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Street Villains 13 is a predominantly Hispanic street gang based in Los Santos. The group originally formed among local youth who grew up on the same few blocks and shared similar struggles tied to poverty, heavy law enforcement presence, and long-standing neighborhood rivalries. Over time, SV13 expanded to include members from nearby streets who identified with the group’s history and reputation. As the Street Villains’ influence spread throughout South Los Santos, conflicts with neighboring street groups intensified. These rivalries led to repeated cycles of violence, arrests, and incarceration, deeply affecting both the group and the surrounding community. Despite this instability, the Street Villains name continued to carry weight locally, particularly among older members and long-time residents familiar with the neighborhood’s past. The roots of SV13 trace back to the early 1970s, when the area functioned as a loose neighborhood collective often referred to by locals as Stone Haven Varrio, made up of families from multiple cultural backgrounds. By 1974, younger residents began organizing more formally, eventually solidifying what would become known as Street Villains 13. One of the earliest figures linked to the group was a neighborhood resident known as “Low Key,” frequently cited as an influential founding presence. During the late 1970s and early 1980s, growth led to internal separation. Members began identifying with smaller cliques based on age and specific blocks within the neighborhood. While older members continued to represent the original Street Villains identity, younger generations formed localized cliques tied to their immediate surroundings. Despite these divisions, the cliques remained connected through shared territory and history. By the late 1980s, Street Villains 13 had developed several recognized cliques. The most prominent was 43rd Street Locos (LCS), which became closely associated with the SV13 name. This clique should not be confused with 42nd Street Locos, a separate and independent Latino street group operating in a different part of South Los Santos. Other smaller cliques also existed, each maintaining its own identity while still falling under the broader Street Villains umbrella. SV13 shares territory with the Rollin’ 40s Neighborhood Crips, one of the larger and more established gangs in South Los Santos. This close proximity has historically contributed to tension, disputes, and periodic flare-ups between the groups. Members of Street Villains 13 are known to congregate in a narrow alley. Local Los Santos law enforcement has frequently associated this alley with graffiti activity and past gang-related incidents, making it a well-known location tied to the group. South Los Santos has long been marked by economic decline and social neglect. Once viewed as a quiet working-class area, the neighborhood was permanently altered following widespread unrest in 1968, triggered by a confrontation between residents and authorities. The protests and clashes that followed reshaped the community and played a major role in forming the identity and outlook of Street Villains 13 in the decades that followed. STVx3 is widely known for conflicting with nearly every surrounding neighborhood in South Los Santos. The gang has a long-standing reputation for clashing with any hood that refuses to acknowledge their presence or challenges their influence. Because of this mentality, tensions with nearby gangs are nearly constant, and long-term alliances are uncommon. Street Villains 13 is bordered by several rival gangs and has remained active despite decades of conflict. Their most documented rivalries include W/S South Los 13, Hoover-affiliated sets, S/S Playboys 13, W/S Davis 13, and Azteca's 13. These disputes have led to repeated cycles of retaliation, territorial challenges, and increased law enforcement attention throughout the area. One of the most active and volatile conflicts in recent years has centered around Vermont Avenue, where Street Villains 13 and W/S South Los 13 have aligned against the Hoovers. This ongoing war has resulted in frequent confrontations, heightened police patrols, and a steady pattern of violence affecting surrounding blocks. Social media has played a growing role in fueling these tensions. Younger members from different SV13 cliques have been observed moving through rival territory while recording videos, yelling derogatory remarks, and openly disrespecting enemies. Graffiti remains a major method of asserting presence, with Street Villains 13 marking walls throughout contested areas, often crossing out rival tags and placing their own name over them to signal dominance. While fistfights and melee assaults were once the most common form of confrontation, gun-related violence has increased in recent years, particularly among younger members attempting to build reputations within the gang. In 2022, the Los Santos Police Department’s Gang Task Force documented 16 gang-related homicides across sections of South and East Los Santos, many of which were