Search the Community
Showing results for tags 'crime'.
-
بعث المشرق - The Rebirth of the Levant Los Santos residents have reported seeing a rise of various ethnic minorities throughout the region, however, as a result of failure from the local politicians, certain ethnic groups have began to contribute to the criminal statistics of Los Santos, due to their areas generally being neglected or put at a disadvantage compared to other places found throughout the city. Following the rise of tensions between the pro-white community against multiple ethnic minority groups, rumours of violence against individuals hailing from Palestinian, Lebanese, Jordanian, Syrian, and, Iraqi cultures had increased, as a result of this, individuals who have hailed from the poorer, more criminal, areas across Los Santos have slowly started to gain their own control over different regions, with the most recent example being Strawberry, Los Santos, where a shooting has recently taken place following a clash between a young Palestinian adult and two white supremacists. With the information being typically overlooked, organised-criminal 'clans' have taken advantage of the situation, with many extorting and using the local community's situation to the best of their advantage, whilst offering those that have sided with them the benefits of the criminal life, in an attempt to use the system and all of its benefits, most of these groups are rumoured to have sprung up in the neighbourhood of the recent shooting, with many of these youths hanging around Strawberry Avenue.
- 124 replies
-
- 43
-
-
-
- organised crime
- organised
- (and 3 more)
-
This thread will follow the character progression of Reginald Murray and Malcolm Walker.
- 88 replies
-
- 22
-
-
Sympathy for The Devil Soso Dvalishvili was born in Georgia in 1990 to two struggling parent's who owned a farm in Rural Georgia, growing up in the remanence of the Soviet Union was tough for Soso, with Georgia in a state of despair economically and politically. He was a single child as it was a struggle to feed three people let alone more, he spent most of his time as a teenager working on his families failing farm or doing what he could to have little fun. At 18 year's old his father passed away from an unknown illness in his sleep, leaving him and his mother to run what little they had left. Having the little in life Soso would always make with what he had, during his early 20's he began getting involved with crime in Georgia, ending up arrested multiple time's for various reason's. During a failed robbery in Georgia he ended up shooting a man but got away due to the Police caught being corrupted in his case, in recent time's he migrated to America legally where he reside's in Los Santos, San Andreas. Still loosely associated to Georgian Organized Crime in Los Santos, he attempt's to survive in Los Santos with no knowledge of American Life. Paul Balashvili was born in Los Santos in the early 2000s. He grew up with a tough life, growing up around Davis and also with him struggling too make friends due to him being around black people and he was one of the few white European kids in the neighbourhood. Growing up Paul was a very educated person who did well with school but unfortunately It doesn't matter what race you are you can always end up following the wrong crowd and get caught up in some bullshit. Growing up in America is so different compared to his home country Georgia. He'd visit his home country every now and again due to his family moving back to their home country after raising Paul in America, even though they offered to give Paul a home in his home country Georgia he wanted to stay in Los Santos. He thought he wouldn't run into more people like him that's until recently he be-friended a serious Georgian man called Soso, Paul realized Soso meant business so together they both started a operation dealing drug's and stealing car's to earn some money from a hustle.
-
This thread will follow the story of Joseph Wilson coming back from his vacation to Liberty City (IRL haitus). Balancing his life between the criminal aspect, the car club scene and his road to riches through unconventional means.
