I want to tell you about a real-life vigilante I used to know named Ray Dog. He wasn’t a big guy, he was just a very, very good fighter. His two brothers were well-versed in martial arts, and they taught him how to fight.
I want to tell you about a real-life vigilante I used to know named Ray Dog. He wasn’t a big guy, he was just a very, very good fighter. His two brothers were well-versed in martial arts, and they taught him how to fight. I remember his brothers used to pay him to beat up on little guys they didn't want to fight. They'd be like, "Listen, you're ten years younger than me. I'll pay my baby brother five bucks and he'll knock you out." The guy would say, “Which one?” and Ray Dog would just walk up to him and—pow!—punch them in the jaw.
As you can probably imagine, this guy grew up and turned into a straight gangster. Like the kind who would rob drug dealers. He didn't rob old ladies, though. He thought only a punk would snatch somebody's Social Security check. He was the type of guy who would get a few friends and walk into a club known as a Bloods or Crips hang out and just start slashing and cutting and robbing. Because who are they gonna tell? Other gangbangers? They sure as hell aren't telling the cops.
Once, a few guys decided to try and form a gang in a particular set of projects that didn't have any gang activity. It was either the Bloods or the Crips, I can't remember which. Anyway, my man told them, “Nah, we don't have no gangs in these projects.” The so-called gangsters didn't listen, and they sectioned off the block between who sells what—red tops, blue tops, green tops, and so on. Word got to my man and he came downstairs. From what I was told, he borrowed a Smith and Wesson from his brother's girl and went into the crowd and started banging people in the head. He told them, “Yo, you know who I am? You don't come in my projects trying to rain on our parade. This is our block. We own this.” He just went wild on those people. He started sticking guns in people's mouths and breaking teeth and jaws with the gun handle. Then he said, “The next thing that's going to happen here is me clapping. You want to hear some clapping?” And by clapping, you know what he meant.
His crew has a code of honor. They don't do any dirt in their own neighborhood and they don't steal from people who work. They won't steal from a person with a nine to five. They know he's trying to feed his family. But that guy on the corner who's trying to make $800 a week off of crack or coke? Oh, they will stick him up. They will stick him up in a minute.