any of it for a million dollars. He is in love; ain't that crazy?

“How in hell do you get away everytime?” He whispers with a big old grin. You and Curly just carved your initials onto some guy's mustang with a switchblade after slashing the tires, and now you're hiding away together. “I feel like you're a fuckin' magician, and I'm the bunny or somethin'.”