-
Hey, I’m doing some research on different crime families/mafias. I already know a good amount about how they’re organized, but I’m looking for more stuff like group photos, or rare pics from hidden cameras especially ones showing the boss, underboss, and consigliere together. I’m also trying to find some good YouTube videos that explain how different mafias started, how they make money, and what they’re like today. I know modern mafias don’t always wear suits like the old days ones, so I’m curious to see how they really are now. If anyone has photos, videos of meetings, hidden camera stuff, or anything about how they talk or dress, feel free to drop it here or add me on Discord: arda8700_. Thanks! -
Alfredo “Scrappy” Ortiz (15 years old, Hispanic-American) knew the layout of South Los Santos like the back of his hand – not from exploring its parks or schools, but from its shadowy alleyways and vulnerable homes. His family’s move from East Los Santos hadn’t been the promised paradise. Strawberry Avenue and Forum Drive, far from offering a better life, had plunged them into a war zone between rival Bloods and Crips gangs. The promise of a brighter future had dissolved into the harsh reality of survival. Scrappy, learned to navigate this landscape, turning his innate quickness and street smarts into a grim trade. He justified his actions: He wasn't hurting anyone important, just taking from those who had more than they deserved. Or so he told himself. Ortiz’s had a closer relationship with his mom than his dad. His dad, a part-time contractor whose work was often unpredictable, was always grateful for Alfredo's contributions, but it was his mom, Isabella a housewife, who truly understood the weight of their financial struggles. Alfredo’s name would become popular around the area from him doing grand theft auto, breaking and entering, and smash and grabs. He was a known thief on the streets. Him being a thief had landed him in jail for the first time after doing a B&E off Amarillo Vista Road and being caught in the act of stealing from the home on the Eastside. Ortiz was arrested and shipped off to a Youth Detention Center for his actions which caused his criminal record to start with 7 charges: 6 misdemeanors and 1 felony causing him to do 1 month. He started fighting other teens inside Y.D.C to show he wasn’t a punk or buster winning most of his fights other teens in the facility started calling him “Scrappy” and the name stuck onto him like glue. Once, released Ortiz would start to hang out with his old friend group that went by “Tiny Bombers” a tagging clique he knew really well.
-
OOC INFORMATION We are a group of friends who happen to be in the lower/middle class, who also happen to be pretty criminals and felons. With not so many opportunities present, the group focuses on making ends meet through illicit means and further funding a new hobby. We will be developing the roleplay and status to build up to the unofficial faction thread. Any questions or inquiries, feel free to reach out to Roddytheg on discord or @Roddytheg on the forums. (WE ARE NOT A FACTION, more so a bundle of friends/individuals)
-
This thread will follow the character development and storyline of Tobin (Hart) Gumenyuk Affiliations Volkovskaya Bratva (Thread) Tobin Hart Gumenyuk born and raised in Alderney to Russian-American parents on March 25th 1996, always had an interest for the oddest things since very little. His favorite toys were the kid lab eruption volcanoes and chemistry stations. His parents noticed his wit at that time and encouraged him by providing him with various chemistry toys and books. Tobin’s room soon transformed into a mini laboratory, complete with beakers, test tubes and a colorful array of chemicals. His fascination with the reactions and the magical transformations of elements fueled his desire to learn more. Tobin became known among his classmates and teachers as the kid who could explain complex chemical reactions with ease and as expected he did very well all throughout school. With each passing year, Tobin’s skills and understanding of chemistry grew exponentially. He earned a scholarship and enrolled in a prestigious science program at Imperial University, studying Medicinal Chemistry. As he grew older, Tobin’s hunger for knowledge expanded beyond the limitations of his small bedroom lab. His parents, recognizing his potential, decided to support him further by converting their garage into a more sophisticated workspace. Tobin’s lab now boasted advanced equipment, shelves lined with chemicals and a state-of-the-art ventilation system. However towards the end of the year, life took an unexpected turn for Tobin when his family faced financial difficulties and lost their bakery shop. Frustrated and desperate, Tobin found himself at a crossroads. It was during this vulnerable moment that he happened to drop out of the University and encountered the wrong crowd. A group of Russian-American individuals, aware of Tobin’s exceptional chemistry skills, approached him with an offer he found hard to refuse. They offered him a chance to use his knowledge to create street drugs. The promise of quick money and a solution to his family’s financial woes tempted Tobin, and against his better judgment, he accepted their proposition. Tobin set up a secret lab in an abandoned warehouse, on the outskirts of Sheepshead Bay (Russian-American area). The once pristine shelves filled with educational chemistry sets, were replaced with equipment used to produce illegal substances. At first Tobin struggled with guilt and conflict but as he became entangled in this dangerous world and started seeing the money rolling on his side and being able to save a good amount of it while still helping his family financially, he was just as driven by it. The very passion that had driven him to excel was now being misused for illicit purposes. As Tobin continued down this dark path, he soon realized the consequences of his choices. Law enforcement closed in on the illegal operation, but it was too late, Tobin was made aware of the situation early enough to set the warehouse on fire. And the once-promising young scientist almost found himself facing serious legal repercussions. Tobin has now fled Alderney, ending up in Sandy Shores, before leaving, he made sure to leave his family plenty of money while still bringing a lot with him. After all, he had no responsibilities besides helping his family, he still used his mom’s car and lived under their roof the whole time.
