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We'd like to start this month's community announcement with the following message from Mmartin: Hey everyone, I hope you're all doing well so far in the new year. I'd like to address the plans we have coming up for LS-RP in the very near future. The more keen-eyed among you have probably spotted a "February 2026" card at the end of our last LS-RP RAGE Return teaser. I'm happy to say confirm that after months of hard work by our dev team (huge shout-out to danut and n0de101 who led the RAGE development), we're crossing our t's and dotting our i's to be fully ready to re-open. This comes at a convenient time, as as of today we're shutting the SA-MP server down. I'm thrilled by having had the opportunity to relive the days past and taking SA-MP for one more ride. We've developed dozens of new features that we could only dream of back in SA-MP's heyday, and the run SA-MP had was much longer (also more fun, and at times more challenging) than we initially anticipated. So all in all I'm happy to call the re-run a success, and can't wait for you to see what we've been cooking up on the RAGE front. While we have a rough date to open doors (ports?) internally, we still have some last bridges to cross before feeling confident committing to and sharing a concrete date. It's this month however, so expect more information on dates, features and factions very soon. We'd also like to give a massive shout out to our media team and RAGE Insiders who've made the effort to showcase and highlight some of the server's legal factions in the most recent teaser for RAGE: Commerce & Estate Team In preparation for RAGE, there's been some changes to C&E and how it works/operates. Much of these changes are in the back-end, and not something we necessarily need to bore you with however, by simplifying the structure of the team into two main teams we can streamline the current processes that our team has to go through. Based on recent feedback, all teams including ourselves have agreed to ensure all applications are reviewed within 72 hours to ensure none of our players are waiting on approval for extended periods of time. Commerce Team: Manages business-related tasks, including leases, company perks (vehicles, mapping), and entrepreneurial applications. Head of Commerce Team — danut, Assistant Head of Commerce Team — Slice Estate Team: Oversees player-owned residential properties, complexes, and market pricing adjustments to match the server economy. Head of Estate Team — Caledonite, Assistant Head of Estate Team — DadoJ Keep an eye out on the forums in the coming days and weeks for more information on how you can request properties and companies prior to the server's launch. We aim to ensure that everyone's ready to hit the ground running once the server is live. Illegal Faction Team We'd like to start by acknowledging some changes to the team, as we've recently had @Spanion return to the staff team and reclaim his Illegal Faction Council role. Spanion spent a considerable amount of time supporting the Illegal Faction Team & Council around the SAMP launch and has been helping us get the team prepared for the launch of RAGE. @Conor has also been placed into the role of Illegal Faction Council, his experience in illegal street-gang roleplay, and passion for providing players with a positive, immersive experience has been of great help as we work with our development team on new exciting features for RAGE, which you may have seen in our recent promotional material - a project which @Conor has taken on and worked extremely hard on alongside our RAGE Insiders team. As the launch date for RAGE rapidly approaches, the Illegal Faction Team & Council have been very busy ensuring a smooth transition into the next stage of LS-RP for all existing factions interested in setting up shop on our RAGE server. We've also been preparing a process for returning factions, and factions from outside the community who wish to join us on LS-RP:V. We're excited to announce that we're now ready for faction leaders across the board to apply for Verified in the run up to launch. There are some eligibility criteria that must be met, and not everyone will be granted this upon launch. If you're unsure about the RAGE faction advancement structure, we recommend checking this thread. If you'd like to apply for Verified status, we ask that you submit the following application to the Illegal Faction Council for review. As the official launch date has not been released or decided, it may take some time for applications to be reviewed and approved. We don't want to get anyone excited prematurely, but by submitting your application early you'll ensure you've reserved your spot as a Verified faction for launch as we won't be giving it to every applicant. Official SAMP factions will also have the opportunity to join RAGE in an Official Faction capacity - there are also some eligibility criteria that must be met, however the Illegal Faction Council will be reaching out to these factions individually. We've also been receiving a lot of feedback about the Rules of Engagement from both players and staff regarding the length and complexity of the Rules of Engagement. We've spent some time condensing and simplifying the information, and have released a Rules of Engagement (Simplified) thread. There has been a couple of changes to ROE for the RAGE launch, most importantly this is the change to weapon restrictions (one assault rifle instead of two per attack) and the fact that robberies will now be classed as a faction attack and subject to a 6 hour cool-down. This is still a work in progress as we approach relaunch, but we encourage all faction leaders and their members to ensure they've read this thread to be up to date on the ROE for RAGE. Finally, we're excited to announce the applications for the Illegal Faction Team are now open! If you'd like to provide your input and work as part of a team to support the illegal roleplay community, we recommend submitting an application. And, as always if there's any queries or concerns you'd like to discuss with the Illegal Faction Team/Council, our discord has a ticket bot to allow you to easily communicate your ideas with us - Discord Invite! Staff Update Following our recent tester driver, congratulations to our new staff members ... Tester Karelia - Lande - mhrhan - Hellishape21 f1nn - Ormond31 - Calvin Congratulations to our newly promoted staff members ... Senior Admin Conor Senior Tester Zion - NissanR Welcome back to our returning staff members ... Tester Draxxler

E/S Playboys 13, also known as "Conejos" or "Rabbit Gang", is a long standing, notorious Sureño street gang located in the low-bottoms of South Central, East Side Los Santos. Taking over Jamestown St. and nearby areas, E/S Playboys 13 was established in the early 1970s, forming a branch off of the original West Side Playboys from the 1950s, who began as the Southern San Andreas Latin Playboys Car Club. A group of young Chicano men who spent weekends building lowriders and showing off their cars around West Los Santos. They wore matching jackets and polished chrome, not gang colours. But as times changed, the city's Latino population was growing, and many working-class families were being pushed south towards lower income neighbourhoods, and as a result, Playboys younger generation had turned from a social club into a street gang. The set remains firmly aligned with the Mexican Mafia and enforces strict Southsider codes through the "13" affiliation. While it is historically a Mexican-American gang, it has been known for having a relatively high number of African American members. Despite this, the gang’s identity, symbols, language, and traditions are heavily rooted in Mexican-American gang culture. Daily operations focus on street-level sales of meth and heroin, extortion of local spots and dealers, armed robberies, while being highly territorial, with strong emphasis placed on defending and representing its neighborhood. E/S PBS13 currently operates out of three different cliques, each playing their own role within the organisation. Zoo Riders operate as a mobile, enforcement-heavy subset focused on street presence and rival confrontations. Chicos Locos, one of the oldest cliques inherited from the gang’s founding era, carries veteran influence and handles internal discipline. Crystal Bunnies, the all-female clique, maintains tight operations with their signature pink/red accents blended into traditional blue Sureño colors. The set holds a low-key but brutal reputation amid fierce rivalries with Florencia 13, 38th Street, and local Crip hoods. Territory is heavily tagged with "PBS", "E/S PBS13", and rabbit symbols marking dominance. Regardless of their affiliation to the Mexican Mafia, this has not stopped Playboys from forming rivalries with other Sureño gangs. With the increased presence of gang members and affiliates on social media platforms, Playboys 13 has also become a frequent target of online provocation. Often referred to as “Peanutbutters,” which is widely recognized as a derogatory nickname aimed at disrespecting the set and its members. Such labels are intentionally used to undermine the gang’s identity, challenge its reputation, and provoke emotional reactions, particularly in spaces where posts can spread quickly and reach a wide audience. Members of the gang are commonly sending threats in response, recording themselves in enemy territory either in traffic or vandalizing walls with the sets tags. These conflicts escalate, and turn into the root cause for a lot of gang rivalries in E/S Playboys 13's modern history.

