Chapter Two: Devil in a Red Dress

"Man we did it to those Grove Street busta's the other day." A man clad in purple stated aloud, laughing amongst the others in his band. They patrolled the streets in a brand new civilian edition Patriot, passing around two or three sticks of herb while reminiscing on the day they'd caught members of the Grove Street Families at Madd Dogg's video shoot. It had been another retaliation, this time for the shooting at OG Headache's video shoot, yet it was funny how no one on either side paid much attention to what trials and tribulations had been bestowed upon each other on a higher level. "I had to give it to that boy Sweet, he just likes to start shit."

This man was Deuce, an OG from Temple Drive and the man who pulled the trigger and near mortally wounded Sweet. The war between G.S.F and the Ballas had gone a bit too deep, once again. At times they would stick to their own territories, though they would kill each other on sight, however the OG's decided that Los Santos wasn't big enough to contain more than the Ballas and so there would be confrontations. There would be people laying on the curb and bleeding from the head, there would be blood tainting the streets, there would be constant warfare from this day on.

"Yo, you think things are gonna get rough?" Someone asked from the backseat of the Patriot, a man donning a violet flag wrapped around his head. "I mean we cruisin' Grove Street right now, wit' the beef and all."

"Man, fuck Grove Street!" Deuce shouted, pulling a Glock .380 from the waist of his sweats and waving it about. "Them dudes can't see me—"

At that the Patriot was struck from the side crossing an intersection, throwing its occupants about. The Patriot skidded to a stop, nearly sweeping pedestrians as it slammed into the front of the local Binco's. All was still in the dead of the night with a Patriot protruding from the front of a closed Binco's shop and another totaled Securicar, lying in ruin of its former glory, by its side. Within the Ballas stirred, barely conscious and battered from a sudden assault on their part.

"Get the Patriot, they're paying good money for this shit out in San Fierro!" A man shouted to another. The voice it was familiar to Deuce, he'd heard it somewhere before, unfortunately his mind was too obscured for him to put a finger on anything. Then he was snatched from the vehicle and flung to the asphalt when the man spoke up again. "Oh, these dudes are Ballas! Pull everyone out of the car, I want to find out who knows who shot my brother!"

It was Carl Johnson.

Deuce's eyes shot open as a rush of adrenaline surged through his veins and to his head. C.J. would have him dead on the spot; he had to get out of there. He tried getting up, but his body wouldn't allow it, instead he could only let out a defeated moan. Someone grabbed him and yanked him to his feet and undistinguished slurs were thrown about from both sides (apparently the Ballas had all stirred to life and were now on their feet). Neither side was armed due to certain predicaments previously endowed upon them before this altercation would have been crafted by the higher powers. A fist was thrown, striking someone in the mouth and drawing blood. Someone had a bat and it waved about, battering Ballas and then exploding over the head of Deuce. Then all went black.

Deuce would awake later on in the dead of the night on the curb, bleeding and battered, but with his life. A phone call was of the utmost necessity; this thing was really getting out of hand.

"Hey, esẽ—isn't that your sister?"

The thickly accented inquiry came from a rough-shaven man, the yellow flag wrapped around his head signifying his allegiances to the Azteca los Varrios. His hands pointed at an female approaching fro across the street, but his stern words were directed to a young man by his side, draped in a velour sweat suit though the yellow flag tied to his head stood out amongst his attire. "You better tell that pũta that she's in the wrong hood before I tell her homes."

Sure enough the youth had to walk ahead and approach the young lady walking towards them. She would have seemed like nothing of a threat to anyone, strutting down the block in a miniskirt and a navel-revealing shirt, but a purple flag was wrapped about her wrist.

"What up esẽ?" She greeted her brother and flipped her middle finger at the esẽ standing back on the corner. "How come your people keep getting out of line? Coming over to Temple Drive like they want it?"

This, ladies and gentlemen was the perfect example of a girl gone wild. When your hopes and dreams in the hood are shattered before you and you have nothing left for you except the hood that you grew up in, you will represent your hood to the fullest. Though they came from the same place, they drifted apart: she went to Temple and he stayed on the east side. When she learned the way of the Ballas and how much power and influence she truly had on these streets it was all she would ever need to make that jump from civilian to OG, one of the youngest OG's ever. When she turned OG in the Temple Drive Ballas, he was already aiding the Azteca by pushing Grove Street back off the east side. They were ruthless, relentless and void of compassion when it came down to the warfare, but their love for each other was far beyond words. What they'd contributed to their gangs had earned them both—coincidentally—the same name, though the spelling may have been a little off. He was Loco Perez and she, Loca Perez.

It didn't matter that Loca was little less than a sex symbol and little more than a Balla, and trust she did possess what talent it took to get a well paying job as a professional dancer or even a Venturas showgirl, but when it came down to it she wanted to stay in Los Santos. There was nowhere else she could call home.

"I really don't know what your talkin' 'bout, but you gonna have to pull out of this spot right here, cause niggas is 'bout to come out." Loco stated rather nonchalantly, though he immediately got the message out. Azteca's and Balla's just didn't mingle and especially the OG's of Azteca, who played no games.

"Aight, aight. You better tell your people that we ain't playin' no more games though. Don't wanna force any funerals anytime soon." She said as she skipped away, her blonde-on-brown streaked curled locks bouncing behind her. She left her brother behind, nothing less than the main cause of her tribulations. If Loco had decided to represent the Balla's then she wouldn't have to worry every single day about whether he'd come home that night or not.

Loca put a little swagger in her stride as she passed a group of eager men, passing the race dome and heading towards Grove Street, though that was not her destination. A lavender Majestic, parked alongside the roadway, was her destination. Within the limited safety of the vehicle was Diamond, a soldier on Temple Drive. Diamond's brown eyes lit up with alarm as Loca entered the car, though it for less than surprise or even dread, though there certainly was panic.

"Can we hurry up and get to the hospital?" She shouted, flailing her arms for dramatic effect.

"Alright, I just had to go check up on Loco." Loca stated, her accent slipping through her teeth and rolling off the tongue. She slipped her hand behind her and upholstered a Glock .380 that had been concealed quite effectively, considering her shirt didn't cover it. As quickly as it had come into sight it was gone, stuffed beneath her car seat. She was in the midst of pulling off when a familiar voice rang a bell in her ears, conjoined with the blowing of a horn.

"Isn't that… No, it can't be." Loca started, but the identity of the driver of the Yule was definite from so close. "So how you been stranger?"

"Same ol', same ol'." The voice was real smooth, with the same indirect method of getting around and then to the point. "I got a shipment, from Liberty. I heard the Balla's wanted gun's so I decided to come down, see what my people over here really wanted these tools for." The talk, the everlasting smirk, the dreadlocks; apparently Johnny Wolfe was back in town.