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During the 1980s-90s, Eddie was heavily involved in the Inter City Firm (ICF), a notorious East London football hooligan gang known for its violent clashes and organised street-level operations. His reputation for brutality and strategic thinking earned him both fear and loyalty. Few names carried the same weight as Eddie Wallis or "that Buddy Holly looking cunt". Eddie’s rise didn’t go unchallenged. On the south side of the Thames was Tony Small of the Bushwackers. Tony Small was anything but. Standing just under six feet but built like a brick shithouse, he was thick through the neck, shoulders, and had tits and a gut. Eddie and Tony's boys met in train stations, back alleys, outside pubs, anywhere far enough from the police but close enough for blood to stain the pavement. Bottles, boots, bricks, and blades came out as soon as the shouting started. Teeth were knocked out, ribs cracked, skulls split open. A well-placed knuckleduster could change someone’s face forever. To outsiders, it was madness. To them, it was Saturday. Ambushes were common. One crew would tip off a train route, wait in numbers, and turn platforms into battlegrounds. There were codewords, spotters, and getaways planned in advance. Sometimes the police showed up, sometimes they didn’t. Either way, someone always limped home. And at the heart of it always was that bitter personal rivalry: Eddie Wallis versus Tony Small. Eddie Wallis in the ICF made with AI FROM HOOLIGAN TO HUSTLER By the mid-90s, the scraps in pub car parks and train station brawls were behind Eddie Wallis. With Tony Small locked up for attempted murder, the old rivalry was put on ice. For Eddie, it was the perfect opening. No more looking over his shoulder. No more random scraps pulling focus. He had space to think, to build. So, that's exactly what he did. What started as a firm became a network, and Eddie was no longer just a face in the East End. He was churning out a lot of money in the bricks and mortar game. Real Estate. Housing. It wasn't glamourous but it was solid. And it was the perfect front. He started in Hackney with a few run down terraces, places no one else wanted. He bought them cheap through auction, cash in hand, no questions asked. His crew handled the refurbs. Half of them were legit builders, the others were blokes who owned him favours. He quickly expanded to HMOs, rent-to-rent scams and laundered cash through dodgy renovation firms and over-inflated invoices. By 1997, Eddie had over a dozen properties in his name. He then invested in a pub called The Frigate down the road from his auntie's house where he grew up. Within the year he'd bought it outright. TURN OF THE CENTURY In 1999, just before the millennium, Eddie got on a flight to visit his transatlantic cousins in LS. He scoped it out and came back again in a few days. He'd linked up with an Albanian crew the year before, who had connections into Europe. They moved coke and skunk and were using some of Eddie's lockups in Leytonstone to stash it. They had some Eastern European friends. The Eastern Europeans were flooding the market with converted pistols, MAC-10s, and shotguns brought in through the docks or in the back of lorries. They were vocal about their business interests in Los Santos and wanted Eddie and his boys in on it. The news started calling Eddie's lot a fancy name a “cross-border criminal syndicate.” Twenty-six years on, Eddie’s bollock-deep in San Andreas' criminal underworld, a familiar face in all the wrong corners of The Golden State. He goes between London and Los Santos every other week, to make sure everything's running smoothly both sides of the pond. He's got his four eye's set on big things. Clubs, pubs, bookies and apartment complexes. Eddie's calling it the Second British Invasion. Eddie Wallis in 2025 made with AI