CRUISE - BY @bill dippolito WARD Michael didn’t intend on staying long. His mother had said ten minutes, maybe fifteen, and he believed her. Hospitals weren’t places you stayed in. They were places you passed through, whether you wanted to or not. He’d been dropped off with a paperback he wasn’t reading and instructions to sit still and be polite. He did both. The hallway lights were still on even though it was late. They hummed softly, the way lights only do when there’s nothing else making noise. The floor shined like it had been recently waxed, and Michael made a mental note to walk slower so his sneakers wouldn’t squeak. He hated the sound. It felt like announcing himself when he didn’t want to be noticed. He knew the room number already. He’d memorized it after hearing it once. He didn’t know why that felt important, but it did. He stood outside the door longer than necessary, staring at the name on the plastic placard like it might tell him something useful. It didn’t. When he finally went in, the first thing he noticed was the sound. Not talking. Not crying. Just machines. Steady. Confident. Doing something they’d done a thousand times before. His father was already awake. Or at least his eyes were open. Michael couldn’t tell the difference yet. His dad looked smaller than usual. Not weak. Just… condensed. Like someone had taken the version of him Michael knew and folded it in on itself. The blanket covered most of him, and the bed rails felt unnecessary, like they were there out of habit more than need. Michael stayed by the door at first. He wasn’t sure if he was allowed to sit. Nobody had told him what the rules were. He put his hands in his pockets and rocked slightly on his heels, waiting for something to happen. Nothing did. He pulled the chair over anyway. It made a soft scraping sound that felt too loud in the room. He sat down and kept his back straight, the way his father always told him to. He didn’t look directly at his face right away. That felt rude, somehow. “Hey, Dad,” Michael said. His father didn’t answer. The machine answered instead, beeping steadily, like it was marking time for him. Michael nodded to himself. That was fine. His dad wasn’t much of a talker anyway. He looked around the room. The TV was off. The window showed nothing but darkness and a few reflected lights from inside. Someone had put a cup of water on the tray table, but it hadn’t been touched. “They let me stay up late tonight,” Michael said after a while. “Because of this.” He waited. Nothing. “I got picked for shortstop,” he added. “Coach said I got good hands.” The machine kept doing its job. Michael shifted in his seat. His feet didn’t touch the floor, so he crossed his ankles and tried to sit still. He noticed his father’s hands resting on the blanket. They looked the same as always. Big. Familiar. That helped. He reached out and touched one, just briefly. It was warm. That surprised him more than it should have. “They said you gotta rest,” Michael said. “So I won’t stay long.” That part felt important. Like a promise. A nurse passed by the doorway and glanced in, then kept walking. Michael watched the shadow move across the floor and disappear. “I don’t like this place,” he said quietly. “It’s too clean.” He didn’t know why he said that. It just came out. He leaned back in the chair and stared at the ceiling, the same way his father was. The tiles were arranged in neat squares. Michael counted them until he lost track. After a while, he stood up. He didn’t know how long he’d been there, but it felt like enough. He straightened his shirt and rubbed his hands together, then leaned in closer. “I’ll come back tomorrow,” he said. “So you gotta wake up.” He waited a second longer than necessary, just in case. Nothing happened. Michael nodded once, like the conversation had ended properly, and turned toward the door. He paused with his hand on the handle and looked back one last time. His father hadn’t moved. The machine hadn’t changed. That was okay. Things didn’t always change right away. Michael stepped back into the hallway and let the door close behind him. The lights kept humming. The floor still shined. Somewhere down the hall, someone laughed softly. He walked toward the exit with his book tucked under his arm, already thinking about how he’d tell his dad everything again tomorrow, the same way, in case this time it worked. WARD (P2) The next day didn’t feel like a next day. It felt like the same one, stretched thin and laid back over itself. The sky outside the hospital was brighter, but the light didn’t seem to reach inside. The hallway lights were still on. They always were. Michael came back with his mother this time. She held his hand tighter than usual, like she was afraid he might wander off even though he never did. She smelled like perfume she only wore for important things. Funerals. Weddings. Hospital visits that weren’t supposed to turn into something else. William was already there. He stood when they arrived, straight-backed, jacket still on even though the room was warm. He nodded once at Michael, then leaned in to kiss their mother on the cheek. Nobody said much. Words felt unnecessary now. Everything that needed saying had already been said the day before, even if nobody realized it yet. Richard looked the same. That was the strange part. Michael expected something to be different. Worse, maybe. Or better. But his father was still there in the same way. Eyes half-open. Chest rising shallowly. The machine still doing the talking for him. Michael took the same chair as before. He noticed it immediately. Same scrape against the floor. Same spot beside the bed. It felt important to sit where he’d sat last time, like moving would change something. His mother sat on the other side and took Richard’s hand with both of hers. She didn’t cry. Not yet. She just watched his face, studying it like she was trying to memorize it without knowing why. William stood at the foot of the bed for a while, arms crossed loosely, eyes fixed on the monitor. He looked calm. Michael knew better. William always looked calm when things were already decided. A nurse came in and checked a few things. Adjusted a dial. Smiled softly at Michael and his mother. The smile didn’t stick around long. It never did. When the nurse left, the room settled again. Michael swung his legs slightly, then stopped. He folded his hands in his lap and waited. That seemed to be the theme of the place. Waiting for machines. Waiting for signs. Waiting for someone else to tell you what was happening even when you already knew. His mother leaned closer to Richard. “I’m here,” she said quietly. “We’re all here.” Her voice cracked on the last word, but she didn’t let it break. Michael leaned forward too. He didn’t know why. It just felt like something you did. “Hey, Dad,” he said again. This time felt different. Not heavier. Just final in a way he didn’t have a word for yet. The machine kept beeping. Slower now. Michael noticed it without understanding what it meant. William stepped closer. He rested a hand lightly on the bed rail. He didn’t look at Michael or their mother. He watched Richard instead, like he was waiting for instructions that weren’t coming. The beeping slowed again. Michael felt it before he saw it. The room tightening. The air changing. His mother squeezed Richard’s hand harder, her thumb moving gently over his knuckles. Richard’s chest rose once more. Then again. The second time took longer. Michael held his breath without realizing it. The machine hesitated. Just for a second. Then it made a different sound. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just wrong. A nurse came in quickly this time. Then another. They spoke in low voices. Calm voices. Professional voices. Hands moved. Dials turned. Someone said his father’s name like it might still matter. Michael watched Richard’s face the whole time. It didn’t change. At some point, the nurse stopped moving. She looked at the clock on the wall and said a time. Michael didn’t remember it later. Numbers didn’t stick when they didn’t mean anything yet. The machine was quiet now. His mother leaned down and pressed her forehead gently against Richard’s hand. That was when she cried. Not loudly. Just enough to make it real. William closed his eyes once. Just once. Then he opened them again. Michael stayed seated. He waited for something to happen. For his father to move. To cough. To open his eyes wider and look at them like this was all a mistake. Nothing did. Eventually, a nurse put a hand on Michael’s shoulder and told him they were sorry. He nodded, because nodding seemed like the right thing to do. He stood when his mother stood. He followed when William turned toward the door. Before they left, Michael looked back one last time. Richard looked peaceful now. Smaller still. Like he’d finally stopped holding himself together. Michael didn’t cry in the hallway. He didn’t cry in the elevator. He didn’t cry in the car. He held his book tight against his chest and stared out the window as the hospital got smaller behind them. Somewhere deep down, in a place he wouldn’t understand for years, something settled into him quietly. Things didn’t always change right away. Sometimes they just stopped. WARD (P3) Two years later, Michael learned how to walk without making noise. It wasn’t something anyone taught him. It just happened. His footsteps softened on their own. He learned where floors creaked and where they didn’t. He learned how to stand still long enough that people forgot he was there. Grief did that. It made you smaller. Quieter. Easier to miss. The house felt different now. Not emptier. Just unfinished. Like a room where someone stopped painting halfway through and never came back. His mother kept things clean. Too clean. She filled the silence with routine. Dishes. Laundry. Television left on for company. William came by when he could, but William was always somewhere else even when he was there. Michael spent a lot of time outside. He walked. A lot. Not aimlessly. Just… forward. He liked the feeling of motion without destination. It made the days easier to stack together. He knew the name by heart. Alan Camuso. It lived in his head the same way his father’s voice used to. Not loud. Not constant. Just present. A shape you didn’t see until you turned the