Participants: CripZ
RolePlay Story:
Sun was hangin’ low over the skyline, haze thick like the tension in the streets. I was chillin' at my usual spot — Eastside Donut Shop off Carson Ave — knockin’ back a vanilla twist, lowrider parked clean outside. That blue Savanna was lookin' extra pretty in the sunlight, chrome bouncing light like a warning.
Then my phone buzzed.
Trayz, one of my top dogs on lookout duty.
“Yo, big homie — we got a situation. Dre from Idlewood? He flipped. Fed talk. He’s in and outta the precinct droppin’ names... our names.”
That glaze hit different all of a sudden — tasted like poison.
“You sure it’s him?”
“A hundred. My cousin in Records said Dre fed them our supply runs, safehouse info, even your Savanna’s plate. He’s tryna trade our whole set for freedom.”
Silence.
I hung up, walked straight out that shop, heart cold as Grove Street beef. I hit the trunk on my Savanna — that deep Cripz blue paint job gleaming in the low light. Inside? My M4, tucked and ready. Extended mag. Full send.
No more words.
I slid behind the wheel, engine purring like a beast caged too long. My ride bounced low and smooth over potholes and alley dips. Destination: Dre’s crib in Ganton. Same spot we used to kick it at back when loyalty meant something.
Pulled up across the street. No lights on outside, but I ain’t blind — movement behind them curtains. Shadows. Maybe him. Maybe his girl. Maybe someone close enough to hurt him when they see what I left behind.
I stepped out, M4 in hand, eyes locked on that house. Took a slow breath... then lit it up.
Windows first. Then the front door. A few rounds for the second floor just in case he was hiding upstairs.
Then I turned to his pride and joy — that blue-and-black Broadway sittin’ in his driveway. Candy paint. Whitewalls spotless. He treated that ride better than his girl.
Not today.
I pulled a molotov from my stash bag, lit it with a match off my chain, and lobbed it through the driver’s window.
FWOOOM.
That Broadway went up in flames, fire dancing across the hood, popping the tires like gunshots. The smoke rose like a Cripz flag over enemy territory.
Message delivered.
I slid back into my Savanna, engine already hot. Peeled off down the backstreets, hydraulics bouncing once before I ghosted into the night.
Screenshots: