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❤️ had a great time on samp, thanks to the community and staff for the years of fun

THREE Bo and Mike took the steps down Angel's Flight, on their way to Hill Street. A hundred and forty steps and another hundred lectures more from Mike and they were back on Earth. They passed through the Oriental archway and crossing the street a light fog took them, floating deep inside of it were neon tubes and silhouettes of people, some stood idle, while others danced madly like pixies. Neon flashed and the fog turned blue, green, then pink. The pair still appeared as dark husks as they emerged from the mist and the pixies had morphed to jackals, wild-eyed with jaws swinging and limbs yearning, stumbling and screaming and wanting, always wanting. Reaching the pavement, Bo turned to look at the Third Street Tunnel, a vacuum of black that invited all who roamed the fog inside its gaping jaw. Horns blared, women screamed, men laughed and spectres of the night lurked between. They traversed the streets with practiced bravado, trying to find a bar that was dark enough. They settled on a dive joint called Murph's that wailed Gaelic ballads for its morose patrons. A few bright young things would roam in and soon leave with another chip in their souls, another curiosity soured by the world. Mike worried for his own soul, reasoned that it must already be damned if the only bar he belonged to was a pig-shit mick pub. He raised his double whiskey, clinked his glass with Bo's and figured what the hell, he'd rather drink in Hell than serve at Gigi's. "Know, my people, and the Irish? Lot in common" Bo looked into the bottom of his glass. "You're all degenerates?" "Hah. There he go again. Tell me dog, who's been buyin these drinks?" Mike grunted and took another sip. He curled his lips, pondered on something for a moment, shuffled in his seat and leaned forward to ask, "You still see Idaho?". He squinted to scrutinise every detail of Bo's reaction. Mike had gotten Bo off-guard, mid-drink. His eyes shot up, daggering Mike, asking him if he were serious. Thoughts raced quickly through his mind as he swallowed hard and he sat back to deadpan Mike. "Nigga." Mike shot eyebrows at Bo, and gestured 'well?' with his hands. "This why you took me to this bum end of town? Idaho Joe. Shit, take this, and go get you another whiskey man. Fuck, matter fact? Better yet, I'ma about to call a cab, cus your ass still up to no good. Joint don't teach you nothin? Fool?" "Oh, says you? Boostin radios for nickels so you can go n get VD from some fuckin hooker. What's your problem? What the fuck is the matter with you anyway? Correct me if I'm wrong but he fucked you too." Bo swallowed. Fine, he thought, I might be a hypocrite, but I'm not about to let your brand of trouble back into my life. "I had ten years to get over this shit, man. What was it anyway, a couple thousand bucks..." "Six-thousand." Bo grunted into his glass. It fogged up. He stayed there. Mike continued. "Six-thousand that was never his... which, come on, we all know went straight up his fuckin arm too. Look. This isn't like old times, I get that" he extended his meaty arm to swat Bo's, "it's not like I'm not axein you to stick a knife in the guy. I just want a word. You remember, they ran that spit-n-sawdust joint in Skid Row by San Pedro, what was that place called... him and his buddy, er... Dutch. I just want to see if we run into one of them. Just a quiet word, I'll be reasonable, it's not like I'm expecting all the money." "A quiet word. A quiet word? Are you that dense in the fuckin head? In that joint?! Shit, prison was the best place for you Mike. You wanna see us both dead." Mike blushed and stammered as he tried to think of a reply to that. A waitress with black dyed hair slithered like a satin snake to their booth, her uniform seductively altered, laddered tights and open bussom. Her skin was textured like red leather. She leered over Bo as she added two more glasses to the table and the cracks around her mouth smiled with her maroon lips. She dizzied them with the aroma of something clinical. They both cleared their throats to address her, and she lingered a moment longer before slipping away to take the orders of other damned men. Mike snatched his drink from the table and toasted Bo. He'd lost a lot of things, but one of them wasn't class. He drank deep and slammed it back onto the raw oak table. He swallowed and twisted his lips as he tried to catch Bo's eyeline, who was looking away from Mike trying to catch the scent of the waitress. "Leave me twenty bucks." "What?" Bo craned his neck back. "Go home, put your feet up. What? I hear you. Go. Just leave me a twenty. Be the best investment you ever made." Mike flashed a bandit's grin, something deep in his eyes told Bo that he wouldn't be convinced otherwise. There he is. He'd been wondering how long it would take. No time at all. Bo knew it wasn't bluster. He briefly wrestled with the idea of going with him, but the boulder on his chest wouldn't budge, and his legs couldn't run. This motherfucker wouldn't stop, didn't know how, just wasn't how God had made him. He half hoped they'd shoot him, for his sake and for everybody else's. However he knew better, if anyone could survive this shit and come out the other end smelling like roses, it would be this motherfucker, wouldn't it. The bus shuttle chugged off and the street went quiet for a moment. Gradually the hum of a nearby encampment returned. Dead antennas and a looming watertower, backlit by a dull half moon. Half-alive men and women scuttled off into an alley to