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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.

one of the best to ever do it

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

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

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.

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 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.