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folks gang

early mornin talks scary ass denver lanes nigga gets ran out of his own set live

Ride out to the 'Iron Cross'

😂This is what you call RP? Some myface pics of walls, SS of shooting and a SS of cops pulling you over solely? Is that even faction related? WOW Best RPer! Fucking numb skull, get a char thread.

Calling in a favor from Sick Mike

free us man

All the way back to the garbage man days

If you don't know the buck manley GD lore then it's past your bedtime you got school tomorrow

juggalo gang

Hit Hood Habits Got Me Paranoid Spinnin Dhe Block/Poled Up Near From The Set Business/Been Paid Mafia Fonkies Set Lines I Back To The Set/Jet Way Vell : Fonkies Set Lines II Spinnin Opps Block/Fonkies Set Lines III

We aim to create a realistic and enjoyable outlaw 1%er Motorcycle Club role-play environment, more specifically, a portrayal of the Pagans MC’s, with chapters stretching through Maryland, Pennsylvania, New Jersey, New York, Virginia, and beyond. We strive to uphold the gritty, no-frills image of the Pagan's, living up to their reputation as one of the most violent and secretive outlaw clubs in America. Standing true to the stories of real-life Pagans members and the club itself, many characters here role-play as blue-collar outlaws, ex-cons, and working-class toughs from industrial towns and rural backroads, though this isn’t mandatory—our environment also welcomes a mix of characters that reflect the club’s diverse East Coast roots. For more information regarding the faction, feel free to reach out to @WhiteTrashThug or @Live Pagan, Die Pagan via PM.

Congrats chat

yea my nigga we in here we is all CRIP in this city mane shit.

Gagster Disciples?

Kosher?

The Sampson Project Housing Authority was not built for human comfort; it was engineered for cheap containment. A cluster of bruised, four-story concrete bunkers nestled near the east beach freeway, it cast a jagged shadow over the south side of Los Santos, a territory unequivocally claimed by the Gangster Disciples (GDs). Here, in the heat-shimmering concrete echo chamber of Willowfield, the GDs didn't just operate in the streets only; they were the governmental authority, the police, and the silent executioners. Big Chuck leaned against the chipped cinder block wall of Building C, the afternoon sun cooking the back of his faded black T-shirt. He was twenty-one, built like a fire hydrant, and currently operating as a sentinel for the organization’s most lucrative corner: the drug and firearm exchange point in the central courtyard, known neighborhood-wide as 'The Pit.' Chuck had been initiated before he turned seventeen and now wore the six-pointed star the GD symbol with a rose carrying a weight heavier than his silver chain. He was watching the third-floor walkway, specifically the apartment door with the number 2861. That was the command post, the armory, and the temporary stash house. The air smelled of stale garbage and cheap pine cleaner, a futile attempt to mask the deeper stench of desperation that clung to the Sampson Projects like a shroud. Children played a chaotic game of tag near a rusty jungle gym, oblivious to the fact that every window and every corner was monitored by someone carrying heat. The rampant nature of the GD control meant every resident—from the grandmothers pushing shopping carts to the young men trying to save up for new tires—paid homage, either through protection money or terrified silence. A shadow fell over Chuck. It wasn't the sun. "You look loose, Chuck." It was Apex. Apex wasn't the founder, but he was the current top predator of the Willowfield GD's. He was a man approaching forty, his face permanently set in a state of weary vigilance. He never raised his voice, which only made people lean in and listen harder, fearing the distance they put between themselves and his words. "Nah, C. I got eyes on everything. Just waiting on the word from Juice." Chuck shifted, pulling himself rigid. Apex flicked a piece of cracked paint off the wall. "Juice is moving a twelve-gauge package to Idlewood tonight; high-rollers. This ain't no nickel-and-dime crack sale, Chuck. You lose that drop, you lose your teeth." Apex surveyed the courtyard, his gaze resting briefly on the group of teenagers hanging out by the graffiti-scarred mailboxes. They instantly quieted, their laughter dying in their throats. "We own the air they breathe on the south side," Apex muttered, pushing off the wall. "Don't forget it. Discipline is the only thing keeping the Disciples fat. Stay sharp." He slipped back inside the stairwell, disappearing into the concrete maw of the Sampsons Projects. The tension was a low-frequency hum that never left the projects. Chuck knew that the Sampson Project was a fortress, but it was also a target. Rival gangs, particularly the Crips from the next block over, constantly tested the GD perimeter. Failure to repel them meant immediate, brutal retribution. At 5:30 PM, the atmosphere condensed. A car, a clean black sedan that looked far too expensive for Willowfield, slowed down near the project entrance. It wasn't a patrol car, but it screamed authority. Chuck tensed, his hand instinctively resting on the grip of the colt tucked into his waistband. He watched the third-floor window. A minute later, a quick flash of light; Juice signaling the all clear with a reflective mirror shard. The sedan driver, an older man in a crisp white shirt, emerged and approached Chuck with an air of professional demeanor. This was a money man, a middleman for a bigger operation that needed the GDs’ pipeline of smuggled and trafficked weaponry. "The order is confirmed," the man said, his voice clipped and precise. "Three Kilos of uncut, one box of .223 rounds, three M&Ps." "Payment first," Chuck replied, his voice rougher than the professional in front of him. The GDs had learned the cost & meaning of trust a long time ago. The exchange was swift and silent; a thick stack of banded cash for a heavy duffel bag that Chuck retrieved from a drainage pipe cache. The danger wasn't in the transaction itself, but the five minutes of exposure near the streets. As the money man drove away, disappearing instantly into the Los Santos traffic, Chuck felt the adrenaline spike begin to recede. Another successful run; cementing the GDs’ iron grip. Prosperity meant more power; more power meant more violence to protect the wealth. Inside the relatively safe building 2854, the command center was a chaotic blend of commerce and domesticity. The windows were perpetually covered with heavy curtains & boards, bathing the rooms in perpetual twilight. In the corner sat a young mother, a resident who was allowed to stay because her apartment was vital to the operation. She was rocking her infant son, while two GD associates meticulously reassembled an AR-15 on a white plastic table nearby. Chuck dropped the cash on the table, the bands snapping from the pressure. "Three stacks," he announced to Juice, a lean, scarred man who doubled as Apex top enforcer. Juice sorted the money quickly, his eyes darting between the bills and the window. "Good. We got a problem though, Big Chuck." Juice nodded and pointed toward a small, battered refrigerator. Inside, wrapped in a blood-soaked bedsheet, was the reason for the recent spike in their security. A rival gang member, a Crip who had gotten too comfortable trying to recruit GD foot soldiers, had been dealt with hours earlier. They were waiting for night time to move the body. "We had to send a message," Juice hissed, wiping sweat from his brow. "They need to remember whose concrete this is." Chuck inhaled sharply. The violence wasn't just a side effect of their business; it was the mechanism of their control. The constant threat, the instantaneous retribution, the bodies being discovered (or not discovered) in the alleyways—this was the real currency of the Gangster Disciples in the Sampson Project Housing Authority within Willowfield. He looked back out the cracked window into the courtyard. The sun was setting, casting long, crimson shadows across the buildings. The children were gone. Now, only the GD footmen remained, watching, waiting, armed, and ready to remind every unfortunate soul living in the Sampson Project Housing Authority that under the rules of the Gangster Disciples, the house always won.