wait for the dopeman and among them a bottle broke which caused a banshee to wail. Observing them was Marinara, who reacted to the banshee with a reaffirming twist of his white Planet Hollywood cap. His eyes were feline, piercing the shadow of the cap's brim and they watched the junkies for a while longer before he began moving south. Eyes dead ahead, he waited for something familiar to grab him. Bo reminded him of the name of the joint before they'd parted ways, Last Chance Saloon. He saw the irony in it, and Bo didn't let him forget it as they'd parted ways. He felt like Will Kane in High Noon, like an honorable marshal out for justice, the only one with enough stones to traverse this infernal frontier by himself. He remembered the iron horses that used to park outside, and figured if this place was still open after a decade, then they'd have doubled. Idaho Joe and Dutch weren't patched into any club, but they were small-time drug pushers, usually into heroin, so naturally the duo and local one-percenters were as thick as thieves. Bo crossed his mind briefly. He didn't blame the guy. He was washed up, been straight and narrow for years. He'd met guys like that inside, reformed, found a higher calling. Or some nonsense. Besides, he'd always lacked the balls to take it all the way. Still, part of him yearned for his old running buddy, missed the old routine of pitch and catch and God knows, he'd have looked the part down here. Hands trenched in the pockets of his flimsy running shorts he fumbled with a piece of plastic from a mop handle that he took from the bar's broom closet, which he'd melted down with Bo's jet-flame lighter on the bus ride over and sharpened on concrete once he'd gotten off. He tested the edge of it with his thumb as he lethargically moved deeper into the belly of the beast and more into character. Phantoms of men flanked Marinara on his way to the saloon, some cautiously stalked and others just watched, some briefly shaken out of their lull by his presence just to stare at whatever part of the street he'd disturbed. One turned to color and came to life, he staggered in front of Marinara and immediately entered his personal space. He didn't hesitate, it came like a knee-jerk reaction. As soon as he opened his mouth, Marinara sent his balled fist flying into it. The man folded, crumpled up he staggered back into an iron sheet covering a chainlink fence. It clanged as his weight found it, and the fence behind it bristled as he slid to the concrete. He rooted his feet and raised his boulder hand above the man's head, but his wrist seized up and his fingers flexed out and the shiv fell out of his bleeding palm. He went to let out a cry but used all his might to resist. Don't let them see you bleed. The shiv silently clattered to the ground and Marinara's eyes instantly shot to the man on the floor, to see if he had heard it too. He had, and his eyes were fixed on Marinara, but they were submissive and terrified of what he'd do next. He held his wrist, gritted his teeth, used his other hand to pick it up and carried on. The man went to touch his mouth, winced, and slid further into the ground. Blood was pouring down his hand, dripping from his fingers, leaving a trail. The sharks would smell it soon enough. He slipped into a black alley, his palm pulsing, the pain too hot now to ignore. Holding his wrist tightly, he gingerly pried his hand open to see the damage. It hadn't broke off inside of him but the wound was deep enough. He was in pain but he'd never felt more alive. Sirens cried out a few blocks over. A gust of wind travelled through the alley, causing empty beer cans to kick and roll. More screams. It all hit him at once, he filled his lungs full of it and resolved that if he was going to make it through tonight, he'd at least be a couple grand richer. There was no other choice. Already, hyenas were congregating at the bottom of the alley, illuminated by an orange glow. They had already sniffed him out, it was time to move. By the time he hobbled in front of the saloon he was completely in-character. Dry blood decorating his hand and his wrist, pupils dilated from the adrenaline, his antalgic gait. He had to act fact before the high wore off. He observed an argument between two bald, bearded men as he shouldered his way in. Another ruckus as soon as he entered the place, he couldn't make any sense of it, only that the loud woman with the red pixie cut in the center of it all wanted her old man to know that she hadn't sucked anybody's cock. As Marinara entered the restroom, he heard glass smash behind him and her shrieking come to an abrupt end, indifferently followed by Marty Robbins crooning about a cowboy. He immediately ran his injury under a cold tap. Fuck, he said to himself, that feels good. He didn't let himself linger in the feeling for too long, he couldn't afford comfort right now, just enough water to keep the infection at bay. He took a long look at himself in the warped mirror, his chin and his forehead exaggerated into something that didn't look human at all. He left the restroom, back into the noise. He pulled the brim of his cap lower and he moved past the scene that had started, the crowd around the unconscious redhead, and took a seat on one of the stools. He sat as anonymously as his big frame allowed and watched bartenders come and go for five minutes. He waited for Dutch. He knew Dutch liked to hold court and play the bartender. Dutch stood at six-foot, the last time he saw him he sported a thick ginger mustache and had a high-and-tight military cut. He liked to look the part but the man had never served, he