linked to ongoing disputes involving Street Villains 13 and other local street gangs. Law enforcement has identified several known hangout locations for SV13 members, including freeway-adjacent areas, alleyways, and key intersections surrounding their claimed territory. Surveillance and patrol efforts have focused heavily on these locations, though the gang’s decentralized structure has made enforcement efforts difficult. Internally, Street Villains 13 operates through multiple smaller cliques tied to specific blocks or sections of the neighborhood. While younger members often identify primarily with their clique, older members continue to emphasize loyalty to the broader STVx3 name. This generational divide has created differences in how members operate, with older figures favoring structure and reputation, while younger members seek visibility and status through confrontations and online exposure. Despite arrests, injunctions, and sustained police pressure, Street Villains 13 has remained active for over six decades. Their continued presence is largely attributed to deep-rooted neighborhood ties, family connections, and the ability to adapt to changing conditions. As rivalries persist and new generations emerge, STVx3 continues to be regarded as one of the more aggressive and enduring gangs in South Los Santos, maintaining its name through ongoing conflict and territorial defense. Street Villains 13 has also been linked to a steady flow of arrests related to weapons possession, vandalism, and probation violations. Law enforcement reports indicate that many younger members are introduced to the gang through family ties or neighborhood proximity rather than formal recruitment, making enforcement efforts more complex. Officers note that arrests often remove individuals temporarily, but rarely disrupt the broader structure of the gang. The gang’s identity has remained consistent despite changes in leadership and generational turnover. Older members are known to emphasize respect for the STVx3 name and its history, while younger members tend to prioritize visibility and reputation-building through confrontations with rivals. This shift has contributed to an increase in reckless behavior, including public displays of disrespect and confrontations in highly visible areas. As South Los Santos continues to change, Street Villains 13 remains a defining presence within its claimed territory. Ongoing rivalries, territorial disputes, and cycles of retaliation continue to shape daily life in the surrounding neighborhoods. With no clear resolution to these conflicts, STVx3 is expected to remain active, maintaining its influence through a combination of neighborhood loyalty, intimidation, and long-standing street reputation. Inside STVx3, tattoos carry meaning far beyond appearance. They are commonly viewed as records of loyalty, involvement, and time spent within the gang. Unlike regular tattoos, these markings are often believed to be earned through participation and endurance rather than chosen freely. Within the culture, having visible gang tattoos is frequently tied to credibility, with the idea that respect must come from actions connected to the neighborhood and its history. Young members who are first associated with a gang are usually kept at the lowest level. At this stage, they are often expected to handle simple responsibilities that place them close to older members without giving them power. Running errands, carrying messages, or picking up food and drinks from nearby stores are common expectations. These tasks are not viewed as glamorous, but they are considered a test of reliability, patience, and willingness to follow orders without question. Trust is built slowly through consistency rather than sudden acts. As time passes and trust grows, expectations increase. Members who remain active and present begin to gain recognition within the group. In many neighborhoods, reputation becomes tied to how often someone is seen, who they associate with, and how they carry themselves in public. Tattoos representing the set, neighborhood, or number are often seen as proof that a person has contributed something meaningful. Within the gang, the belief exists that the more markings someone has, the more they have done for the hood, even though this perception is often exaggerated or assumed rather than verified. Rank within the gang is sometimes reflected through tattoos, though this is not an official system. Certain placements, sizes, or repetitions of symbols are believed to signal seniority or experience. Older members may carry faded or older tattoos that reflect long-term involvement, while younger members often seek new markings to show they are active and committed. This creates pressure, especially on younger individuals, to permanently mark themselves in order to be taken seriously. Some tattoos carry especially heavy rumors and symbolism. Teardrop tattoos are one of the most well known examples. Within street culture, filled teardrops are often said to represent a confirmed killing, while unfilled teardrops are rumored to represent an