light off. Michael didn’t know why he started looking. Only that one day he did. Addresses weren’t hard if you listened. Adults talked more than they thought. Names floated through rooms. Numbers got written down and forgotten. Michael paid attention. He always had. The house was nicer than he expected. Not big. Just confident. Tucked into a quiet neighborhood where nothing ever seemed to happen. The kind of place where people left porch lights on and trusted they’d still be there in the morning. Michael stayed across the street. There was a low wall he could sit on without being seen. He rested his elbows on his knees and waited. Waiting was something he understood now. Hospitals taught you that. So did funerals. So did growing up around adults who never told you the whole truth. The sun was already low. The sky was doing that thing where it pretended everything was fine right before it went dark. The sliding door opened. Alan Camuso stepped out onto the patio like he owned the air around him. Older than Michael remembered, or maybe just more real now that Michael knew what he was looking at. He wore a collared shirt, sleeves rolled up. Comfortable. At home. Michael didn’t move. For a second, nothing happened. Alan looked out into his yard, one hand on the doorframe. He inhaled, slow, like someone who thought they were alone. Then the shadow behind him shifted. It was subtle. Just a shape where there hadn’t been one before. A person stepping forward without sound. Close enough that it felt impossible Michael hadn’t noticed them sooner. The wire came up quick. There was no speech. No warning. Just the sudden change in the air when something irreversible begins. Alan’s hands went to his throat immediately. Instinct. His feet scraped against the concrete as he tried to turn, tried to see who was there. The wire tightened. Clean. Efficient. Personal without being emotional. Michael watched. He didn’t cover his eyes. He didn’t look away. He noticed small things instead. The way Alan’s heels dragged. The way the patio chair tipped over and didn’t make as much noise as it should have. The sliding door rattling softly in its frame. The figure stayed close. Calm. Patient. Like this was something they’d done before. Like this was something that needed doing. Alan’s movements slowed. His hands fumbled, then dropped. His body sagged forward, held up only by the person behind him until it wasn’t anymore. When it was over, the figure lowered him to the ground instead of letting him fall. That part stuck with Michael. The care of it. The decision. The shadow retreated the same way it came. Quiet. Unremarkable. The sliding door stayed open, letting warm light spill out onto the patio like nothing had happened. Michael stayed where he was. His heart didn’t race. That surprised him. He thought it might. Instead, it felt steady. Heavy, but steady. Like it had finally found a rhythm it recognized. After a while, he stood. He didn’t cross the street. He didn’t go closer. He didn’t need to. He’d seen enough. He turned and walked the way he’d come, hands in his pockets, steps soft against the pavement. The neighborhood stayed quiet. Somewhere behind him, a porch light flicked on automatically as the sky finished going dark. Michael kept walking. That night, when he got home, the house was still clean. Still unfinished. His mother asked him how his day was. He said “fine” and meant something close to it. In his room, he lay on his bed and stared at the ceiling. Things didn’t always change right away. Sometimes they caught up to you years later, stepped out of the dark, and wrapped themselves tight around what you’d been carrying all along. Michael closed his eyes. For the first time in a long while, the quiet didn’t feel empty. WARD (P4) A month passed before anyone said Michael’s name out loud. By then, the neighborhood had learned how to talk about Alan Camuso without really talking about him. People lowered their voices. They said things like such a shame and you never know these days. Police cars came and went. Tape went up, came down. Life practiced moving on. Michael noticed who stopped making eye contact. He noticed who watched him walk past a little too closely. He noticed the woman two houses down who had curtains that twitched when he passed, even though she pretended to be folding laundry every time. That was how it started. They came for him on a Wednesday. Late afternoon. The sun still out, but tired. Two men in plain clothes this time. Polite. Careful. They spoke to his mother in soft voices, like volume alone could soften what they were about to do. “Just a few questions.” Michael put on his jacket without being told. The station smelled like old coffee and disinfectant. It wasn’t dramatic. No bright lights. No slammed doors. Just a small room with a table that had been wiped too many times and chairs that didn’t quite match. They didn’t handcuff him. That was intentional. One of the detectives sat across from him. Mid-forties. Tired eyes. The kind of face that had learned how to look sympathetic without feeling it. The other leaned against the wall, arms crossed, pretending not to watch. They started easy. Name. Age. Where he lived. School. Michael answered without hesitation. He’d learned that pauses invited interest. “You like to walk,” the detective said eventually. Not a question. Michael nodded. “Sometimes.” “Neighbors say they’ve seen you around. That night. Near Mr. Camuso’s house.” Michael shrugged. Small. Controlled. “I walk a lot.” The detective slid a photo across the table. Grainy. A still from a security camera down the block. A figure in a jacket. Head down. Passing through the frame. “That you?” Michael looked at it. Really looked. Then nodded. “Probably.” “Where were you going?” “Nowhere.” The second detective shifted his weight. The room creaked slightly. Michael clocked it. File cabinets settled like old bones. “You see anything strange that night?” the first detective asked. His voice stayed gentle, like the answer didn’t matter. Like this was just routine. Michael shook his head. “No voices? No arguments? No one coming or going?” “No.” They waited. Silence was a tool. Michael understood that now. He’d lived in it long enough to know when to let it sit. “You didn’t hear anything from the patio?” the detective pressed. “Didn’t see anyone else around?” Michael met his eyes. “No.” The detective studied him for a moment. Not suspicious. Curious. Like Michael was a puzzle piece that didn’t quite belong to this box. “You’re sure?” Michael nodded again. Same motion. Same size. He kept his hands folded in his lap. Still. “I didn’t see anything about how Alan Camuso died,” he said. The words were careful. Accurate. They let him go not long after that. No threats. No warnings. Just a reminder to come back if he remembered anything. Michael walked home alone. The sky was the same color it had been that night. That false calm blue. He paid attention to his steps. Made sure they didn’t echo. Made sure they didn’t matter. He didn’t tell William about the station. Not right away. WARD (P5) The woods were different. They always were. The trees didn’t ask questions. They didn’t lean in when you spoke. They stood where they stood and expected you to do the same. Michael liked that. Hunting had been their thing since before everything else broke. Before hospitals. Before funerals. Before names like Camuso meant anything at all. It was routine, but not empty. Something inherited. Something earned. William walked ahead of him, rifle slung easy over his shoulder. He moved like someone who knew exactly where his feet were going to land before they did. Michael followed, quieter now than he’d ever been before. They didn’t talk at first. They never did. The woods filled the space for them. Leaves under boots. Wind through branches. Somewhere far off, a bird startled and corrected itself. They stopped near a clearing. William crouched, checking the ground. Tracks. Signs. Things Michael was still learning to see without being shown. After a while, William spoke. “You been walking more,” he said. Not looking back. Michael nodded. “Yeah.” William straightened slowly. Took his time. “Cops come by?” Michael hesitated. Just a second. “Yes.” William didn’t react right away. He just adjusted the strap on his rifle, eyes scanning the tree line like the answer had changed the shape of the woods. “What’d you say?” William asked. Michael watched a leaf spiral down from above, catching the light before it hit the ground. “Nothing.” William finally turned to look at him. Not angry. Not relieved. Just steady. “Good,” he said. They walked again. Deeper this time. Far enough that the road noise disappeared completely. Far enough that the world felt old again. They stopped near a fallen log. Sat. Ate in silence. Michael chewed slowly, listening to the way sound died out here. William broke the quiet again. “People think talking makes things lighter,” he said. “Like if you give something away, it weighs less.” Michael didn’t look at him. “But that ain’t how it works,” William continued. “You talk, it don’t disappear. It just moves. Lands somewhere else. On someone who didn’t ask for it.” Michael nodded once. William picked up a stick, snapped it clean in half. The sound was sharp. Final. “There’s a difference between surviving and living,” William said. “And rats don’t do either. They just last. And not long.” Michael swallowed. “You see something you weren’t supposed to,” William went on. “You carry it. Quiet. That’s the price. You don’t put it on the table for people who don’t care what it costs you.” Michael finally looked at him. William met his eyes. The bond between them didn’t need words, but William used them anyway. Carefully. Like placing rounds in a magazine. “Family first,” William said. “Always. Even when nobody tells you that’s what you’re choosing.” The woods pressed in around them. Protective. Patient. Michael exhaled slowly. “I didn’t say anything,” he said. William nodded. Once. Satisfied. “Good,” he repeated. They sat there a while longer. No rush. No need to fill the space. When they stood to leave, Michael noticed something else. His footsteps didn’t make a sound at all now. And for the first time, he understood that silence wasn’t just something you endured. It was something you learned to carry.