fought his own war. His adrenaline high was petering out and anxiety began to creep. He moved his wrist a little too confidently and he was shocked by how much it hurt this time. Fuck it. He staggered out of the bar. With gritted teeth he cursed himself. Passing the bikes and rounding a corner, he was just about to give in until something told him to pay attention. He looked up. Shaggy ginger hair, a tall man with muscle that had given way to flab with faded stretched tattoos of something demonic. More scars, more life etched all over his sunken face. The years hadn't been kind to Dutch. His catcher mitts tried to interface with a tiny twenty-year old Nokia phone. It was now or never. "Hey man" Marinara slurred in his best impression of a Californian. The fallen behemoth's dead lamps fell on him and he paused. Marinara watched from underneath the shadow of his cap. They had met twice, a lifetime ago. As well as businessmen, Dutch and Idaho Joe were dopeheads. There was no fucking way he would recognize him after all this time, after all the dirty work the world had done to rearrange their faces. He bet his life on it. "What you want, fucker?" Dutch was hostile, but not in a way that was begrudging, it held no weight. His gamble had paid off, Dutch didn't recognize him, and rightly so, because he did look different. His once-lively face had turned to stone, his eyes, though dilated, were glossed over and still, the stink of prison had given him a dull aura and the sturdy wood he was made of had degenerated into bark. "What is it? You look fucked up. What's it you after?" He looked down at his Nokia and back up at Marinara again. "You got any H? Just a stamp. I got a twenty on me. I tried to cop from some motherfucker and he jumped me." Dutch blew air. Was it worth his time. "I'm all fucked up, help me out man, I think I'm fucking dying." Dutch squinted. Marinara stared back, tenderly holding his hand. He wasn't acting. Dutch eyed the street behind Marinara, gave him a sympathetic look and tilted his head, gesturing for him to follow. The alleyway wasn't far, just a stone's throw away from the saloon, they crossed the street and past a couple ghouls to get there. He followed Dutch inside the alley and quickly looked over his shoulder to see if anybody was in range. Squeezing onto the blunt end of the crimson plastic, he waited as Dutch was just about to turn, as he muttered something about making it quick. He used his injured hand to catch Dutch's shoulder and applied as much strength as it would give, letting out a barbaric cry and compensated for it by throwing his own shoulder forward. He relied on Dutch's momentum to confuse and stagger his own legs and he made sure he immediately felt the prick of the pointy end against where his kidney would be. Marinara held himself up on Dutch as they fell into the wall, the shiv a thrust away from ending his life. "You and your buddy owe me a lot of fuckin money." Dutch laughed through bared teeth. "Oh you fucked up motherfucker." He tried to wriggle out of it, he was strong, they both knew the only thing that stood in his way was the tiny bit of plastic. Once that was out of the equation, Marinara knew he would be in a lot of trouble. He pierced a layer of flesh with it, felt the rush and pushed it half an inch deeper. Dutch winced. "Don't make me break this off in you. You owe me six grand. Six fucking grand you piece of shit. Remember me? Remember Mikey Marinara?" "Who the fuck" he struggled, "even are you man." Something fell in Marinara's chest and he felt it hit the base of his stomach. He stared at Dutch with what felt like cold liquid coursing through his veins. His eyes turned to stone. Before he heard it, he turned to look at it. A muzzle flash in the air, a warning shot, it came from a horde of locusts that had all gathered at the foot of the alley. They were multiplying fast. Without another thought, he turned to Dutch whose eyes were huge and hungry and sank the shiv as close as he could to his kidney, twisted it and left it sticking out of him. It bubbled a maroon color. He left him there to sink onto the ground, scratching at the wound, clutching at what remained of his existence. More shots rang out, he turned quickly to see another muzzle flash, this time pointed right at him. With both arms flanking his head, he ducked and quickly scrambled up to his feet and ran for his life. He zig-zagged out of the alley, a final cry from Dutch echoed out. His feet were liable to trip over themselves as he stomped down a small slope in the road and then he ducked into another alley. One more gun shot, however this one sounded final. He didn't give himself time to think about it, running out of the alley and covering a block at full pace without looking back, heart thumping on his chest, his throat closing up. In the nick of time, a bus miraculously appeared on the horizon, it coasted and he flagged it, the last of the juice in his legs paddling to the terminus as it pulled in to stop. He got on and breezed past the driver. The driver was used to this route, he'd seen it all before, so he knew better than to ask for fare by the look of Mike, he just started her back up and got out of there. He went to the back and collapsed there in a coughing fit, his vision nothing but black and purple blotches. He clutched his chest, his hand scrambling for his heart, and he breathed deep. He thought he was about to have a heart attack. After his breathing had settled, he turned around to look back. The shadows had already swallowed Skid Row, like they had the rest of the past, and night finally gave way to a new day.