- 98 replies
-
- 25
-
-
-
- volkovskaya bratva
- crime
- (and 4 more)
-
The first years of my life were spent on the wrong side of the South Street Bridge in Philadelphia, in a place they called the Devil’s Pocket. That name always sounded funny to me, but I only truly understood it when my father explained why. We were sitting in the same kitchen I’d watched become more and more vacant over the years. “Kid, you wanna know why this place is called what it’s called? A long time ago, before your ma and I were even born, a pastor lived here, just a couple houses down the street.” I remember feeling the tension in the air; my father was always a good storyteller—God rest his soul. “Back then, it was our people and the micks. And when they weren’t working in the factories, they were always up to something. One day at mass, this priest condemned our neighborhood, because the kids were so rough that if they had the chance, they’d steal from the Devil’s own pocket.” That was around the time I started realizing why things were the way they were around me—why Georgie down the street was always on that same corner, outside Novelli’s, our local bar, every day and every night. And with Georgie there were others, most of them my father’s friends, who more often than not stood on that corner too, instead of being with their families. My mother—God rest her soul—was named Louise. She had a pale complexion and the most beautiful blonde hair. Back in the day, the Irish boys in the neighborhood were always after her, according to my father. I was born just like her—pale, with golden hair. People always said I looked exactly like my mother, but deep down, I knew I was more like my father. At first, that struck me as a compliment, but as time passed and I started to figure things out, that feeling changed. It was a cold winter night, and I must have been about eight years old. I was lying in bed, tucked in and safe from the monsters kids my age feared. That’s when the hum of the streetlights echoing in the silent streets was shattered by the roar of an engine, followed by three thunderous cracks and flashes that lit up my bedroom window. Then came the screams—three of them—and the engine’s roar faded into the distance. Within seconds, half the houses had their lights on, and everybody and their mother was looking outside. Out there in the snow, right in front of Novelli’s, lay Georgie and my father, Michael. I was barely tall enough to see out the window, but I’ll never forget the sight of them writhing on the bloody, icy ground. My eyes widened; my pupils shrank. All I could do was gasp. Georgie didn’t move—he looked frozen. My father crawled into Novelli’s, and men rushed out to help him. All I could make out was a dark pool forming under Georgie’s head, and a crimson trail behind my father as he dragged himself away from his friend’s lifeless body. That night changed the way I looked at the world forever. The monsters got to my father before they could get to me. I never truly understood why it all happened, and no one ever gave me the chance to figure it out. My mother, Louise, did her best to protect me from the ugly truth. From that day on, the kitchen felt emptier. The food we ate never tasted the same again. I don’t blame her for anything she did after that night. As the years passed, her melancholy only grew, fueled by her inability to cope on her own. Now a single mother and a widow, she self-medicated, and her beauty faded with every swig from the bottle. Even so, I always looked out for her the best I could. From a very young age, I felt like I had the weight of the world on my shoulders, like I had to become something and provide for my mother. The tables had turned. I started stepping out in the street more, coming home later and later—sometimes not at all. My adolescence was shaped by the roughness around me. I became one of those kids the priest had talked about in my father’s story. I had a little posse in the neighborhood. There was Jimmy Cuts—Georgie’s son and my partner in crime. We’d both gone through the same kind of loss, and our mothers grew close over the grief they shared. Then there was Arnie, the youngest of us. He was a good kid, and smart, too—always thinking light-years ahead of everyone else. We also had Big Andy. His name didn’t do him justice: he was so tall and broad that he towered like a skyscraper whenever we hung out. And then there was me, Henry. But my friends called me Blondie. Like any dumb teenagers in the ’90s, we always found new ways to stir up trouble. Eventually, it caught up to us—but we were lucky some of my father’s old friends were still around. They were older now; some had moved out, and some wore suits and ties. I never understood how these guys from bum-fuck Devil’s Pocket ended up looking like congressmen, but they watched out for us, especially me and Jimmy. One of them stood out: Old Carm, who seemed to be in charge. Everyone listened to him. Old Carm was a special kind of guy—like a second father to me, though he was much rougher. I can’t recall how many times he