The Notorious Wah Ching gang, which operates in several sets throughout Los Santos, is mostly, though not exclusively, made of Chinese American ethnicity. The gang began in the 1960s as a form of unity to protect each other from rival sets pressing the Chinese American locals and turned to making money through drug trafficking, gambling establishments, and the sales of illicit goods and contraband through connections to Triad associates. As the Wah Chings membership increased over time, internal strife eventually forced them to relocate south to Los Santos, leaving their original city under foreign control. There, they formed a subset called Hong Kong Boys, or HK Boyz (HKB). The gang completely assimilated into the local gang culture during this time embracing its colors, gang signs, fashion, slangs and aliases. A more decentralized structure was the outcome of many Wah Ching sets breaking away from the original hierarchy in the late 1990s due to the increased law enforcement pressure and RICO investigations. The different groups still identified as HK BoyZ in spite of this division, and they mostly kept amicable relations with one another. Although the sub sets still function in a more conventional, disorganized gang fashion, Wah Ching has mostly reorganized today around structed, organized crime activities, still having ties with Triad affiliates. Wah Ching HK BoyZ are known to operate out of Brouge Avenue within East Los Santos, they're often seen loitering outside the corner discount store, car wash or within the parking lot, where they conduct various illegal activities.

E/S 84 Main Street Mafia Crips, commonly referred to as 84 MSMC, Main Streets, or simply Mafioso Gang, is a long-standing African-American Crip set based in the East South Central area of Los Santos. The gang controls territory around 84th Street and Main, stretching between San Pedro, Broadway, Florence, and surrounding residential blocks. They operate under the larger Mafia Crip umbrella and maintain close ties with other Main Street and Mafia-associated sets, most notably 98 Main Street Mafia Crips, often representing together under the “984” alliance. Despite being smaller in numbers compared to other Mafia cliques, 84 Main Street has developed a reputation for being one of the more active and violent subsets, known for quick retaliation and consistent street presence. Historically, early members were associated with the Swan cards under the name Main Street Swans. Over time, internal politics and shifting alliances led the group to separate from their former ties and fully align with the Mafia Crips identity. This transition marked a turning point for the set, turning former allies into rivals and establishing Main Street as its own independent force within East Side gang politics. Since then, the neighborhood around 84th & Main has remained firmly under their control, with generations of members growing up directly within the same blocks they claim. Daily operations primarily revolve around street-level narcotics sales, armed robberies, dice games, and taxing independent dealers operating within their territory. Members are known to move quietly and avoid unnecessary attention, relying more on low-profile activity rather than public displays or heavy social media presence. Most enforcement and retaliation occurs late at night, often involving car-to-car shootings, alleyway confrontations, or quick “fade” style attacks on rivals entering their area. 84 Main Street maintains strong relationships with other Mafia Crip sets including 98 MSMC, 99 Watts Mafia Crips, Fudge Town, and Blue Gate Mafia, frequently linking up for protection and larger conflicts. At the same time, the set holds ongoing rivalries with Hoover Criminals, Mad Swan Bloods, and nearby Crip neighborhoods, with turf disputes and personal conflicts regularly escalating into violence. Several unsolved shootings and homicides in the Florence and Broadway corridor have been attributed to these long-standing tensions. In terms of identity, Main Street members traditionally wear navy blue and gold colorways, often sporting fitted caps, flannels, and starter jackets matching those tones. Common tattoos include “84MS,” “984,” or “Mafia” in script lettering, along with Crip stars and neighborhood references. Rather than large murals or excessive tagging, their presence is typically marked through smaller handstyle tags, clothing, and word-of-mouth reputation within the community. With increased law enforcement pressure and gang injunction zones around Main and Florence, the set has adapted by keeping a lower profile, though activity in the area remains consistent. Younger generations continue to claim the neighborhood while honoring older members who helped establish the set’s name. Despite their quieter approach compared to larger gangs, 84 Main Street Mafia Crips continues to hold a respected and feared position within East South Central’s street politics.

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It was an honor to keep Santino’s legacy alive.💰🔪🚬

Home » Press Release » Mexican Mafia Members Convicted In RICO Case ______________________________________________________________________________________________________ Mexican Mafia Members Convicted In RICO Case U.S. Attorney's Office July 8, 2015 LOS SANTOS — An estimate of forty members or associates of the Mexican Mafia prison gang were charged by the Los Santos District Attorney's Office for their major role in a long lasting drug trafficking conspiracy involving numerous members of Sureño gangs state-wide. The Los Santos County Sheriff's Department Major Crimes Bureau and the Safe Streets Task Force have been conducting a thorough investigation on the Mexican Mafia's hierarchy in an effort to link the prison gang's connection to other gangs in San Andreas. Members of the Mexican Mafia most of the time relies on a big network of Sureño gangs to move heavy amount of narcotics across the state. In return for protection and access to drugs, the organization demands street taxes on these gangs. It also uses smaller groups under its influence to intimidate and or remove other competitors from the local drug market. Prosecutors stated in the indictment that a primary objective of the Mexican Mafia was "to control and profit from drug trafficking." During these proceedings, U.S. District Judge Mark H. described a tense moment in the courtroom, recalling that one of the several co-defendants had to be removed due to a lot of tensions between him and one of the witnesses. He noted that the intimidation was clear. According to the indictment, the majority of the defendants who were already serving a substantial amount at the time of the new charges were filed. As a result of this, nineteen out of forty now lost their chance for parole. The case also involved coordinated support from the Federal Bureau of Investigation and the San Andreas Department of Corrections' Investigate Service Unit who have been actively investigating various inmates linked to the gang. Southern District of San Andreas (619) 557-5610

Quite. Saying that, I can't lie. Over the past couple weeks my interest in RAGE/LSRP V has grown dramatically. I'm actually excited for this. Make it work, lads. I'll help if given the opportunity.

All recruitment as you can imagine will be done In Character and you will be expected to not break any rules, be respectful and dedicated to the faction and your character in it. We understand that not everybody is an expert on gang roleplay, specifically Sureño roleplay, so we expect you to accept constructive criticism if it's being given to you in order to maintain high standards and produce an enjoyable roleplay experience for all those involved. If you are interested in joining the faction, feel free to join our Discord server. This will be the best place to find out when we are active in-game, learn more about the faction and interact with current members. This is mandatory if you are wanting to progress in the faction, as it helps us keep things organised and under control. If you have any questions or complaints about the faction or its members, send a forum PM to @risen or @Draxxler

The end of an era

Props to the realest and to my man Blaz, Tocilo sends his regards 🙂

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.

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.

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.

This faction aims to portray a tight-knit ultra-Orthodox Haredi Jewish community based on the West Coast, with organized crime elements inspired by realistic American-Jewish, Orthodox Jewish, and Israeli criminal networks. The focus is on white-collar, financially driven crime and influence-based activity rather than street-level gangs or constant violence. Because Haredi communities are traditionally small, localized, and community-oriented, this will be reflected in the RP. The community portrayed is centered primarily in Del Perro, and most core characters will be drawn from within the Jewish community itself. Trust, family ties, religious life, and long-standing relationships play an important role in how the faction operates and how access is granted. That said, we welcome characters from all Jewish backgrounds, including secular and non-religious Jewish characters, as well as outsiders from any background. However, due to the insular nature of the community, non-Jewish or external characters may find it more difficult to gain trust and access. Meaningful involvement is still absolutely possible through business dealings, criminal associations, or personal relationships, but it is intended to be earned through RP rather than immediate inclusion. The faction also includes Israeli characters (such as financiers, intermediaries, or former business or security figures) as well as American Jewish characters (community members, businessmen, professionals, or second-generation figures), reflecting the broader real-world networks such communities often maintain. As we are portraying a Haredi ultra-Orthodox community, players wishing to RP such characters are expected to have a basic understanding of the culture, lifestyle, and religious observance involved. We strongly encourage doing some research and asking questions if unsure. Guidance, character ideas, and resources for different backgrounds are available, and we are happy to help players create characters that fit naturally into the setting. Religious RP is part of the faction’s identity, but it is handled with care and respect. Some characters will be strictly observant, others less so. Religion and culture are used solely for authenticity and storytelling purposes. We do not intend to stereotype, caricature, or mock Judaism or Jewish culture in any way, and many members of this faction are Jewish OOC. We will not accept troll characters, bad-faith portrayals, or characters that promote hate, antisemitism, or offensive stereotypes. A clear separation between IC actions and OOC beliefs is expected at all times. If you’re interested in joining, interacting, or collaborating with the faction or if you’re unsure how to portray a character within this setting, feel free to reach out OOC. We are more than happy to help you develop a suitable character concept and can invite you to our Discord, where detailed guides and additional information are available.