My baby. She lives on!

SAMP is gone and we've unfortunately gotta face that fact. As much as I loved it, it definitely ran its course, and it ran a good fucking course let's be honest. Nearly 20 years. That's older than some of the current players. I've posted a reinstatement for Developer for RAGE. I want to recreate the magic that LSRP on SAMP brought to us for so many years, just on a different platform. I've finally gotten on board the train. Some of you should consider it too, even if you're die-hard SAMP folk.

hella tuff

THIS yes, please!

best of luck

The drummers 🥁

OOC information: Venice Shoreline Crips portrays a realistic crip concept. Here, we are heavy on the portrayal of realism and the portrayal of our characters. We are primarily focused on the development of characters. Your character's storyline should be the main priority when roleplaying. If interested to join reach out to @asquareddd VIA forums.

Verona Beach Crips The Real V's Venice Shoreline Crips, known on the street as VSLC or just Shoreline, is an old Westside Crip set stamped out the beachside corners of Venice, Los Angeles one of the oldest Crip sets still standing up near the water. The set sparked back in the 1970s when young black kids and a few brown homies staked blocks around Windward Avenue, Pacific, Oakwood and Rose, pushing back on Venice 13 and local Sur sets who tried to fence off dope lines near the shore. VSC came up as part of the big Westside Crip umbrella never flipped the Neighborhood or Gangster card, they stayed repping straight Original Westside Crip politics. Early days the Shorelines had Venice locked with black turf corners, Venice 13 to the east and Culver City 13 pressing on the back meaning fades popped every few blocks. By the ‘80s, Venice Shoreline Crips built their name on corner dope spots near the beach and parking lots kids pushing work behind beachside apartments, hiding burners in alley fences and under lifeguard shacks. Old heads still talk about the Venice/Mar Vista line beefs when VSC started bumping heads with Culver City 13 and Venice 13 daily. Some lines crossed into Santa Monica, bringing fades with SMG sets too. Through the ‘90s they stacked up a few new cliques: the Shoreline Hustlers and Tiny Locs, keeping the young wave alive when older OGs got washed or bagged up for gun charges and dope cases. Even now, Venice Shoreline kids keep the same beach hustle alive block pushers flipping dope, fades over surf turf, parking lot shootouts when Sur sets push too close to Oakwood. The new wave still rocks the same corners Windward, Ocean Front Walk, Oakwood Park alley walls stacked with VSC tags over Venice 13 and Culver tags crossed out bold.

Cant believe it gone man

Maybe a racing script for people to do illegal street racing?

Alhamdullilaaaah. Take this far

Santino, who?

