So, as I explained above, with each generation comes new, more advanced ideals about the continuation of Crips in general and of one’s set in particular, as shown here with Sidewinder’s idea of an individual set on Eighty-third Street. While remaining in conjunction with West Side Crips, the set would not necessarily be controlled by them. Its conception was to promote autonomy.

All attempts at new ideas are not successful. Sets fail, much like businesses. Much work goes into establishing a set. With the success of a set comes universal recognition. Sidewinder reached Ghetto Star status by this act alone, but he still was active in all of our wars and still lends his experience to the set’s ascent today.

Our proposal, our contribution, was based on war strategy. For it seemed like every time we’d neutralize one Sixty, two would be recruited. They have always had great success with recruitment. I would honestly say that today the Rollin’ Sixties have the third largest set in South Central, following the East Coast Crips and then the Hoover Crips. We took notice of this threat early on and tried time and again to reduce their population by any means necessary, all to no avail. So our last resort was the psychological approach. Make them believe we were bigger than they thought—deceive them.

What blew me away later on, while I was a prisoner in San Quentin, was when I read Sun Tzu’s Art of War and he said “War is deception.” We had figured as much long before we knew who Sun Tzu or Mao Tse-tung even were.

Our deceptive tactic was this: We would seem to divide the entire ’hood up into sides—North, South, East, and West—thus making the Sixties believe we were so huge that we had to break the ’hood up into subdivisions. It was our belief that they’d fall into confusion, trying to find the sides they most wanted to attack. We also believed they’d feel enveloped by a larger, more entrenched enemy than they had originally anticipated.

But when I explained this to Sidewinder, he rejected it out of hand, citing some abstract notion that this was, in effect, breaking up the ’hood. This was straight hypocrisy on his behalf, because earlier that same year he had concocted some off-the-wall idea about turning the whole set into a new gang, calling it “West Coast Gangster Trays” (WCG3s). Crazy De and I backed him on it and supported his idea, even though it was immensely unpopular amongst other O.G.s. He had even suggested we change the color of our flag.

Despite his adamant disapproval, De and I went forward with our plans. Ironically, the same O.G.s who had disagreed with Sidewinder’s idea about the WCG3s backed our development of subdividing the set. Initially, we had four sides, but the East Side fell off the following year when its staunchest members were captured for murder. We began right away on our campaign to inform the Sixties and the entire gang community about our latest development. We went about this task with a vengeance, writing on walls, turning out parties (“turning out” means to disrupt with violence) and at schools—most anywhere we felt like shouting our presence out.

This campaign was actually carried out by no more than four dedicated soldiers: Crazy De, Legs Diamond, Tray Stone, and myself. What started out as a tactic began to produce serious strategic results. Just as we had anticipated, confusion as to who was who set in over in the Sixties ’hood, and we were able to make some stunning strikes in the midst of their indecisiveness. In the meantime, our idea was gaining momentum in our ’hood. Others began to campaign for their respective sides, though all in unity with the original idea of deception.

In mid-December I broke into a house and secured two more weapons—another double-barrel and a Browning 9 millimeter. It was also around this time that we began to put serious dents in the Rollin’ Sixties’ offensive capabilities. On a cold, gloomy night, the Sixties tried to drop some of our West Side soldiers and were cut down. On the South Side a similar situation befell one of their units when one of their shooters hung out of the back window of a rolling car in an attempt to shoot some homies and was instead blasted back into the car with a full charge from a shotgun. The car sped away with the would-be shooter—turned victim—screaming in sheer agony.

Morale was picking up, and our level of recruitment also went up. One of the most damaging things we did to our own set during this time was to call meetings where we’d whip our troops and kick certain people off the set, taking for granted we’d always be strong. When we later found ourselves at meetings with as few as thirty-five soldiers in attendance, we began to regret our earlier acts of irresponsibility in regard to the treatment of troops.

I shot two people in December, but neither died. One I caught at McDonald’s on Florence and Crenshaw, and the other I shot on Tenth Avenue and Hyde Park. Both I sprayed with buckshot. I liked to see the buckshot eat away their clothing, almost like piranha fish.