✡ Beit Tikvah Charitable Trust Community Tzedakah Fund • Established 2009 בית תקווה • קרן צדקה קהילתית • נוסד בשנת 2009 Email: [email protected] DONATIONS NEEDED! כל הפניות בסודיות ובצניעות מלאה. About Mission Funds Donate Contact Community support with tznius, kavod, and discretion. Beit Tikvah Charitable Trust is a Del Perro-based tzedakah fund serving our local Charedi kehillah and the wider frum community across Los Santos. We assist families with chinuch costs (tuition, school fees, seforim, uniforms), discreet emergency help for situations of hardship, and community grants. All handled with sensitivity to community needs and standards. קהילה חזקה מתחילה בעזרה מעשית — תמיכה, מלגות וסיוע למשפחות בצניעות ובכבוד. Dvar / Reminder: “Tzedakah saves from hardship.” צדקה תציל ממות At this time, the need is great and our funds are limited. We urgently require additional tzedakah in order to continue supporting families with chinuch costs, emergency assistance, and community needs. Please help us help the kehillah. DONATE / TZEDAKAH Help a family with costs ✡ ABOUT Founded in 2009 by Moishe Dalitzky together with members of the Del Perro Charedi kehillah, Beit Tikvah was established as a community tzedakah fund to assist families with chinuch expenses and essential needs. The Trust operates with tznius, discretion, and respect, working through community representatives and appropriate referrals where needed. נוסד בשנת 2009 על ידי משה דליצקי ובשיתוף הקהילה החרדית בדל פרו — קרן צדקה לחינוך ולסיוע למשפחות. ✡ MISSION Our mission is to support families in our kehillah and the wider frum community by funding chinuch costs, providing targeted community grants, and offering short-term assistance in times of hardship. We prioritise privacy, dignity, and practical outcomes, and aim to assist in a manner consistent with community values. Guiding Principles: Tznius • Fair access • Clear purpose • Community responsibility מטרתנו: סיוע בחינוך, מענקים קהילתיים, ותמיכה למשפחות בעת הצורך — בצניעות ובדיסקרטיות. ✡ FUNDS & SUPPORT Keren Chinuch (קרן חינוך) Tuition support, school fees, seforim, uniforms, and supplies for eligible families. סיוע בשכר לימוד • ספרים (ספרים) • ציוד • תשלומי בית ספר Keren Hatzolah (קרן הצלה) Discreet emergency assistance for situations of urgent need, handled confidentially. סיוע דחוף • מצבי דוחק • דיסקרטיות מלאה Kehillah Grants (מענקי קהילה) Micro-grants for youth programmes, community initiatives, and local support services. מענקים ליוזמות קהילתיות • תמיכה בנוער • פרויקטים מקומיים Community Referrals (בקשות והפניות) Connecting families with trusted partners and community resources in Los Santos. הפניות • ליווי ותמיכה • קשרי קהילה ✡ DONATE / TZEDAKAH Donation Methods: • Bank transfer (temporarily paused — account details will be re-added in the coming weeks, בעזרת ה׳) • Cheque payable to “Beit Tikvah Charitable Trust” • In-person donation at our Del Perro office (by appointment) שימו לב: תרומות בהעברה בנקאית מושהות זמנית. פרטי החשבון יוחזרו בשבועות הקרובים, בעזרת ה׳. Donation Enquiry (Request Details) For cases of need (דוחק), or to arrange tzedakah discreetly, please contact the office. All enquiries handled confidentially. Name: Email: Donation Purpose (optional): Message: ✡ CONTACT Office: Del Perro Community Office, Los Santos Email: [email protected] Hours: Mon–Thu • 09:30–17:30 • Fri • 09:30–12:30 (Please note: limited Friday hours. Messages received after hours will be returned.) ליצירת קשר: נשמח לעזור — כל הפניות בסודיות ובצניעות מלאה. © 2009–2026 Beit Tikvah Charitable Trust • Del Perro • Los Santos, San Andreas • ✡ בית תקווה • קרן צדקה קהילתית • תרומות • מלגות • סיוע למשפחות כל הפניות בסודיות ובצניעות מלאה.

Polished Gold & Dirty Money: How Charities Became the Perfect Laundromat for Organized Crime Date: Jan 5, 2026 | Topic: Crime & Finance| Region: United States | Tags: Organized Crime, Financial Crime, Charities, Money Laundering By Daniel Roth For decades, Americans have been taught to picture organized crime in a very particular way: smoke-filled back rooms, street-level violence, and flashy excess. That image persists because it is comfortable. It keeps crime recognizable, visible, and safely distant from the institutions many of us trust. But modern organized crime no longer thrives in alleyways. It thrives in boardrooms, in donation ledgers, and behind glass display cases filled with gold and diamonds. In recent years, federal investigators have begun to acknowledge a shift that criminologists have quietly warned about for over a decade: charities, religious foundations, and high-value retail businesses have become some of the most effective tools for laundering money, enforcing illegal debts, and concealing gambling profits. And in several cases, these operations have been linked to loosely affiliated Israeli- and Jewish-backed criminal networks operating across state lines. “You don’t launder money where people expect criminals to be,” a former federal investigator told me. “You launder it where people don’t want to look.” The perfect cover. Charities occupy a uniquely protected space in American society. Donations are encouraged, oversight is often limited, and questioning their finances can carry social and political consequences. When those charities are tied to religious institutions, that protection deepens further. Federal court filings from the last decade show a recurring pattern: shell charities collecting “donations” that coincide with known loan-sharking repayments, gambling debts, or the liquidation of illicit assets. The money moves through nonprofit accounts, emerges as “grants” or “community support,” and is then reinvested into legitimate businesses, often real estate, logistics, or luxury retail. Jewelry stores, in particular, have proven to be ideal companions to this system. High-value items with subjective pricing make it easy to disguise cash inflows and outflows. Diamonds can be purchased, resold, transported internationally, or quietly held as collateral for illegal loans. Unlike cash, jewelry doesn’t raise alarms — it raises admiration. Law enforcement officials have long noted that these businesses are rarely standalone fronts. They operate alongside charities, trusts, or foundations that provide both moral cover and logistical flexibility. In late 2025, federal prosecutors in Nevada announced a series of arrests tied to an illegal gambling and loan-sharking operation that had operated quietly for years. According to indictments, proceeds were funneled through a charitable foundation that ostensibly supported cultural and educational programs. The organization’s public filings showed nothing unusual. Its fundraising events were well attended. Its leadership was respected. Yet investigators alleged that the charity functioned as an internal bank, collecting repayments, redistributing funds, and enforcing compliance through social pressure rather than violence. While the Nevada case did not name a single overarching crime family, prosecutors described the operation as “a loosely affiliated financial network connected by trust, shared interests, and overlapping business holdings.” That phrasing has become increasingly common. What was striking was not the scale of the operation, but its restraint. No ostentatious displays of wealth. No public turf wars. Just patience. History offers plenty of precedent. From New York garment unions in the early 20th century to offshore gambling syndicates in the late 1990s, organized crime has always followed money into the least regulated spaces. In Israel, authorities have long grappled with the intersection of organized crime, nonprofits, and international finance. Several high-profile cases over the past two decades involved charities being used to move funds under the guise of humanitarian aid or religious support. American investigators have increasingly noted similar structural patterns domestically, especially in communities where trust networks are tight and disputes are resolved internally. Again, this is not about ethnicity or faith. Organized crime exists wherever opportunity exists. What matters is access, discretion, and insulation. The challenge for law enforcement is not proving that crimes occurred, it is proving intent. Charitable donations are legal. Jewelry transactions are legal. Loans between private individuals are often legal. Gambling, when kept underground, leaves little paper trail. When these elements are combined under a single network that avoids explicit hierarchy, prosecution becomes a nightmare. By the time authorities step in, the money has already moved. And unlike traditional criminal organizations, these networks do not collapse when a single figure is arrested. They reconfigure. Another trustee steps in. Another business takes over. The structure remains. The Nevada arrests will not be the last. Investigators privately admit they believe similar arrangements exist in other states, operating just below the threshold that draws sustained attention. What should concern the public is not the existence of crime, that is inevitable, but how seamlessly it has integrated into spaces we instinctively trust. When crime wears the mask of charity, criticism becomes taboo, and scrutiny becomes uncomfortable. That discomfort is precisely the point. Organized crime no longer needs fear to enforce control. It relies on silence, reputation, and the simple fact that no one wants to be the person who asks too many questions about a good cause. And that may be its most effective evolution yet.

Sad to see it go, it was a hell of a run though. Looking forward to what comes up with the new release of V. Congratulations everyone

BLACK HAND The Mexican Mafia (also known as La Eme) is an egalitarian-structured organization, formed in the late 1950’s by Chicano street gang members incarcerated at the Deuel Vocational institution, a state prison located in Tracy, CA. La Eme was initially formed for protection against other inmates. With a set of rules governing its members, La Eme evolved into criminal activities. Most of their criminal activities initially focused on victimizing Black and Caucasian inmates. By the late 1960’s, the California Prison system became aware of La Eme’s criminal activity and broke up the group. Prison officials relocated the members to different prisons, which only helped the group to continue active recruitment of new members. This allowed the gang to take control of the California Prisons. Symbols include a black hand, La Eme (meaning 'the M' in Spanish) and MM (Mexican Mafia). As Eme members paroled to the streets, they were tasked with creating new cells to help facilitate more crime. In addition, paroled members explained the North versus South war occurring in prison to the young street gang members. The youngsters were told that when they did enter the prison system that they should align themselves with the other Sureños. The term Sureño was soon adopted by Hispanic street gang members throughout Southern California. Although some might identify themselves as being a Sureño gang member, the original meaning of the term denotes an umbrella of gangs who fall under the control of the Mexican Mafia. Sureño sets may have conflict with other Sureño gangs on the streets, yet in prison they will bond together for protection under the leadership of the Mexican Mafia. Sureño street gang members often identify with the symbols XIII, X3, 13, and 3-dots (hand to the left). This refers to the 13th letter of the alphabet "M" which stands for Mexican Mafia. The gang identifies with the color blue and the words Sureño, Sur and Southerner. The Mexican Mafia does not have a traditional military style “chain-of-command, instead it has “influential” members. All members vote on decisions affecting the entire gang. If the decision is limited to a particular institution, only those members vote. Each gang member, known as a carnal, has an equal vote. Each Mexican Mafia member has a great deal of autonomy in conducting business. As long as there is no conflict, a carnal is his own boss. He is expected to pay 1/3 of his illicit proceeds to the Mexican Mafia. If a Mexican Mafia member is in a prison or jail facility, he is required to assume control of all Sureños inmates. Sureños are expected to carry out Mexican Mafia orders without question. The Mexican Mafia also maintains working relationships with various other prison gangs and "disruptive groups" such as Aryan Brotherhood, Nazi Low Riders, Peckerwoods, Border Brothers, and Sinaloan Cowboys. For example, Mexican Mafia and Aryan Brotherhood members cooperate in smuggling drugs into Custody facilities and have assisted each other in armed robberies and drug trafficking outside custody facilities. In the 1990’s, the EME expanded its drug distribution operations by ordering an end to drive-by shootings involving Hispanic street gang members and eventually ordering an end to rivalries among Hispanic gangs as well. This allowed the gangs to focus on drug distribution. Subsequently, the Mexican Mafia demanded that all Sureño affiliated gang members pay a tribute of as much as 33 percent of drug distribution profits. Sureño gangs either complied with the order, or they were targeted for killing (given a green light) by the Mexican Mafia. Traditionally, membership is limited to Mexican American males. There is no minimum age. A prospective Eme member must be sponsored by at least three current gang members. Membership usually requires a unanimous vote by gang members throughout the California and federal prison systems. However, because communication among EME members is difficult, the Mexican Mafia in some facilities requires only a unanimous vote among those gang members at the facility. Recruits are selected carefully, as the sponsors are held liable for their prospect's actions. Sometimes, to prove himself worthy of membership, a prospect may be required to commit an act of violence for Mexican Mafia. While it is not a requirement for induction, all Eme members are expected to eventually kill for the clicka. Women are not permitted to join Mexican Mafia. Wives, girlfriends, and other female family members, however, play important roles within the organization because they smuggle contraband, including drugs and weapons, into the prison and provide a means of communication between incarcerated members and members on the street. La Mesa La Mesa is an ad-hoc commission on a general population prison yard made up of Mexican Mafia associates. The table or "La Mesa" has a structure resembling the Mexican Mafia's. It's governed by a panel of Meseros that deliberate and carry out orders for the Mexican Mafia. Meseros do not answer to each other, they only answer to an Emero or carnal (a made member of the Mexican Mafia). They are involved in illegal activities ranging from extortion, murder, prostitution and narcotic distribution. A Mesero is somebody that is on his way to becoming a member of the Mexican Mafia.

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.

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

84 Main Street Mafia Crips is a heavy roleplay-focused faction centered around realistic, story-driven gang roleplay based in the East South Central area of Los Santos. Our focus is on character development, day-to-day neighborhood activity, and building a believable environment rather than fast-paced or conflict-driven gameplay. This faction is not suited for players looking for constant shootouts or instant action, and is instead intended for those who enjoy immersive scenes, organic interactions, and long-term storytelling within a tight-knit community. We maintain zero tolerance for trolling, rule breaking, toxic behavior, or unrealistic portrayals. Members are expected to create their own roleplay, contribute meaningful scenes, and help build the atmosphere around the faction. Quality and consistency will always come before numbers. Characters should realistically fit the setting and age range of an East South Central street gang, typically portraying younger individuals growing up in the neighborhood, though exceptions may be considered on a case-by-case basis. The faction is currently CLOSED. If you are interested or have any questions, contact @August Boy on the forums to connect and begin developing around the neighborhood before any official recruitment.

A photo dating a couple months back consisting of younger Florencia affiliates gathered on the block, likely to be members from 76th Street Malos and 85th Street Lokos. Formation of Florencia: Legal crackdowns and influence (1950s-2000s)Florencia 13, often shortened to F13, is a predominantly Mexican-American street gang located in the Florence-Firestone district of South Los Santos. The gang originated in the 1950s as a neighborhood crew called Florence Street, prior to aligning themselves with the Mexican Mafia in the 1970s and adopting the “13” moniker. The Florencia 13 neighborhood covers a large section of South Los Santos, stretching from Central Avenue to Alameda Street, between Slauson Avenue and Florence Avenue. The eastern edge of their neighborhood spills over into the city of Huntington Park.Over the years (1980s-1990s), their reach has extended beyond Florence, spreading influence into smaller pockets throughout South Los Santos as a result of the crack cocaine epidemic in Los Santos. Although the gang has been targeted by multiple law enforcement crackdowns since the early 2000s, it remains one of the most active Sureno sets in Los Santos, despite losing many high-ranking & influential figures to long prison sentences. One of the biggest gang takedowns in US history occurred in 2007, when 102 defendants were indicted by authorities in connection with Florencia 13. The federal government accused enforcers and leaders of extortion, drug running, murder, and RICO violations.Dozens more were found guilty after plea deals and trials. In August 2024, a press release announced yet another indictment: 37 Florencia 13 gang members and associates were taken off the streets and charged with federal offenses such as extortion, firearm offenses, drug trafficking (including heroin, fentanyl, and methamphetamine), and murder.Florencia v. Everybody (1980s–present)One of the bloodiest feuds in Los Santos gang history is that between Florencia 13 and the East Coast Crips. Although the precise start of the feud is up for debate, it was reported that East Coast Crip members stole a bundle of Florencia's drugs during a drug heist sometime in the late 1980s. The streets of Florence-Firestone had become a battleground by the early 1990s. There was constant retaliation; hours after one side struck, the other would retaliate with gunfire. What began as a drug dispute turned into a racial and territorial conflict over time. Innocent people who were in the wrong place at the wrong time were also the target of drive-bys, according to witnesses, in addition to rival gang members.When there were no other targets to attack, gang members were instructed to "shoot any Black you see," according to indictments and court documents. These acts were characterized by U.S. Attorney Thomas O'Brien as "a series of attacks on rival African-American gangs that spilled over to innocent citizens who were shot at simply because of their skin color." Crossing the street used to feel like stepping into a crossfire, according to locals who experienced those years.Between 2004 and 2007, the level of violence peaked. Florence-Firestone saw a spike in homicides, with more than 40 fatalities in one year. Demetrius Perry, a 22-year-old African-American, was shot while playing basketball on a middle school court in one of the most tragic events. He didn't belong to any gang. People realized how out of control the feud had gotten after he was killed.However, civilians are frequently the victims of gang wars. In one instance in 2005, Florencia shot two African-American onlookers who had no connection to a gang. In 2005, there were a record 41 homicides in the Florence-Firestone district alone. Recently, the two groups have come under the impression of a truce. It still stands up until this day, though there is a bit of tension still.This feud between Eighteenth Street and Florencia began in South Central, Los Santos, in the early 1980s. 18th Street affiliates started claiming corners close to Compton and Central and tagging walls along Florence Avenue.The conflict began as street fights and vandalism. Corners that were once shared for the community became contested for profit as drug trafficking grew during the mid-1980s crack cocaine boom. “For these guys, the line on the pavement means more than a treaty written in prison,” said former detective Al Valdez, an Orange County gang expert who summed up the period. A photo from a young Florencia member's social media account, him standing in front of a long Florence hit up, located in Harvard Park area. The tension exploded in 1986 after an altercation outside a liquor store on Florence and Hooper Avenue. According to court records and witness accounts, a small group of 18th Street members confronted two Florencia affiliates about tagging over their block. The argument escalated into gunfire. When the smoke cleared, an 18th Street member lay dead and was the first recorded casualty in the decades-long war.Through the late 1980s and early 1990s, Florence Avenue, Firestone Boulevard, and Compton Avenue became a landscape of war. Both gangs launched drive-bys daily, often in stolen cars or unmarked sedans. By 1998, law enforcement documented over 70 shootings attributed to the Florencia and 18th Street conflict.The beef between 38th Street and Florencia 13 is a somewhat newer beef compared to several of the longer-running feuds on the streets of San Andreas. Florence was a larger and more powerful gang than 38th Street and had a reputation for bullying smaller crews or gangs that refused to get in line within their territory. In the late 1990s and early 2000s, a string of confrontations between the two gangs escalated into a string of brawls, shootings, and massive violence. Florencia, with many more members than 38th Street, would frequently loiter in 38th Street's turf for reasons many found to be sheer provocation. The constant territorial pressure tended to result in gunplay and street-level battles between the gangs. The war continued to exact its cost on the community. As tensions increased, the Los Santos Police Department experienced a sharp rise in weapons charges, gang enhancements, and drive-by shootings between both parties. Things ultimately came to a boil. A joint task force launched a major-scale crackdown on gang violence throughout South Central Los Santos in the mid-2000s. Both Florencia 13 and 38th Street were targeted with innumerable raids and arrests. Although there have been repeated efforts at peace throughout the years, neither party has given fully enough for the war to subside. Even now, old grievances and territorial ego still keep tensions simmering sporadically. In recent years, however, Florencia 13 has been subject to increasing legal heat and federal attention, drastically affecting the gang's organization and conduct.The 2000s also witnessed a violent shift among the East Side Playboys 13 and the Florencia 13. Decades of strained tension finally erupted into open conflict. Pablo Lopez attended a party on June 10, 2007, with his cousin and spent the night near the back alley behind the house. His cousin had ventured out to help set up a children's bounce house, leaving Pablo alone for a short time. Everything was calm until there were shots fired from the alley unexpectedly. Lopez was the recipient, he was shot repeatedly and, while trying to flee, collapsed in the middle of the street, where he was murdered. Los Santos Police Department detectives eventually determined that Pablo Lopez was not a gang member. Instead, he was a sad victim of mistaken identity, the target was believed to be a member of the Playboys 13 gang.Just a week later, on June 18, 2007, in South Los Santos, two Latino males in a brown Buick drove up to Freddie Morales and Frank Rivera. The two men questioned Rivera concerning his alleged membership with 38th Street. Rivera admitted having relatives who were part of the gang. Abruptly, both the driver and passenger leaned out of their windows and showered them with gunfire. A snapshot of Florencia's younger generation, the left side originating from the Huntington Park area, the other one being from the Florence-Firestone district. Frank Rivera was struck twice but remained alive. Sadly, Freddie Morales was declared dead at the scene. Police subsequently arrested seventeen-year-old Esteban of Florencia 13 and charged him with one count of attempted murder and one count of first-degree murder. He was eventually sentenced to 125 years to life in prison.Generations & Present Day (2025)One of the most recognized and active cliques within the gang, Tiny Locos, was established in the late 1970s by a group of neighborhood youth before becoming deeply tied to Florencia. Throughout the 1970s and 2000s, the clique was linked to numerous shootings against rival gangs, as well as large-scale drug operations. In 2012, several Tiny Loco members were indicted on federal racketeering charges following a three-year investigation into the gang’s activity.The 85th Street Locos (85SL), formed around 2010, represent the youngest wave of Florencia 13 recruitment. 85th Street Locos have been deemed the most active clique in the gang, when the topic of modern influence is brought up. They carry on Florencia’s modern presence via mostly social media conflict, taggings, and numbers. On a daily basis, members of this subset commit crimes such as home invasion, burglary, and distribution of narcotics.Gangster Locas, like the 85th Street Locos, is a big face when it comes to the representation of the Florencia 13 gang. Despite just being the female version of the Gangster Locos, members under this clique are just as active and ruthless as their male counterparts. They're mostly involved in setting people up, whether to kill or rob, for the gain of power and money.Florencia 13 still remains one of South Los Santos’ most active and feared Sureno gangs. One notable incident alleged in the 2024 indictment: on October 17, 2022, a mob of F13 members was accused of beating a victim to death outside a bar in the Florence-Firestone area, using boots, fists, and a baseball bat. In present-day Los Santos, Florencia 13 remains one of the city’s largest and most organized Sureno gangs. Despite hundreds of arrests, the gang’s influence runs deep across the state of Los Santos, including Rancho, Jamestown, and parts of Chamberlain Hills. Even though they’re large in present-day activities, law enforcement maintains a constant presence near known territories of Florencia.Florencia 13 maintains long-standing rivalries with multiple other gangs throughout South Central, Los Santos, including gangs such as Playboys 13, Grape Street Crips, 18th Street, Watts Varrio Grape 13, Street Villains 13, South Los 13, and the 38th Street Gang. However, the gang does have a flock of allies, including gangs such as the Madd Swan Bloods, Harvard Park Brims, and 52 Pueblo Bishop Bloods, and is on mutual understanding with every other Watts Blood gang. Still, up until this day they maintain a truce with the East Coast Crips. Despite ongoing RICO cases, police sweeps, and redevelopment in the area, Florencia 13 continues to thrive as one of the largest and most structured Sureno gangs in South Central.