ONE Los Angeles never rained, least that's not the way he remembered it. He had only been in California for little over a year before he was pinched, and on that particular day, Los Angeles had been a postcard. He was stopped on Atilla Avenue by two patrol units and the same Crown Vic that had been following him for most of his adult life. He had cherished the memory of sun tan lotion in his nostrils, sunny silhouettes of palm trees waving him away, and the gaggle of unmistakable Californians that gawped and gazed and gasped and gossiped. Medigans, he scoffed at the sight of them, and thrusted his groin toward them as the copper turned him around to put on the bracelets. Presented with this display of Italian machismo, a blonde woman who looked to be in her fifties recoiled in horror while her chihuahua sat and watched, frozen in time, tethered to an inappropriately large lead. The chihuahua was alert and keenly tuned into the action, ears pointed up, looking directly at the man in cuffs until it was yanked away by its offended owner. The noise of the cops and their drill were distant and muted, lapped up in the waves of the ocean crashing ashore a couple of yards to his left; he could almost taste the salt of the sea on the tip of his tongue. He licked his lips clean of the feeling as the cops ushered him into the back of the unit and he sat there, his world behind a window pane, now a million miles away. Every morning Marinara would rise from his bunk in his two-by-four cell and sit with that vision, and no amount of smuggled prosciutto or capicola could satitate his appetite for what he figured was waiting for him outside of that unit window. It rained hard the day Marinara returned to that city of angels. The palm trees looked sad and limp as the rain hammered down. Strolling up Atilla Avenue he searched for his once-adoring public, rooting the heels of his boots into the tarmac he searched for any shred of evidence that the vision he clung so tightly to still existed, somewhere. He watched the fountain of rain water spill from the impotent tree and onto the street and he sucked his teeth and looked to the west, to the shore, as a last ditch effort. There, a stray shaggy dog confidently traversed the horizon, behind it a stormy sea dense with foreboding. The elements wrestled with one another before Marinara and the stray dog, but before the gods could impart their message, Marinara had already made his way to a payphone etched with scribblings of the past. Picking up the phone and wedging it between his ear and his shoulder, his stubby fingers went to dial, but stopped short once he realized there was no dial tone. He pressed his ear tighter against the phone. Nothing. He stood there, wet, staring at the lifeless object in his hand and thought to himself. The phone slipped from his grip and he turned and he left it there, swinging in the rain, disconnected, severed from the world. The rain pelted against the tempered glass of the J line bus. A bump in the road. The slight tremor rattled the infrastructure and the passengers inside of it, except one: Marinara, his head bowed between his wide shoulders, reading a dime novel gifted to him from an old lifer he had met inside the joint. The novel was about a man who fancied himself a prince of thieves, and the San Francisco detective who risked it all to nab him. The old man had given it to him a week before he'd got out. He'd invited him into his homely cell, a warm shoebox decorated with so many personal polaroids and photos on the walls you could ignore the dull cement. Most of the photos, Marinara had figured, were of family: nephews and nieces and grandchildren he would likely never meet, while the others were faded black-and-white images of another world entirely. He sat him down on the edge of his bed with custom dressing and rifled through a stack of tatty dime novels at the foot of it before unearthing what he told Mike was his very favorite, the Prince of Thieves, which it announced in bold red letters. That night Marinara returned to his own fluorescently lit cell, which wasn't nearly as inviting as the old man's, and was curiously amused by the book, covering a chapter before dozing off. He thought nothing of it the morning after, and the days that followed were coloured with old rivals, prison guards and prisoners alike, trying adamantly to jeopardize his release. Now the book was something of a comfort, reminding him that even though he were hundreds of miles away, sat high in his cement tower with the rats scuttling below, there was another prince of thieves who too was being punished for his ability to cheat the system, to be above the sucker. That's what Marinara told himself as he looked above, briefly distracted by a familiar fluorescent light and the lethargic flys that buzzed around it. The rain had settled a little once Marinara had reached his destination, a small cafe that was only ever open during the afternoon, for local longshoremen and other orange vests to congregate and discuss the means of production over cheesesteak sandwiches. A light drizzle blanketed the area and the sky was baby blue again. Swaths of rain water and shallow puddles shimmered on the wide road, which was flanked mostly by warehouses. He secured the shoulder of his backpack that sat tiny and ridiculous on his big frame and confidently strode inside. The cafe would be claustrophobic to anybody but