EDDIE WALLIS - THE EARLY YEARS Edward Gerald Wallis was born in May 1964 in Canning Town, East London, to Daphne and Brian Wallis. His mother came from a working-class Jewish family with long-established roots in Stepney and Whitechapel, areas closely tied to the history of London’s East End Jewish community. His father, Brian, worked as a shipwright in the Royal Docks, a skilled tradesman involved in the construction and maintenance of merchant vessels. By the early seventies, the dockyards were winding down and work was hard to come by. Brian took whatever contracts he could get, sometimes away for weeks, and Daphne struggled on her own. She had what people quietly called her highs and lows, good days and black ones, but there was a word for it if you knew where to look. Brian never had much patience for it. He would disappear into the pub and leave her to get on with it. In 1974, she asked her older sister, Rita Crane, to take Eddie for a while. Just for a few weeks, she said. A bit of breathing room. It started like that. Bits and pieces, here and there. But the weeks stretched out, and before long, he just stayed. Rita and her husband Sidney took him in without fuss, raising him in a narrow terrace off Beckton Road, near The Frigate, a battered old pub with paint peeling off the brick, smoked glass in the windows, and a sign of a sailing ship that creaked when the wind came up. They had a daughter, Angela, a few years older than Eddie. The two of them were raised like brother and sister, even if their blood said cousin. Brian and Daphne made with AI Eddie had a hard time at school. He was small for his age, wore thick glasses, and always attracted the wrong sort of attention. Through both primary and secondary school, he was picked on, shoved about, laughed at, and left on his own more often than not. He got clumped in the corridors, had his bag nicked, his sarnies lobbed on the roof. But Eddie's never been stupid. He knew how to talk, knew how to watch. Had this way of sussing people out. Eddie started knocking about with a few of the older lads. Funny thing was, they liked him. He would do things for them and pass messages. Made them laugh too. Had this cheeky grin and a sharp tongue. By the time he was thirteen, Eddie was already slipping out of school life. He hung around near the shops, helped out older lads who should have moved on years ago, and always seemed to have a few extra quid in his pocket. Eddie wasn't just clever. He was useful. And in a place like Canning Town, being useful mattered more than any school report ever did. Rita thought Eddie was still going to school most days, and if he came in late or skipped dinner, she put it down to teenage moods. She had her hands full with the house, minding the neighbours, and keeping Sidney fed. As long as Eddie wasn't bringing trouble to her doorstep, she didn't ask too many questions. Sidney drank more than he should, always had music on in the front room, old records played loud enough to rattle the windows. Bit of the Stones, bit of Bowie, whatever took his mood. He would top up his glass and try to get Eddie to have a swig, with a nod and a wink like it was all just a bit of fun. Eddie liked Sidney. Sidney, Eddie and Rita in 1974 made with AI As he got older, Eddie spent more time on the streets than he did at home. Some nights he wouldn't come back at all, and when he did, it was with bloodshot eyes, the smell of chips and smoke on his clothes, and a crumpled tenner tucked in his sock. Rita had stopped asking questions. Sidney barely looked up from his chair. When the police started knocking at Rita’s door, that was it. She had turned a blind eye for long enough, but coppers on the step was a line she would not ignore. Eddie hadn't been nicked, not properly, but they had questions. A stolen bike, a broken arm, a name scribbled down too many times in the wrong places. Rita gave him one last chance to come clean. He just shrugged. Said nothing. Sidney kept quiet too, staring into his drink. A week later, Eddie packed a bag and walked out without a fuss. No shouting. No goodbye. Just slipped off like he had somewhere better to be. Eddie moved into a flat with a few of his older mates. They'd all packed in school early and were knocking about doing bits of labouring, cash jobs, the odd favour for people. The place was small, stank of greasy food, and the walls were so thin you could hear the street all night and the couple next door going at it like it was the last days of Rome. Most nights it kicked off after the late news and carried on till the milk float came round. The lads thought it was comedy gold. They would press cups to the wall, whispering and laughing. It sounded like someone was being murdered with affection. It was filthy, ridiculous, and somehow the highlight of most nights. If they weren't out kicking a flat ball down the alley, they were packed round a telly watching West Ham, screaming at every missed chance like it was personal. Weekends meant scuffed boots, muddy shirts, and arguments about who was best up front. Eddie looked up to Bobby Moore. It was the way he played. Calm, clean, never flustered. There was a lad called Dom Lawrence. Dom lived nearby, a couple of years older, and Eddie looked up to him as well. Everyone knew them. Him and his brother Ian. You kept out of their way. Dom and Ian in 1986 made with AI This was around the time Eddie started hearing the name Tony Small. Tony had his own crew, lads from over the river who dressed sharp and moved in packs. They were Millwall boys. Every time Tony’s name came up, Dom's face would change. He said Tony was trying to make himself known, poking around where he wasn't wanted. Dom didn't like anyone making noise on his ground, especially not some swaggering Millwall mug who thought crossing the river made him untouchable. Dom started keeping Eddie closer. “You're not just hanging about anymore,” he said one night. “Next time it goes off, I want you there.” The laughing and mucking about was done. This wasn't about match days or showing your face for the sake of it. This was about backing your own when it counted. And Dom had decided Eddie was in. He was part of it now. Properly in. He wore the colours, stood with the firm. Edited June 19 by BlackSaint

Keep cooking boss

This thread is to showcase your factions roleplay, please keep it on topic from here on out. General topics for discussion are held elsewhere, and you're welcome to open a discussion there where IFC and any other parties can contribute.

(Hustle makes the world bustle.)

This thread follows the development of Fernando 'Terrible-F" Woolley, a dedicated member of the Warlocks Motorcycle Club, as he navigates the challenges, bonds, and stories that shape his life on the road.

(Those slow days be like >>>).

IG Live / On Some Real Shit

House Therapy Cold Mindset / Stay Fameless, But Respected Conversations / First-Grader Ready For War / Get Your Reps Up

House Therapy Cold Mindset / Stay Fameless, But Respected Conversations / First-Grader Ready For War / Get Your Reps Up

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good luck! looks dopee!