Jewish organized crime in San Andreas Article Talk‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Read View source View history Tools From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia For Jewish organized crime groups in the United States and organized crime groups consisting primarily of Jewish or Jewish Israeli members, see Jewish organized crime and Organized crime in Israel. Jewish organized crime in San Andreas refers to a network of criminal enterprises historically associated with Jewish-American communities in the Los Santos metropolitan area and surrounding regions. Emerging from postwar migration and commercial development, these groups became primarily involved in financial crime, real-estate manipulation, private lending, gambling, and cargo diversion, favoring economic leverage over overt street violence. Law-enforcement agencies and media outlets have commonly referred to these activities under the names Jewish Mob, the Jewish Mafia, the Kosher Mob, the Kosher Mafia, the Yiddish Connection,[1] and Kosher Nostra[2][3] a term modeled after Cosa Nostra and used to describe community-based Jewish racketeering structures. Operations in San Andreas have traditionally relied on family ties, religious institutions, and legitimate business fronts, allowing criminal activity to remain largely insulated from public visibility. Unlike other organized crime groups in the state, Jewish criminal networks are noted for their decentralized structure, emphasis on professional services such as accounting and legal mediation, and close integration with Orthodox communal life. Origins Jewish organized crime in San Andreas traces its roots to mid-20th-century Jewish migration to the West Coast, particularly among families engaged in garment manufacturing, import-export, and small retail. Early settlements concentrated around industrial corridors and port-adjacent districts of Los Santos, where warehouses and shipping firms provided both legitimate opportunity and informal avenues for coercive business practices. Historical accounts link the early organizational culture of San Andreas networks to East Coast and Las Venturas–based Jewish criminal traditions influenced by figures associated with Bugsy Hosschild, whose westward expansion of Jewish underworld activity in the 1930s and 1940s established models for blending legitimate investment with coordinated racketeering. Several founding families in San Andreas are documented as having indirect professional connections to Hosschild-era construction financing and hospitality ventures. Bugsy Hosschild in 1950 By the late 1950s and early 1960s, second-generation operators began consolidating capital through commercial property acquisition and private lending, laying the groundwork for more formalized criminal cooperation. History Late 19th century to early 20th century Large waves of Jewish immigration from Eastern Europe in the late 19th and early 20th centuries led to produce tightly knit communities in the developing commercial districts of Los Santos. Many newcomers entered garment work, small retail, wholesale trade, and port-related industries, while others gravitated toward informal economies centered on protection, debt enforcement, and labor mediation. By the early 1900s, localized Jewish street gangs had emerged in working-class neighborhoods near industrial corridors and shipping yards. These early groups often competed with Asian- and African-American dominated crews for control over extortion rackets and supply routes, while also cooperating when mutual profit required it. As in other American cities, criminal subcultures developed alongside immigrant poverty and social exclusion. Contemporary accounts describe a progression in which young men moved from petty theft and store extortion into organized strong-arm work, eventually forming structured crews involved in gambling, labor intimidation, and wholesale fraud. A distinct underworld vocabulary drawing from Yiddish emerged during this period, reinforcing internal identity and secrecy. Although press coverage at the time suggested a disproportionate “crime wave,” later demographic analyses indicated that Jewish residents of Los Santos were arrested at rates well below the citywide average, despite forming a substantial share of the urban population. Interwar period and early consolidation (1920s–1940s) During the interwar years, Jewish criminal networks increasingly shifted from street-level activity toward business-oriented rackets. Labor mediation, cargo interference, and construction financing became central revenue sources, particularly in warehouse districts and expanding commercial zones. Organizational culture in San Andreas was influenced by East Coast Jewish criminal traditions and by westward expansion models associated with figures connected to Bugsy Hosschild, whose blending of legitimate investment with coordinated underworld activity provided a template for emerging West Coast operations. Several early San Andreas operators are documented as having indirect professional ties to Hosschild-era hospitality and development ventures. By the late 1930s, Jewish crime groups in Los Santos had begun investing heavily in real estate, trucking firms, and entertainment-related businesses. These enterprises served both as profit centers and as mechanisms for laundering proceeds from gambling and labor racketeering. Postwar expansion (1940s–1950s) World War II and the postwar economic boom accelerated Jewish migration to San Andreas. Returning veterans and displaced families settled in port-adjacent and industrial districts, where garment factories, import-export firms, and small commercial enterprises flourished. During this period, informal enforcement evolved into structured private lending, contract manipulation, and warehouse diversion. Crews coordinated across multiple neighborhoods, using logistics companies and storage facilities to facilitate theft and resale while maintaining outwardly legitimate operations. The 1950s marked a decisive phase of consolidation. Second-generation Jewish-Americans increasingly assumed leadership of family enterprises, introducing greater financial discipline and long-term planning. Commercial property acquisition became a primary strategy, with undervalued buildings purchased through shell corporations and converted into cash-intensive storefronts. Rather than forming a single centralized syndicate, Jewish organized crime developed as a loose federation of interconnected families bound by marriage, synagogue affiliation, and shared financial services. Second-generation leadership and territorial growth (1960s–1970s) By the 1960s, activity had become concentrated in Textile City and La Mesa, where garment distribution centers, trucking firms, and warehouse leases provided opportunities for kickbacks, inflated contracts, and supply-chain control. Leadership structures remained decentralized, but coordination increased through trusted accountants and legal intermediaries. Disputes were commonly resolved through elder mediation or financial pressure rather than public violence. During the 1970s, networks expanded into Strawberry and Davis, acquiring retail strips and light industrial properties. These locations were repurposed into laundromats, wholesalers, storage facilities, and small markets, forming the backbone of laundering operations and unregulated credit systems. This era also saw the emergence of designated enforcement personnel responsible for collections and protection, while senior figures insulated themselves from direct exposure by operating through layers of intermediaries. Shift toward finance and real estate (1980s–1990s) The 1980s marked a transition toward property-driven criminal activity. Jewish crime groups increasingly focused on commercial real estate, private lending, and leveraged buyouts, using complex corporate structures to obscure ownership. High-interest loans were extended to struggling business owners, frequently followed by forced asset transfers when debts could not be repaid. Syndicate-affiliated companies gained control over apartment blocks, retail corridors, and industrial parks, particularly in mixed-use areas of Los Santos. By the 1990s, operations had become highly professionalized. Centralized bookkeeping, legal arbitration, and the use of external associates for higher-risk activity became standard. Leadership figures typically maintained public identities as legitimate entrepreneurs and community benefactors. Modernization and diversification (2000s) The early 2000s brought further modernization. Influence expanded into Del Perro and Vespucci, where beachfront cafés, gyms, and property management firms served as fronts for gambling revenue, loan-sharking, and investment laundering. Groups diversified into vehicle trafficking, warehouse fraud, and contracted business “security” services. Expansion was pursued primarily through debt acquisition, coercive lease renegotiation, and strategic partnerships rather than territorial confrontation. Internal governance increasingly relied on structured arbitration modeled after religious proceedings, allowing conflicts to be resolved discreetly while reinforcing hierarchy. Late 20th century to present In the contemporary period, Jewish organized crime in San Andreas is regarded as one of the state’s most financially sophisticated criminal ecosystems. Activities are centered on underground gambling, private lending, commercial real-estate speculation, cargo diversion, high-value vehicle trafficking, and consulting or protection services for affiliated businesses. In 2004, a multi-agency investigation known internally as Operation Cedar Ledger targeted several garment wholesalers and trucking firms in Textile City suspected of facilitating cargo diversion and invoice fraud. Although dozens of businesses were audited and multiple arrests were made, prosecutors later acknowledged difficulty securing convictions against senior figures due to layered ownership structures and extensive use of legal intermediaries. Senior figures typically reside in affluent residential areas, while operational activity remains embedded in commercial districts and industrial zones. Religious observance continues to play a central role, with participants commonly expected to observe Shabbat, maintain kosher households, and consult rabbinical authorities on major internal matters. In 2016, federal authorities dismantled a Los Santos–based extortion ring operating within ultra-Orthodox divorce mediation circles, in which several individuals were charged with kidnapping and coercion related to religious divorce proceedings. Prosecutors described the group as a “highly organized criminal enterprise utilizing religious authority as leverage,” drawing national attention to the intersection of organized crime and insular community structures. As socioeconomic conditions within Jewish communities improved over time, traditional street-level racketeering declined, giving way to more discreet, finance-oriented models. While individual Jewish-Americans remain associated with organized crime, the highly visible ethnic gangs of the early 20th century have largely faded, replaced by quieter networks emphasizing capital control and contractual leverage. By the early 2020s, investigators observed a renewed emphasis on digital finance, cryptocurrency laundering, and online sports betting platforms, marking a further evolution away from traditional cash-based operations. Orthodox and Israeli-linked networks By the late 1990s, Jewish organized crime in San Andreas increasingly consolidated around ultra-Orthodox communal structures while simultaneously developing transnational connections, particularly with criminal figures and financial intermediaries based in Israel. This period marked a shift away from loosely affiliated, secular business crews toward more insular networks rooted in religious communities, family lineage, and synagogue-based social circles. Law-enforcement assessments from the early 2000s described the emergence of what investigators termed an “Orthodox–Israeli corridor,” in which Los Santos–based operators coordinated property acquisitions, private lending, and offshore capital movement with counterparts abroad. These arrangements were facilitated through charitable foundations, religious study exchanges, and dual-citizenship travel, allowing funds and personnel to move with limited scrutiny. Religious observance played a central organizational role. Members were commonly expected to maintain kosher households, observe Shabbat, and defer major internal conflicts to elder councils modeled after rabbinical courts. These mechanisms provided both discipline and insulation from external law enforcement, as disputes were settled privately without recourse to civil courts. During the 2010s, authorities documented several cases in which Haredi ultra-Orthodox Jewish community figures were implicated in coercive debt collection and religiously framed extortion schemes, including the use of intermediaries to pressure individuals over business disputes and marital proceedings. Prosecutors characterized these operations as hybrid enterprises blending criminal enforcement with religious authority, allowing organizers to exert control while minimizing direct exposure. At the same time, Israeli-linked associates were increasingly involved in facilitating cryptocurrency laundering, international wire fraud, and overseas asset shielding. Investigators noted that proceeds from Los Santos real-estate manipulation and lending operations were frequently routed through foreign holding companies before returning as ostensibly legitimate investment capital. Jewish organized crime in San Andreas has largely adopted this integrated Orthodox–Israeli model, combining localized community control with global financial mobility. Analysts described the structure as highly adaptive, with leadership maintaining public identities as developers, consultants, or community benefactors while operational activity remained compartmentalized among trusted religious and family networks. Notable members and associates Further information: Jewish American gangsters and List of Jewish American mobsters Eli Berman, Odessa-born financier and early Los Santos crime figure active in Textile City, Strawberry, and Vespucci; credited with pioneering garment-sector racketeering and warehouse diversion networks during the 1970s. Aaron “Red” Bernstein, Founder of the Bernstein Group, a Del Perro–based gambling and private lending operation with documented ties to multiple Orthodox-aligned crews across southern San Andreas. Samuel Bioff, Entertainment-industry fixer and labor intermediary operating between Downtown Vinewood and the Port of Los Santos; later linked to union intimidation and venue protection schemes. Charles Birgerstein, Prohibition-era bootlegging coordinator whose operations extended from Sandy Shores into Los Santos wholesale markets; later transitioned into real-estate speculation. Shimon Birns, Hungarian-born extortionist and loan shark active in Davis and La Mesa, noted for maintaining cooperative relationships with Italian-American syndicates and Eastern European crews. Isaac “Kid Kahn” Blumen, Romanian Jewish immigrant and early enforcement figure for the Blumen Organization, a multi-state gambling and vehicle export network operating out of Los Santos International Docks. Levi Buchalter, Financial coordinator associated with contract enforcement crews during the 1980s; later implicated in multiple warehouse fraud investigations.