Marinara. The strangers' eyes all darted to scrutinize him and he puffed his chest out to speak, but his moment was stolen by one of the labourers. "Dip me in shit! Is that you? Ain't no fuckin way!" A sturdy man with a salt-and-pepper beard squeezed his beer belly out from a crowded booth and hurriedly shouldered anyone that stood between him and Marinara out of the way, shouting in his baritone voice. "Is that you? You got some fuckin nerve huh, showin up now, like you is?" He stood before Marinara, work-strong, his belly the only consequence of his hard living. His words hung in the air, and the all the labourers eyes danced to and fro. He looked like he meant business, his shoulders square and his legs separated and rooted into the floor, his eyes daggered directly into Marinara's. The top of his head was a lighter shade of brown compared to the rest of his sunburnt skin. The tonsure of hair circling his otherwise bald dome stood on end, reacting to the electricity in the room. Both men balled their fists, and time in the cramped cafe froze. There was no noise, save for a stifled cough, and somebody's teaspoon clinking against a saucer. A crack in the textured rock that was the labourer's face. A glint in the old dog's eye. Marinara's teeth bared like a hyena's to laugh and he flattened his palm on his balding forehead to wipe the anxious beads of sweat glimmering on it, which pulsed as red as his sunburnt forearms. The pair embraced and laughed at one another and traded mock blows, reminiscent of a reunion between two old heavyweights fated to share the same ring for an eternity. This was Byron Blythe -- Bo, to his nearest and dearest. Bo was an old work horse that had been digging the same patch of dirt for most of his life, whether he was searching for treasure or digging his own grave was still up for speculation. Marinara and Bo had traversed many lives together, as labourers, as thieves, or pimps, anything that made them a nut. Eleven years ago, Marinara had convinced Bo to travel with him from Florida to the end of the world, and after Marinara flew too close to the California sun, Bo was washed ashore, on the docks of San Pedro. He was as close as he had to a confidant, but it wasn't that he trusted Bo, just that he trusted the rest of the world a hell of a lot less. It wasn't long before Bo made up some half-assed excuse to the foreman about his sister taking ill and was out chugging on the Harbor Freeway with Mikey Marinara. Just like old times. They smoked and caught one another up on their new lives, while ahead traffic had become a grid lock of industrial and low economy vehicles, one or two of them thickening the air with viscous smoke from their burnt out clutches. "Dog shit as that car may be" Mike remarked as he wagged his hand Cagney-style at Bo, chin addressing a 1990 Buick Regal, which stood out as the oldest, saddest car in the line-up, "you have to admit, they doh make em like that anymore. What do you think? My eldest brother, half brother right?, he drove one of those." "Any shit past uh, what, O-Two? Motha. Fuckin. Trash buckets, dog. Whole world gone Chinese, or something. You make it quick, sling it quick, and you best believe! that shit gon break down quick." The two nodded in silence. The sun was setting. TWO Dusk. Los Angeles was lit everywhere by a constant of dull orange. Street lights flickered on, some flickered off. Bo's pick-up cruised down Bloomwell Boulevard, coughing and spluttering. Eventually, unable to keep its composure, it found a quiet lot to park in. The lot was adjacent to a nondescript brick building, the only identifiable thing about it was a rickety sign that hung above some steps leading to double doors: Gigi's. "You remember these people?" Mike Marinara asked, watching what he presumed was a bouncer lighting a cigarette and idling on the wide stoop. "Like you guinea wop assholes let anybody forget. Remember these people... shit, I done work for these people a few times now." "What? You have? For what? Who?" "Boosting radios." "Boostin' radios." "That's what I said int it? Shit, now you're judgin me from up in that tower you been in, past ten years? I had a date, the bill weren't gonna pay itself." "Fuck you you had a date." "Last week before payday man, I din't have a nugget, and shit, I weren't about let somethin that fine fly in the wind." "Bombshell I bet, right?" "Right." "Tits out to here and...?" "Mmm." "And her cooze was ta die fuh." "Mmm!" "Fuck you! Lying motherfucker! Next you're gonna tell me she was Pam Grier. What you do, bathe in the harbor fore you went and you met this chick? You smell like fuckin tuna fish." "Shiiiit, that's pussy man." The continued ruckus of the pick-up in the lot had caught the bouncer's attention, a fit young man wearing a tight black tee to flex his impressive physique. He had a thin mustache above his lip that he routinely attended to with a thin comb. Setting eyes on the pick-up, the aura of the vehicle immediately made him feel uncomfortable. He wasn't physically threatened, not much could intimidate this guy and he certainly wasn't impressed, but something irked him -- whatever this was, it wasn't from his world. He fidgeted with his Gucci belt and secured it higher on his torso, before taking a few small curious steps forward. The muffled voices grew louder. "You too much of a man ta admit it? Admit it! I heard you! You wailed like my sister!" "Hey