pulled us by our ears for the dumbest crap we pulled back then. By the time I was eighteen, same as Jimmy, we were constantly fighting with the neighborhood Irish kids, competing for the market at our local high school. What market? Anything we could turn a profit on. When we realized we could buy grass by the ounce from Gino down the street, we started our own little business. The money started rolling in, and soon we were counting more cash than we’d ever dreamed of. Sure, it was small-time stuff now that I look back on it—but at the time, no other kids carried that kind of money around. With the money came the girls, and every night we partied at Jimmy’s place, smoking our brains out with Black Sabbath blasting in the background. We thought we were small-town rock stars. And when we weren’t making a buck, we were partying hard. That’s also when I got introduced to other vices, and found the clientele for them too. By the time I was twenty, me and the boys were basically the kings of our little castle: grass, party pills, and the occasional stepped-on coke if we had our hands on it. I made a living off that hustle for a couple of years. The kids grew up, some turned into addicts, and those addicts eventually became dealers themselves. We had our own little network in the heart of the neighborhood. One Thursday night, we went to pick up our weekly supply because Fridays were party days, and we had to be ready. By then, we were getting our dope from a group of Cubans who lived about half an hour away. The plan was simple: go in, grab our stuff, get out—like always. It was me and Jimmy in the car, with Jimmy driving. We got in and out just fine, but on the way home, crossing the South Street Bridge, an unmarked vehicle started tailing us and flipped on its siren. One car turned into three. Jimmy began to panic, sweat running down his face as I argued with him about what to do. He wanted to pull over, but I knew better. An unmarked car with backup wasn’t some run-of-the-mill traffic stop. Jimmy led them on a brief chase through the neighborhood, and that’s when I made the biggest mistake of my life. When we turned a corner, I told him to stop. My plan was to bolt through the alleyways I knew by heart, maybe hide out at a friend’s place. There was no way we were outrunning them in our beat-up car. I stormed out, backpack in hand, running for my life—literally. I never ran so hard, and for a moment I thought I’d lost them. But suddenly, I was staring down the barrel of a gun. “Freeze,” they yelled, and that’s all I could do. I had so much dope on me, they probably threw a party back at the station. Curran-Fromhold Correctional Facility became my home for eight long years. The judge really threw the book at me. I went from the Devil’s Pocket straight into the Devil’s belly. It was my alma mater, you might say—that’s where I went to “college.” I met all kinds of folks in there: drug dealers, violent criminals, truly nasty types. And now, I was one of them. I’d been locked up for about a year when I got the news: Old Carm came to visit me, which was strange, because it was usually my mother who came. He didn’t look good. I didn’t like it one bit. That’s when he told me my mother had passed. I guess she just couldn’t handle it anymore—no husband, and her son behind bars like some animal. Old Carm didn’t get specific, but he said they found her in that same old kitchen, bottles of liquor on the table. I figured she must’ve passed out and choked to death. A deep depression sank in. I loved her so much; I would have done anything to stop that. Part of me blames myself. I carry that guilt and pain with me to this day. Maybe that’s why I’m so messed up inside. One day I got a letter from my grandmother, who lived in San Andreas. I’d visited her once before, and I loved the West Coast. She and my grandfather had moved there because he couldn’t find work in Philly. My parents stayed behind, because that was the only life my father knew, and my mother always did whatever my father wanted. In the letter, my grandmother told me I’d always have a place with her if I needed it. I thanked her and thought hard about that offer. After all, I had nothing left in Philly. Jimmy was locked up elsewhere, and Arnie had moved out of the city after our operation fell apart. So after eight years, I decided to leave too. The day I walked out of those concrete walls, I felt a gratitude I can’t even describe. I sold my childhood home and used the money to stand on my own two feet for a while. That’s when I made the move. Los Santos. This is where I’m writing this journal right now, sitting in my grandmother’s kitchen. I like this place. I like the sun.
- 11 replies
-
- 16
-
-
-
- lcn
- italian american
- (and 1 more)
-
This thread will follow the development of a small, tight knit group of primarily Italian heritage. It will showcase the day to day activities of a variety of individuals, with the overall focus on making money through a range of legal and illegal activities with the group specializing in generalized theft, and house robberies.