End of an era, trailer has me very excited for the RAGE launch. Cannot wait to jump back in when I have the time!

remember the realest

lets gooo

"Profit in the absence of principles".

Garage in Commerce

c yah some other time fellas stay safe ❤️

Valenti's Right Hand; A Luno Story With Respect

OOC NOTE Sureño gangs are not considered sub factions of the Mexican Mafia, we are not responsible for their actions or wrongdoings. We are in continuity with the previous Mexican Mafia factions, any carnal or Mexican Mafia member from any of the previous ones are welcome to participate.

Recruitment into this faction will be done strictly in character, you will be expected to follow the server rules and illegal faction. ROE; you are expected to be respectful to the community. You're also expected to roleplay your character as a young teenager coming into the faction, and develop their story within the community throughout the years. If you're interested in joining the faction, please feel free to join our discord server. You'll be able to communicate with other members in the faction, and contact leadership for any assistance or ideas you need further pursuing your development in the faction. Any questions or complaints about this faction can be directed to @Spanion or @Cursed_King via PMs.

dalton royal

Waitin on ya

big up @Conor

The end of an era Thank you for all of the good times on SAMP

Shoutout to the dream team 💪

SOUTHSIDE TERRORISTS

La Famiglia wishes you all a Merry Christmas!

bring a focus 2 illegal rp and lsrpv can hit fs. illegal rp sucks on gtaw