now... and what about..." "Mary, Mudda of God, help me, please! Haaa!" "Wouldn't a happened now if you weren't such a fuckin amateur! You went and let the boy get the drop on you!" "Fuck you!" "Fat fuck, couldn't see..." Knuckles rapped against the truck's window. Both men, eyes lit like they were omnivores caught in the dead of the woods, snapped to look at what had disturbed them. The young man stood with a deadpan expression an inch away from the driver side window and he spun his finger, gesturing to Bo to roll it down. Bo complied, cranking the lever until the window was open just enough for them to communicate. "Sup, young buck?" Mike cleared his throat. "You got business here? If you not got business here, then I'm sorry but you's gotsa leave. Parkin here's reserved, this is a private venue." "Every damn lot in this city feels like it's fuckin reserved... shit..." Mike's hand reached Bo's forearm, and once he'd reigned him in, he leaned a little closer to the bouncer. "Ey, if I may? I'm here to see Nate. If you's as big a deal as you're makin out, then I know you know who I'm talkin about. He's in there, right? Since we're not allowed in, tell him Mike's here to see him? Mike Marinara." He let the name hang in the air like bait. You know who I am. This whole town knows who I am. Come on. Take the bait, you motherfucker. Don't embarrass me in front of this washed up asshole. "Marinara?" the young man couldn't contain his amusement, but recognized enough of himself in Mike to take him seriously. "Sure. You wait right there, Marinara" he said, taking note of Mike's weight before lackadaisically heading to the entrance. Mike pushed out his lower lip, satisfied, and turned to Bo, half-expecting praise. Bo looked him up and down, wondered why he ever paired up with a dago, and watched the man enter Gigi's as he blew smoke against the windshield. "He drinks virgin marys, this guy." "Who?" Bo asked, "Nate? The lawyer? Shit... it would take some special type o maniac to bust your ass out the pen." The two waited. Mike glanced at his vintage Casio. Half an hour had passed. This was business as usual, he figured the message had to pass through at least two channels before it reached Nate. Still, Mike wasn't happy about his lack of agency. He mulled over what he'd said to the guy, wondered if he'd been assertive enough. He sat grumpily in the passenger, impatiently fiddling with the radio, which Bo addressed with grunts and sighs. You Won't Dance with Me by April Wine hummed quietly over the radio and eventually played in the arrival of a jet black Mercedes-Benz W112 that parked two parking spaces away from them; it announced its presence like a hearse. The model itself blended in with the rest of the city's enthusiasm for old rods, but this one in particular came with something insidious. Mike and Bo paid close attention to it, realizing immediately that whoever it was wasn't a member of Gigi's. "That ain't no guinea's car." "Nope." They watched on, waiting for the engine to stop. It hummed on. The passenger door opened and a sharply-dressed man exited, he was pale with high cheekbones and Slavic looks and he had an unbothered look in his eye, like this visit was just another thing to cross off the list. He played with his necklace, the Star of David, while he turned to address the skinny man in the driver's seat. He was young and dark, Mike figured him for some kind of Middle Eastern. He wore a pastel suit too big for him, and spoke animatedly with his passenger in a foreign tongue. He was the driver, but this wasn't his car. The passenger's neck turned a couple inches to inspect the pick-up truck that was behind him. He made a quick note of it, rubbed the tip of his nose and got back to giving the driver his orders. Mike and Bo looked at one another knowingly. A stocky middle-aged man left the backseat. He was acne scarred and he had harsh features. He had been watching the pick-up the entire time, and his sharp eyes didn't waver once as he left the Mercedes. The suit he wore, while pressed and tidy, looked decades old, while the man himself felt centuries older. Both the men harmonized the closing of their respective doors, leaving the young driver alone with the engine running. Slowly, they approached the stoop of the social club and waited there. Within minutes of their arrival, a chorus of men burst out of the doors, with the two leading the charge holding a man flushed of colour and scared shitless, like he was about to be fed to a pair of vampires. Warmly, the centuries-old man opened his arms and encouraged his new victim to come along, closing in on him. A familiar face appeared in the crowd, and made a bee-line for the pick-up Mike and Bo sat shrunk in. It was the young bouncer. "You's gonna have to go." "Ey, what did I..." "No, no, you're gonna have to go. Now. Go. If you's don't leave... look, I'm licensed to carry a firearm. So if you's don't get the hell out of here, then we're gonna have a real problem. I don't got time for this. Get out of here before my friends don't give me a choice." Bo didn't give Mike time to come up with a reply. He backed up and got the hell out of there. Once Mike was done chastising Bo, his eyes didn't leave the rear mirror until the sight of Gigi's was little more than a speck. Once they were in the clear, they found themselves in front of a wall of red taillights. It was dark now. It was dark everywhere.

