dis·ci·ple ; a person who is a pupil or an adherent of the doctrines of another; follower:
“Ay nigga, ay cuz, how long it gon’ take you to roll tha muh’fuckin’ joint nigga, we ain’t got all muh’fuckin’ day!” D-Macc said, pushing down on the gas pedal, and drifting around the corner.
In this hood, it was all about smoking weed, popping pills, drug dealing, driving away from the cops, pimpin’ hoes, and American cars. The year was 1992, the San Fierro drug business was booming, and the Crestside Country Club was the neighborhood that was running the town. If you had a problem with us, you had a problem with a neighborhood full of 100 excons, who weren’t afraid to kill and die for the family.
“Nigga shut the fuck up, I’m goin’ as fast as I can. We needa get the fuck outta here though, last time I checked these 57th Street niggas ain’t coo wit’ us, roll off the block nigga!” I had said, looking out the windows, as I was finishing crumbling the weed.
The thing about the Crestside was, there were about 40 different families in the hood, but if you lived in there, you were considered family. Each generation called each other cousins, I mean, I know my cousins, uncles and aunties weren’t blood related, but each generation grows thicker and thicker.
“Sometimes, you just have that feelin’ nigga, that feelin’ that you’re about to get shot at any minute, you know what I’m sayin? We got a bird in the trunk, a couple ounces in the back seat, we got a few straps on us, a couple thousand dollars too. We easy picking nigga, it’s just two of us…” I said, slowly, taking a pause in between each sentence.
“Nigga, you talkin’ crazy, finish up that joint, and light that shit nigga.” D-Macc said, with a smirk on his face.
Little did I know when he said them, but those were the last words he ever said to me. He didn’t listen to me when I told him to stay away from 57th Street, and instead, he took a turn straight down it. As he pulled up to a stop sign, he stopped, and somebody walked near the car.
“Ay nigga, you from the Crestside, huh?” the stranger had said.
Most people could tell us by our clothes. Nappy hair, or dreadlocks, extra baggy clothes, and we usually had a tattoo on our neck saying ‘3C’. Doing what any of us bangers do, he threw up the triple C with his right hand out the window and cracked a large grin.
“Yeah nigga, it’s Crestside for life! Whattup cuz?!” D-Macc had said.
I knew from there what would happen; I ducked my body as low as possible, and held my head, covering my ears. I heard the man yell ‘WELL FUCK YOU NIGGA!’ and about 2 seconds later, my sound shot out of my ears. Bullets hit the car, the windows, and about 12 bullets went into D-Macc. By this point, I had jumped out of my door, pulled out my Desert Eagle, ducked down, and began to blindly fire over the hood of the car.
I knew I had hit something when I heard the fully automatic gun that he was firing stop. I slowly looked up, to see the man on the ground, with blood all over his chest. I looked in at the car, and saw blood all over the interior, on window, and himself, even my t-shirt was covered in his blood. With no time to think, I ran. Crestside was about 10 blocks down, and with a patrol squad that covered every other block, I tossed my shirt. I hopped in the nearest car, pulled out the dash, and hotwired it, never to return to 57th Street again.
I proved my dedication to the hood 100% that day, and that’s the day they put me down as an OG of the hood. 10 years later, I’m 32, and 8 more years, I’m 40 years old. But let’s freshen up on what happened in between those 10 years after D-Macc’s murder.
After the murder, the Crestside was pissed. Crestside stretched down 35% of San Fierro’s length, so they knew to pack numbers deep, considering another 80% of that stretch was all affiliated. After about 2 or 3 months, which brought us into 1993, we packed nearly 5 cars full of the family, everybody holding something automatic, at the simplest, they were MP5s.
We pulled down the first corner, and as soon as each car turned, everybody threw their mask on. Every house they we saw, we put bullets through. We had been stocking and planning for this night for weeks, so we were ready for this. By the time we got to the end of the street, we had easily killed 10 people, broken about 40 windows, and probably cost about 50,000 dollars in damage. The hood had rode that night.
The next ten years summed up quickly, well, that was easily stated as a hide and go seek. We hid in the hood, while the cops got the evidence and got us. I, and a few others, were the only ones smart enough to move out of the hood. Cops just sat back and figured anybody who was actually guilty lived in the hood. More and more, I got calls every year.
By 2002, everybody involved except for a few had been jailed. San Fierro and the original hood was dying. Compared to the more than 100 there were, we were only really six strong now. Now, all we had was the money to afford some broken down apartments in Idlewood, the slums. As all of the younger homies began to grow up, we began to teach them. I guess that’s how we got our name: The Idlewood Slum Disciples.
It became our new way of living, instead of the Crestside, we called this our home. We were no longer what we used to be, we were now turning into something different, we took the name Idlewood Slum Disciples, and we wear the name respectably. I haven’t thrown up Crestside in years, because the only life I know now, is the life of an Idlewood Slum Disciple.
To a disciple, it meant to have great discipline, respect, and love for one another. We weren’t about causing trouble, especially with each other. The older generations from the Crestside began to teach the younger members different ways than the old “gangsta” ways. Unless you’re stepped on, don’t step on somebody else. Don’t go out starting shit, let it come to you. You know, those kinds of things, the way you’d want to see the young kids brought up.
(( I think I should be able to run a gang because, although 'gangster' gangs are a washed up, I am one of the people on this server who does like to roleplay. Instead of stand-on-car roleplay at the families hq, I plan to either run business, and set up an actual 'hood' where there's arms and drug dealers on the corner, ect. or plan to actually go out and do things with the family. Going for points and being prepared for points and both two majors things to accomplish as well, but without poopsocking the whole time.
Also, before it gets brought up – yes I am the leader of Ballas. But the way I see it, is Ballas and a normal family are much different in the fact that a normal family isn’t focused on helping noobs. If I have to for this, I will drop my position as Balla leader, but I would still like to be able to do that. Ballas is hit or miss, there’s not always noobs to help.))
Original Gangsta
Kody_Bankwell / Bankwell
Michael_Mocanu / mike_mocanu
Uncle
Heath_Ledger / Heath_Ledger
Jack_Stone / Jack_Stone
Cousin
Davy_Mousse / Davy_Mousse
Sizzla_Kalonji / Sizzla_Kalonji
Relative
Ace_Hood / Oreo
Alexander_Cairo / Alexander_C
Don_Vinceto / Vinceto
Homie
Bob_Marley / Michael_Schwartz
Ayad_Faraq / Ayad
Jimmy_Crimson / N/A
Jake_Collins / Jake Collins
Martin_Louis / Martin_Louis
Nephew
Louie
SKINS
7(Leader) 64 13 183 136 67
HQ