By this time my name and courageous exploits were ringing with alarming regularity in most ’hoods in the gang community. Crazy De was right beside me. We had finally broken through to the second stage of recognition. De, however, had been captured for a murder and was in juvenile hall awaiting trial. I was doing a solo while fashioning Li’l Monster, who had gotten released from camp by this time, Li’l Harv, Li’l Crazy De, Joker, and Li’l Spike into an awesome young fighting machine. They had begun to put in work on a constant basis, really getting a kick out of the whole thing.

We all were waiting for New Year’s, not necessarily to usher in the new year, but to hit the Western Surplus and procure the much-needed, desperately sought-after guns and munitions. We had grand ideas about launching a final offensive on the Sixties—our own little Tet offensive.

December 31, 1980, was an ordinary day, overcast and a bit chilly. Putting on my gear I took extra care to dress warmly enough so as not to have to come back home for a coat. We had all agreed to meet at the blue apartments on Eightieth, which in accord with our subdivision of the ’hood was now the South Side. At approximately 4:00 P.M. I left my house on Sixty-ninth Street, which was in the North Side. I was dressed in white Chuck Taylor Converse All-Star tennis shoes with black and white shoestrings, heavily starched 501 Levis, a blue sweatshirt under an XXL blue penitentiary shirt, and a thick Pendleton jacket. I had cornrowed my hair to the back, and over this I wore a blue flag in bandana fashion.

Feeling very confident, I walked through the ’hood, up through the Seventies to the South Side. Of course I had the Browning 9 millimeter in my waistband. I reached the South Side without incident. Upon entering the apartment complex I found China, Li’l Spike, Stone, and Spooney kicking back drinking Night Train wine and smoking pot.

As we began to talk, Li’l Crazy De and Joker pulled up on ten-speeds. Joe Joe, who we had been considering giving the name Baby Monster, also came up. It didn’t take long for the pot and cheap wine to start having its mind-altering effects on me. Never much of a drinker, I felt the alcohol hit me first. My equilibrium was shot.

By now it was dusk, and I was brandishing my 9 millimeter with abandon. I instructed Joker and Li’l Crazy De to go to my house and retrieve the double-barrel. I called from one of our supporter’s homes to let Li’l Monster know that the homies were coming after the strap.

By the time they returned I was even more intoxicated. Seizing the shotgun, I instructed everyone to come out into the street. Once all had assembled out in front of the apartments, I moved under the street lamp and shot it out. Glass fragments rained all over my head and shoulders.

As I stepped onto the curb to shake the shards of glass out of my hair and clothing, my peripheral vision caught a black-and-white police car hitting the corner. Spinning with surprising quickness, as I was quite drunk, I tossed the shotgun to Joe Joe and told him to “break.” But he was not aware of the police car and ran right into it. He was immediately apprehended. Remembering the 9 millimeter in my waistband, I broke through the apartment complex and discarded my weapon. I then made my way up to Peaches’s house for refuge.

Watching the goings-on from the window, I painfully observed the police finding and confiscating my 9 millimeter. “Shit,” I thought, “two damn weapons lost at once.” I consoled myself by keeping in mind our planned mission for midnight—the surplus.

Once the coast had cleared I made my way back out front. Joe Joe had been captured and taken, along with the guns. Standing around now unarmed, I felt naked and longed for the comfort of my gun. I had simply to go back down to the North to retrieve another gun, but I was reluctant to walk or ride anywhere unarmed. So we just hung around Peaches’s apartment and listened to music.

Darkness finally descended on the city. In front of the blue apartments it was especially dark, because I had neutralized the light. A car bent the corner off of Normandie and onto Eightieth with a precautionary pace that could have been misconstrued as a “shooter’s coast”. We shrunk back further into the camouflage of darkness in an attempt to conceal ourselves and avoid drawing unfriendly fire.

The car came to a California stop in front of the apartments. I was able to discern three occupants, all in the front seat. From their silhouettes it appeared that all three were female. This was still no less dangerous, for we had been using women drivers for missions as of late and this was not a patented tactic. Someone with a rifle, shotgun, or hand weapon could quite easily be lying down in the back seat waiting for the women, who seemed innocent enough, to lure an unsuspecting victim to within shooting range for execution. We watched and waited. After a couple of minutes of them trying to distinguish who we were and us trying to differentiate them as friend or foe, someone among us made their I.D.

“That’s Pam, Yolanda, and Kim,” whispered a voice through the darkness.

Pam was currently going with Li’l Hunchy. (This was the first Li’l Hunchy. He has since been replaced by a more righteous soldier.) She had, however, in the past dated a member of the Rollin’ Sixties. Shaky and elusive is the best description I can offer for her relationship with the set. Her sisters’ dealings with our ’hood fell even shorter than this. But she was Li’l Hunchy’s girl now, and those were her sisters.

I had met all three in a previous exchange about the escalated developments of the war. Their position in this matter was neither pro nor con in respect to us. In reference to the Sixties, they had taken the Fifth. I had never trusted them and had always kept my dealings with them to a minimum. Fence sitters disgusted me. Hell, I would have felt better if they had just come out and said they were pro-Sixties, which did not necessarily mean they were anti-us. But their ambiguity threw me off.

I sallied forth from my seclusion in calculated steps. I walked on the balls of my feet so that in case a shooter did materialize from the back seat, I’d be ready to retreat and would hopefully escape with minimal damage. When I got close enough for them to identify me Kim rolled down the passenger-side window. She leaned out with both hands open in a “I’m unarmed” gesture, and urged me to the car.

“Hi, Monster,” she said in a squeaky voice. “How you doing?”

“I’m fine,” I said, not biting. “What’s up?” I was clearly suspicious now.

“Oh,” she began, “we’re on our way up to the surplus and wanted you to come with us.” Her tone had suddenly turned pleading.

“Why you want me to go with you?” I asked. Something wasn’t right here. But my rational thinking was being impaired by the earlier consumption of alcohol.

“ ’Cause you aren’t going to let no one bother us,” she responded.

During this exchange I began to think of the advantages of going to the surplus with them. I could survey the site for our midnight raid, then have them transport me down to the North to secure another weapon and bring me safely back to Eightieth. Hmmm. The notion was quite appealing.

“Awright,” I said after debating it. “I’ill go with y’all.”

“Oh,” Kim continued. “Where is Diautri?” This was Crazy De’s given name.

“De is in jail,” I said, and then added guardedly, “Why?”

“No real reason, just asking. I know that’s your best friend, just thought he’d be with you.”

“Naw,” I said as I climbed into the back seat, “De is in jail for murdering Sissies.” (Sissies is a derogatory term for Sixties.)

In response to this I got silence. I made a mental note to sit directly in the middle of the back seat so as to monitor the driver’s eye movement. And in case we were ambushed I would be in the center and not by the door or the back window—an easy target. I tried never to make it easy for someone to destroy me. When we got to the corner of Eightieth and Halldale, I saw Li’l Hunchy rounding the corner on foot.

“Stop,” I instructed Pam. “Stop and pick up Li’l Hunchy.” I would feel better with another homie with me. Besides, it was his girlfriend who was driving.

“No,” Pam said with staunch conviction, “we don’t need him with us.”

Now my suspicion was really mounting. Why didn’t she want her boyfriend with us?

“Well, if he can’t go, let me out,” I said.

She pulled to the curb and I motioned Li’l Hunchy over and into the car. I made another note to inform him of Pam’s unusual behavior once we were alone.

Now, the surplus had two parking lots. One was primarily for customers and was situated in front of the store on Western Avenue. This parking lot was illuminated by a multitude of lights, not just in the lot but off the main street. Further illumination came from passing vehicles. The second lot, in contrast, was dark, barely lit by a small bulb that hung off the roof of the surplus. This parking lot was behind the store, on Eighty-fifth Street. Although this lot was for employees, it was also utilized as an overflow lot for customers. It was in this second, dark parking lot that Pam parked.

“Why you parking back here?” I protested, my security alarm going off.

“Look, Monster, this is my mother’s car and I can park anywhere I want,” Pam said in an almost hostile voice.

I decided to hold my tongue at this point because had I responded with what I was thinking there would have been an explosion in the car. My main objective was to survey the surplus for weak and strong points and retrieve another weapon from the North. Although I was in my ’hood, I felt very uncomfortable without a gun. This uneasiness perhaps would be equivalent to a businessperson leaving home without any credit cards. A weapon in South Central is a part of your attire, a dress code. “This gun goes with these pants and this shirt,” or “I can put this weapon here with this outfit and still be chic.” So my plan was to get my weapon for one, and also to check the site where we could get still more weapons.