Circa 1989 Death Blow Of The El Rukns This Was An 8 State Raid Carried Out By The ATF and FBI Orgins Of The EL RUKN TRIBE The Five-Percent Nation of Islam often uses religious protection as a shield, but its true focus appears to be the pursuit of wealth and power. Also referred to as the Gods, the New Nation of Islam, and by other names, this group functions as a loosely connected organization that frequently clashes with internal factions rather than rival gangs. Its origins trace back to the early 1930s, emerging from the early stages of what later became known as the Black Muslim movement in the 1960s and is now called the Nation of Islam. One of the Nation’s well-known beliefs is the portrayal of the White man as a blue-eyed devil, while a lesser-known teaching is the idea that the Black man is god. The article offers an in-depth look at the Five-Percenters, detailing the key figures involved over time, examining their recent activities, criminal behavior, symbols, the role of women in the group, and exploring the debate over whether it constitutes a religion or a cult. By 1966, members of The Five Percent Nation had already established a role in multiple Illinois state prisons. The coalition grew in numbers by gathering anyone who believed in Islam and was willing to learn the teachings of the gang's rules and guidelines. The teachings of the Nation of Gods and Earths are passed on through a modern oral tradition. The advancement of a God or Earth is based on his or her memorization, recitation, comprehension, and practical application of the Supreme Mathematics and the Supreme Alphabet, and also the 120 Lessons, sometimes referred to as degrees, a revised version of the Supreme Wisdom lessons of the NOI, originally written by Wallace Fard Muhammad and Elijah Muhammad. The gang carried out a series of attacks on different gangs throughout the years. Most conflicts between them and other gangs come from converting members who were non-believers into believers in Islam. In 1976, the Five Percent Nation converted Black P Stone Ranger co-founder Jeff Fort, also known as Chief Malik, into a Muslim and a believer of Islam. He then came home and converted members of the Stones into a new and more militant improved faction called the El Rukn Tribe of Moorish Science Temple of America. It was in 1969 when a young T. Rodgers formed the Black P Stones in Los Santos with the approval of the Original 21. Initially, it was a community-based organization operating in the South Central area of Los Santos, near Crenshaw Blvd. In the book Uprising by Yusuf Jah and Sister Shah’Keyah, Chapter 9 includes an interview with T. Rodgers that provides information about the history of the Black Stones in Los Santos. T. Rodgers discusses the organization that existed during the early 1970s and some of the community work and activities with which they were involved. Since then, T. Rodgers has appeared on several television programs and movies on the topic of gangs, including Colors as Dr. Feelgood, and he was a participant in the 1989 ABC Special on Gangs hosted by Tom Brokaw. He is also featured in the F.E.D.S. Magazine DVD, where he gives an interview from the Jungles, discussing the early days of LS gangs. He was also featured in an American Drug War, a film about how the U.S. government has contributed to the drug problem in America. In 1983, Jeff Fort wanted to expand the El Rukn coalition into other states to create a stronger network for his weapons and narcotics trade. He figured since he already approved T Rodgers to create a branch of the Black P Stones in Los Santos, he could send another soldier to run a branch of the El Rukn Tribe. Ibrahim Hamilton was chosen by Jeff Fort and the Original 21 to lead a branch of the Los Santos El Rukn Tribe. October 27th 1989, the federal government issued a eight state raid on all El Rukn chapters. They had over three hundred wire taps on Jeff Fort, giving directions and instructions to gang chiefs to perform acts of violence and pick up and drop off weapons and narcotics. In Modern Day In Modern Day, the Rukn Tribe mainly supplies black street gangs across the five cities in which they operate. They stay away from gang warfare at all cost trying not to get linked back to any one group. Their business stretches from the illegal weapon trade, boosting car parts, illegal street racing, to drug trafficking. They established a weapon hauling operation that started in Indiana and Kentucky because in those states, it's easy to buy guns with no FFL or FOID. They will normally send a person who isn’t of essence with the streets to go and buy about 7-10 firearms, then haul them to a specific state then they will receive payment. They also have multiple mobile hotspots, also known as trap-houses, where they print 3D weapons such as Polymer Ghost Glocks and attachments, which the modern-day gangs call “Switches.” They also have spots for other things, such as cooking drugs and getting them ready to be distributed on the streets. The Delegation of Tribe Rukn doesn’t only operate in the streets, they operate in the prisons as well. In 1989, after the eight-state big bust, a lot of high-ranking members got life sentences and banded together. They created a car for Muslims of all kind along as you believe in the Nation of Islam, you can eat, sleep, and program with them inside of prison. They still have their hands in the drug trade from the inside and out. Outside of the illegal businesses, the Rukn Tribe has multiple legit businesses that they use to place young African American youth in. They donate thousands of dollars a year to the Black Lives Matter movement, and they also have their own academic program that takes trouble from the youth of the streets. The program teaches the youth how to be businessmen it also pays for the trades that the youth want to attend free of cost.

More character slots, five characters instead of three like SAMP.

Rip Sa-mp. Shit.

keep it main

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Mafioso Gang

i fw wit