unconfirmed act or the loss of someone close. In reality, these meanings are inconsistent and frequently misunderstood, but the assumptions attached to them are powerful and can affect how others perceive and treat the individual. In neighborhoods with a strong gang presence, it is common to see many Hispanic individuals with visible gang tattoos. To those inside the lifestyle, these markings can signal how active someone is or which side of a conflict they belong to. To rivals, they can act as provocation. To law enforcement, they often become identifiers. What is meant to show pride or loyalty can quickly become a reason for targeting, whether by enemies or authorities. The permanence of tattoos is something older members often acknowledge but younger members tend to overlook. While alliances shift, neighborhoods change, and people age out of street life, tattoos remain. Many former members later find that these markings limit job opportunities, attract unwanted attention, and make it difficult to distance themselves from past involvement. What once symbolized respect can become a lasting reminder of decisions made at a young age. Overall, the system of rank and tattoos within Hispanic gangs reflects deeper issues tied to identity, belonging, and survival. For many, tattoos become a way to prove worth in environments where other forms of recognition feel unreachable. While they may bring short-term status within the streets, they often carry long-term consequences that follow individuals well beyond the neighborhood that once demanded them. The 43rd Street Locos are widely regarded as the oldest and most well-known clique tied to the Street Locos name. Within their circle, they are known for a reputation centered on retaliation and loyalty, earning them the nickname of a “get-back” clique. Older members are often described as highly reactive to losses, believing that unanswered violence signals weakness and invites further challenges from rivals. One of the most cited incidents associated with the clique involved a member known on the streets as Silent #4, who was killed outside a neighborhood liquor store during a late-night shooting. Word of the incident spread quickly through the area, and rumors circulated that members of 18th Street were responsible. The killing intensified an already tense rivalry and drew immediate attention from both the streets and law enforcement. Later that same night, several members of the 43rd Street Locos allegedly crossed into rival territory in what authorities would later describe as a retaliatory act. Multiple people were killed during the incident, sending shockwaves through both neighborhoods. Witness reports described a vehicle fleeing the scene at high speed, triggering a large police response across surrounding blocks. The incident ended with a pursuit that resulted in arrests, effectively dismantling much of the clique’s active leadership at the time. The case became a turning point, frequently referenced by law enforcement as an example of how fast retaliation escalates into wider violence. Within the streets, the event cemented the 43rd Street Locos’ reputation as one of the most feared and reckless cliques associated with the Street Locos name. (FTMA) (FaketeenMurdaGang) FTMA, short for FaketeenMurdaGang, formed as a direct result of long-standing hostilities with 18th Street. From its beginning, the clique positioned itself as aggressively anti-18th, adopting a confrontational identity shaped almost entirely by ongoing conflict. Members often describe the rivalry as generational, with no clear starting point and no clear end. Over the years, the feud between FTMA and 18th Street has resulted in repeated arrests, violent confrontations, and long prison sentences. Law enforcement records link the clique to numerous incidents involving assaults and weapons violations. Despite pressure from authorities, FTMA has continued to exist as a symbol of the broader, unresolved war between the two sides. Young Evil Paisa, commonly referred to as YEP, is considered the youngest and most volatile clique connected to the Street Locos. Many of its members grew up surrounded by predominantly Black neighborhoods, particularly areas influenced by Rollin’ 30s and Rollin’ 40s Neighborhood Crips. This proximity heavily shaped their style, behavior, and overall street identity. YEP members are often recognized by their fashion choices, which differ from older cliques. Designer clothing, slim-fit jeans, expensive sneakers, and hoodies are common, reflecting influence from surrounding hoods rather than traditional Hispanic gang aesthetics. Their presence has been frequently noted around 44th Street, where they are known to spend long hours outside and remain highly visible. The clique is especially known for aggressive tagging and wall work, often placing their name in highly contested areas. These markings are used not only to claim space but also to provoke rivals. Law enforcement considers their graffiti activity a key indicator of rising tension in the area, often preceding violent incidents. YEP’s notoriety grew significantly