-
"He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death’ or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away.” Richard Tagaloa Richard "Surfs" Tagaloa: The Mixed Mutt from Apia to the County's Underbelly Richard Maria Tagaloa, known on the streets as "Poko," was born on September 27, 2000 by his mother Sandra Mariana Tagaloa ( Hispanic ) and very.. distant father Preston Tagaloa ( Samoan ), in West Apia, the bustling capital of Samoa. A young man hardened by a lifetime surrounded by violence, without a father figure, he grew up on Molu Street, a place where crime and poverty went hand in hand. His childhood was shaped by the powerful pull of the WTN (West Tongan Nation) gang—a notorious crew of mixed Hispanic/Tongan works alike, feared and revered across the islands. For Richie, gang life was the only path he saw. School meant nothing to him, and the streets held both promise and peril. A Gangster in the Making Richard entered the world of crime with a hunger and determination that quickly caught the gang's attention. He became a trusted runner, handling drug deals and extortion for the WTN with a ruthlessness that was rare in someone so young ( 15 ). He was known for his collective demeanor and a strange, almost ill-minded loyalty to the gang. Carrying guns and threats, he left his mark on the streets, calm and collectively. His reputation grew, and so did his role in the gang— armed robberies, trafficking, and endless brawls that left both him and his opponents scarred. As he got older, Richard started to feel the weight of his choices. The brutality he once embraced began to feel hollow, and he began to question the endless cycles of violence and retribution. Prison stints came and went, each one eating away at his humanity. He had a young son he barely knew by the age of seventeen, a child growing up without a father because of his endless stretches, months at a time. The life that had once promised him respect and power was instead taking everything he held dear. A Glimpse of Change After a three years of prison time for assault & battery, Richard found himself suffocating under the weight of the life he had chosen. He started to make his way out of the gang in increments, first by securing a job at a local woodworking shop. The work was hard, the pay minimal, but for the first time, he felt like he was building something, even if it was just furniture. It was honest work—a small rebellion against the life he had known. But the streets don’t let go so easily. Leaving the gang wasn’t a clean cut. He had debts to pay, promises to keep, and enemies who wouldn’t let him go. Every day felt like a countdown, and he knew he had to leave Apia for good if he wanted a real chance. So, with one last goodbye to the gang and the island that had been both home and prison, he headed for Los Santos to sought out his cousin [Violet]. The Mongols MC: A Darker Descent In LS, Richard was introduced to Isaac Montanelli, the vice-president of the Mongols Motorcycle Club. Montanelli was captivated by Richard's wild-eyed fearlessness and saw potential in him as a man willing to go to any length to survive. The Mongols were a different kind of beast. They were older, more formed and some would even beg to say.. more ruthless, and far more connected than the gangs Richard knew in Samoa. They offered him what the WTN never could—a vast network of money, a home, some respect and an introduction to a more organized aspect of power. Now nicked-named "Surfs" he became absorbed in the MC mindset by the help and guidance of his new-found sponsor [Isaac Montanelli]. The club became his new family, a twisted echo of the brotherhood he once had with the WTN, but far deadlier. The work was relentless, dangerous, and took him even further from the boy he’d once been in Apia. Personal Information: Name: Richard Maria Tagaloa Gender: Male Nick Names: Richie, Surfs, Richard. Current Age: 24 Zodiac: Libra Current Address: █████████ Place of Birth: ████████ ████ Height: 6'1ft Weight: 210lb Blood Type: A+ Family: Malcolm "Buster" Tagaloa ( Brother ) Violet Mendez ( Cousin ) ( Samoan ) Preston Oku Tagaloa ( Father ) ( Hispanic ) Sandra Maria Tagaloa ( Mother )
- 25 replies
-
- 9
-
-
-
- crime
- sandy shores
- (and 15 more)
-
Tulburate by the past, destroyed by the present, killed by the future. The man trying to find reason within people. Nothing shall remain hidden from the truth.
- 8 replies
-
- 2
-
-
- ex-military
- ptsd
- (and 10 more)
-
- 7 replies
-
- 1
-
-
- organised crime
- theft
- (and 2 more)
-
This Topic will follow in the life of Harvey "Harpoon" Wilson, an Ex-Marine gone rouge.
- 13 replies
-
- 15
-
-
Me and a friend ( @stolasur) are looking for serious roleplayers to build a heist crew within the palm trees of LS! To provide roleplay towards the LEO Factions and towards the community as well!
