Leaderboard

Recruitment for the faction is done in-character, and you will be expected to follow the server rules while associating yourself with our image. Be respectful to those around you and dedicate yourself to your characters development within the faction. The aim of 38th Street is to create a realistic sureño environment in El Corona. The Discord is accessible for those who are interested in joining the faction, we're currently open to new members and encourage those who are looking for something fresh to try it out, if there are any questions feel free to contact @risen or connect to the Discord, where you can find some information about the faction and ask any questions you may have.

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Stack Season

-New Moves-

-Some important moves-

Our faction's main objective is to depict an authentic one-percenter motorcycle club, with a strong focus on individual character growth and fostering rich, immersive lore. We expect our members to maintain a high standard of roleplay and to familiarize themselves with the one-percenter culture before joining. If reliable resources are difficult to find, we’re more than happy to assist with character creation and provide materials to help players accurately portray a motorcycle club member. We recognize that real-life responsibilities such as work and family always take precedence over roleplay. While some may not fully grasp this, rest assured that joining our faction does not require you to be active every night of the week. Once you enter the prospecting phase, we reserve the right to issue a character kill if there is valid justification. However, this is always considered a last resort rather than a first option. For any questions or concerns, feel free to reach out to @SPACEFUNK & @West$ider via the forums or in Discord.

All For The Nation Driven By Success, Hustle, And The Bag

Johnny French is one bad motherfucker.

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

WALLIS V SMALL Tony Small in 1993 made with AI Who was Tony Small? "Fat bastard with caterpillars on his face." - Eddie Wallis. He was born in the mid 1950s, the son of Greek Cypriots who settled in Rotherhithe. Tony wasn't born with that name. His real name is Kostas. He chose Tony because it sounded tough and gangster-like, a nod to infamous figures like Fat Tony Salerno. He saw himself as a modern-day Al Capone, if Al Capone had come from Rotherhithe. He chose Small because it was simple and unassuming, the kind of name that didn't draw attention, but was easy to remember. Eddie’s hatred for Tony wasn’t just about football. Tony really got on Eddie's nerves. He was too happy all the time for Eddie's liking. Eddie didn’t put Tony’s constant cheerfulness down to him being genuinely happy. He'd long since decided that Tony was just a simpleton. A greedy, fat simpleton. However, behind all the laughs, behind the crumbs on his shirt and the stupid grin, Tony was still a man people feared. Tony singlehandedly kept London hospitals in business. Tony was a wrecking ball, and his fights were like watching a wardrobe fall down a flight of stairs. Loud, messy, and impossible to stop. Love at First Punch Dom and Tony had already been going at it for years. Fights between them were just part of the routine. It wasn't always about hatred. It was just the way things were. The ICF and the Bushwackers were never meant to get along. When it was Eddie's turn, he made it personal. Eddie took things to heart. It wasn’t just about football anymore. Eddie wanted to hurt Tony. Properly. This wasn’t ICF versus Bushwackers anymore. This was Eddie Wallis versus Tony Small. They were some of the most brutal fights the terraces had ever seen. And after Dom was killed, things only got worse. Now, Eddie was fuelled by revenge. The 1992–93 Season Both West Ham and Millwall were in the First Division that year, and tensions were already running high. It was the end of an era for Millwall too, as they played their final full season at the Old Den. The early nineties brought fewer headline-grabbing riots, but the violence didn't stop. Meetings were arranged by word of mouth. Crews dressed down. Most of it never made the papers. But it happened, and everyone involved knew it. The game was changing. Stadiums were getting safer. But out on the streets, the score was still being settled the old way. This period was nowhere near as bloody as it had been when Eddie first joined the ICF in the '80s, but Eddie still remembers it as being "some medieval shit". Tony Small's Arrest When Tony was arrested for attempted murder in '94, Eddie took it as a signal to move on. So that's what he did. He'd spent years locked in a rivalry with Tony. Seeing him cuffed and dragged off, facing a charge that might actually stick, Eddie knew it was time. The years that came after made Eddie who he is today.

Later that night...

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

PPE doesn’t make you invincible!

I joined a faction called Valenti in 2010 when I was a teenager. Everyone called them elitists, thought they were overrated and that they will die off at some point. What I found was a tight knight group of people who formed true friendships and managed to stick together for an unthinkable period of time. Through server closures, reopenings, faction being forcibly shut down by the administration at that time, you name it. Nothing ever truly brought this group down. I left for over 10 years and moved on with life. Last year when LSRP reopened I decided to give it one last go for as long as this lasts. I found the same friends I had over 10 years ago and it felt and still feels like not a single day has gone by since I had left. Nothing will ever kill this group.

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