following a major law enforcement operation known as the “44th Street Murders Takedown.” The investigation targeted multiple young members tied to a series of violent crimes, leading to indictments that drew citywide attention. Despite the arrests, YEP continues to be viewed as a dangerous and unpredictable clique, driven by youth, peer pressure, and a desire for recognition. In the present day, Street Villains 13 (STVx3) remains an active and recognizable presence in South Los Santos, continuing to operate in a city that has changed around them but never fully left them behind. While many older gangs have fractured or faded, Street Villains 13 has adapted to modern pressures through generational turnover, social media visibility, and tight neighborhood ties that keep the name alive. Unlike earlier eras where structure was more centralized, today’s Street Villains operate through smaller cliques that move independently while still claiming the larger STVx3 identity. Younger members often prioritize visibility and reputation, while older figures remain more reserved, acting behind the scenes. This split has changed how the gang functions, making it less predictable but harder to dismantle. Social media plays a major role in the gang’s modern identity. Online platforms are frequently used to display presence, mock rivals, and amplify neighborhood disputes. What once stayed within a few blocks can now spread instantly across the city, escalating conflicts faster and drawing increased attention from both enemies and law enforcement. Rivalries continue to define Street Villains 13’s daily reality. Ongoing tensions with multiple Sureño gangs and Hoover-affiliated sets have kept the surrounding area unstable, with disputes often centered around contested streets and intersections. These conflicts rarely resolve and instead cycle through periods of escalation and brief calm before reigniting. Law enforcement pressure on Street Villains 13 has intensified in recent years. Surveillance, gang injunctions, and targeted arrests have disrupted some activity, but the gang’s decentralized nature allows it to recover quickly. Arrests often remove individuals rather than weakening the overall presence, contributing to a constant reshuffling of faces on the street. Economics and the environment continue to play a role in the gang’s persistence. Limited opportunities, overcrowded housing, and generational involvement make it difficult for many youths in the area to avoid exposure. For some, Street Villains 13 represents familiarity and protection in a neighborhood where trust is scarce and outside systems feel distant. At the same time, the consequences of involvement are more visible than ever. Members face increased monitoring, harsher sentencing, and fewer chances to separate themselves from their past. Tattoos, online activity, and known associations make it difficult for individuals to move unnoticed, even as they grow older or attempt to step away. Today, Street Villains 13 exists as both a street organization and a symbol of unresolved issues in South Los Santos. While the methods and faces have changed, the core struggles remain the same. As long as those conditions persist, STVx3 is likely to remain part of the city’s landscape, adapting to the present while carrying the weight of its past.

I feel this, looking at all the memories is awesome, and to not have it up sucks.

one of the best to ever do it

Reinstate!

❤️ 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'm really fucked up here." Dutch squinted. Marinara stared back, tenderly holding his gruesome 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 let out a barbaric cry as he squeezed out all the strength it had. He compensated by throwing his weight into him. He relied on the momentum of the turn to confuse and stagger his legs and he made sure that he immediately felt the prick of the pointy end against where his kidney would be as they fell into a wall. Marinara had his left forearm propped against his shoulder while his good arm was cocked with the shiv, a thrust away from ending Dutch's 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, a final drip of energy paddling his legs to the terminus as it pulled in to stop. He was feeling nauseous, he was worried he'd caught a bullet somewhere. Everything hurt, he was spent and the periphery of his consciousness was fading. Woozily he got on and breezed past the driver. The driver was used to this route and 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 headed to the back, smearing fresh blood on anything he touched for support. He was thankful the bus was empty, let me die in peace. He collapsed into 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 was certain that he was about to have a heart attack. He looked for anything else that was bleeding, at first he couldn't tell, panicked by the sight of Dutch's fresh blood on his brown shirt. His breathing settled once he realised he'd be in this world at least a few hours longer and then found the nerve to finally 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.