-
Do you find yourself wandering around Los Santos struggling to make a roleplay connection? Looking for a unique roleplay experience that dives deep into the gritty underbelly of Los Santos? Join us in creating a vibrant homeless and drug addict community where the streets are our playground and every alleyway holds a story. There is a distinct lack of unkempt, broken, vulnerable, misbehaving drunk/drugged people in this server. Together we can build a community that people are nervous to walk past in the streets. We could fuel the drug trade to new heights, thus enhancing the crime-based roleplay for us, gangs, and the police. Here's what I can envisage for us: Immersive Roleplay: Dive into the shoes of a homeless person or a struggling addict, navigating the challenges of survival and the allure of the next fix. Have you only just fallen into hard times, or are you a veteran of the concrete jungles? Be violent, unpredictable, cunning, dirty, tired, and rough. Endless Possibilities: From makeshift camps under freeway overpasses to hidden drug dens in abandoned buildings to bothering high-end stores by sleeping outside, explore the nooks and crannies of Los Santos as your character seeks shelter, sustenance, and their next high. Protect one another and backstab one another. Community Events: Plan heists to score big, or gather around a makeshift bonfire for storytelling sessions and camaraderie. Establish your own drug ring, peddle substances on the streets, sell your body and soul, or struggle with the demons of addiction as you chase the ultimate high. Run-ins with the Law: Dodge the watchful eyes of law enforcement as you engage in illegal activities. These cops have it too easy, let's be the nuisance that bothers them every damn day. Join us in bringing the streets of Los Santos to life like never before! If you're interested, then add me on Discord. Username - _dscr- 8 replies
-
- 12
-
-
- homeless
- homelessness
- (and 7 more)
-
Hostage Situation on Innocence Boulevard Ends Peacefully BY: Jonathan Taner, Vali Lane Davis, SA - A tense hostage situation unfolded on the evening of Sunday, June 2, 2024, on Innocence Boulevard. A woman was held at gunpoint by an armed suspect, prompting a swift response from law enforcement. Police blocking the road on the west side of Innocence Boulevard The incident began when a 911 call was made by a witness who had just finished his shift at a nearby 24/7 convenience store. According to the witness, he encountered the suspect, described as an African American male, wearing a mask and carrying a paper bag. Suspicious of the man's behavior, the witness observed him before hearing the suspect shout at a woman, demanding she put her hands up. Realizing the gravity of the situation, the witness immediately contacted authorities. Police quickly arrived at the scene, establishing a perimeter around the general store on Innocence Boulevard. Officers blocked the road from both the east and west sides and created a barricade using their cruisers. A SWAT team, including snipers positioned on a nearby rooftop, was also deployed to manage the crisis. Police setting up a perimeter around the general store Negotiations between the suspect and law enforcement lasted approximately ten minutes. During this time, officers worked to de-escalate the situation. Ultimately, the suspect surrendered, releasing the hostage unharmed but understandably shaken. The quick actions of the witness and the efficient response by law enforcement ensured that the incident was resolved without physical harm to the victim. The woman, though emotionally distressed, was safe and received immediate care. Authorities are continuing their investigation into the incident. Police interviewing a witness on scene Comments are ENABLED for this article. Username: Comment: -
Jeremiah Ko Stringer My name is Jeremy. I work at LSI. I am a photographer based in Los Santos who captures images of events, issues, and stories. I convey information through the form of visual storytelling. I capture the truth, keeping my work as authentic as possible, giving the viewer a chance to reflect on the image at hand. Expect all content you will come across to be graphic. Viewer discretion is advised. All media in this medium are copyrighted to the Los Santos Insider and Jeremiah Ko. connect; [email protected] 35007534 directory WIP Comments are ENABLED Username: Comment:
- 2 replies
-
- 1
-
-
- lsi
- los santos insider
- (and 8 more)
-
This follows the tale of Harjinder "Vadda Munda" Singh. Fat Boy of Little Punjabi.
-
The Story of Polish immigrants who turned down a dark path of violent crime.
- 17 replies
-
- 28
-
.thumb.gif.1a845053f069a75300c8d4bef241cc2e.gif)
.thumb.png.c06c7adbda2d89d1219e21a07c93de0d.png)
.thumb.gif.822ed20b13a958c67d8e9a7641909203.gif)
