48 hours to sit and talk with Rod Orange. Raoul was a freelance journalist out of Las Venturas; following the death the American dream wherever it took him. The lead was hot and heavy and came from Rod himself.
-Hello?
-Raoul! I’m an associate of B_Dizzle.
B_Dizzle was a recent acquaintance out of Los Santos. Raoul had worked with B_Dizzle in the past and saw no reason to dislike the young journalist. Connections were valuable and competent journalists were surprisingly difficult to come across. B_Dizzle worked for the largest broadcast and print news outlet in San Andreas, which was operating almost exclusively out of Los Santos. Recent legal trouble landed B_Dizzle in jail on serious charges ranging from drug trafficking to murder.
The phone call lasted only a few minutes and stated the terms quite simply: 48 hours to interview Rod Orange, a notorious Lieutenant within the Blood Eagle (the most vicious group of outlaws and thugs, noted for actively hunting and castrating local law enforcement agencies).
The Blood Eagle had made quite a name for themselves in their short existence. They had made it an active goal to hunt and castrate local PD and FBI members and in short order were netted some of the harshest penalties ever dealt by law enforcement agencies since the active assassination of public outlaws in the early 1900s.
The Blood Eagles ranks are rumored to be almost exclusively populated by escaped South American prison inmates, whom having exhausted the tolerance of their law abiding brethren, had been expelled from the South American prison system into the populace of Los Santos in the much heralded but no longer spoken of ‘grant of sanctuary to these political refugees’. Granted a sort of outcast freedom in their new community, they immediately banded together and began forays into the local money making operations – almost exclusively illegal.
Their crimes were marked by a noted escalation of violence not familiar to San Andreas, let alone Los Santos. Petty debts often wound up in the murder of the debtor. Notoriety did not wane, and soon the outlaws and thugs were targets of the community at large. Well established hitmen operating on the west coast suddenly had dozens of contracts for the heads of Blood Eagle members. It was said to be almost impossible to get a Blood Eagle brother alone; hits usually consisted of entire teams of armed hitmen assaulting packs of Blood Eagle brethren, often for only one or two individuals, and not always succeeding. The price for a Blood Eagle members’ head was said to be the fastest and most inflated rate, with millions of dollars being emptied from city coffers to pay for the murder of these outlaws.
The Blood Eagle did not falter, even during these trying times. Members were said to be heavily armed at all times and traveled in packs no fewer than four. Shifts were taken protecting property and life; the Blood Eagle shifted the purchase of stimulants so much so that uppers were a quite literally a dime a dozen. Downers, or reds, were shunned, and the yellow jacketed stimulants were eaten a fist full at a time, keeping the user on edge with a slight haze of paranoia and giddiness; users often armed with large caliber handguns equipped with Olympic-pistol hair triggers.
the growing pains have come and gone and Rod Orange has emerged at the reigns of the largest drug and violence peddling organization operating within the Los Santos city limits. A time frame is impossible to apply to the situation, but if the operation of the local club frequented and owned by Blood Eagle members is any indicator,
“We are in our fifth year of operation.”
Rod smiled and waved his hands all around him.
“And it’s all mine.”
I had met Rod in the parking lot. Cars surrounded two men, headlights illuminating them. One of the men was bloodied.
Rod was sitting in a large convertible, like a boat on dry land, rolling a large blunt. I sat in the passenger seat and turned on my tape recorder
Rod licked the blunt and baked it a bit with his lighter.
“Lord knows that boy’ll catch a body,” Rod gestured his blunt in the direction of the two men fighting.
The phone rang.
“Gotta be the Mexicans,” Rod inhaled deeply from his blunt while the phone rang, not taking his eyes off the fight.
“Being dead broke is the root of all evil. “ Rod turned to me “Get money, son, do good with your people.”
Rod opened the glove compartment; the barrel of a Glock peered out from under a stack of cash. Rod took up the stack of cash and flipped the glove compartment closed. Rod passed the blunt to me.
“Phone’s tapped,” Rod gestured to the phone as it gave a final ring, “and I’m being followed.” Rod motioned to the roof top.
I glanced up and noted a helicopter, oddly silent, looming distant and circling.
“He knockin’ on the door.” Rod gestured to me; I turned to see someone moving closer to the car. “Don’t let the Devil in!!” Rod blurted out and laughed maniacally.
Rod got out of the car with the stack of cash and walked over to the fight. The victor stood atop the beaten and bruised man. The fight had ended in a flurry of kicks and knees on the ground. The beaten man was wheezing, face down and bleeding. Rod handed the stack of cash to the victor and withdrew a Glock from his waistband. A dozen other spectators produced guns in the same instant and all fired instantaneously into the air, emptying their clips. The party was over. Someone knocked over the keg. The cops arrived in forty seconds flat. Rod bragged that they had actually arrived earlier, but waited for the ceremonial firing to conclude and the crowd to disperse naturally before making their presence known. No point in poking the bear…he’s not mauled one of us yet!
Rod hopped back in the convertible. The man that had wandered towards the car was now an occupant. Tiny was his name, and he was one of the new recruits. The new wave. Precisely what Rod wanted to talk to me about. We left the parking lot and the wild scene behind us. Rod’s Blood Eagle brothers would regroup at Los Aztecas, the club across from the parking lot. We would meet with them as well, but not until later. We turned into an apartment complex.
I followed Rod to an apartment on the ground floor of a large complex. He entered the house and motioned me inside. The inside was nicely furnished and unused.
“One of my hideouts. I come here to crash, ride out a drug binge, whatever.”
Rod took his shirt off, revealing a Glock in his waistband.
“Wait, shh.” Rod ran off suddenly, withdrawing his pistol and creeping around the corner of his patio. His face was mean and set, eyes cold and tired – glazed over.
Rod came back silently, seeming assured. He repeated this eight more times during the course of the night. I woke up around 5. Rod was in the living room smoking a blunt, the gun on the table in front of him.
“There’s some food.”
Tacos littered the counter in the kitchen.
“I got ‘em at this little place around the corner. Best in town.”
Rod hadn’t slept a wink. Tiny was crashed out on the couch. Later, in private, Tiny will confide in me that this habit had been a routine for Rod ever since they started taking in new recruits. I wondered to myself what Rod saw in Tiny, since he was also a new recruit, and why none of the hypervigilance was directed at him.
Breakfast consisted of two beef tacos, Tecate and lime. Rod had showered, consistently dragging on a blunt that never seemed to get smaller. Later I will note that Rod has several of these blunts pre-rolled at all times with kief and in some cases hashish.
We pile into the convertible after what must be routine for Blood Eagle brethren: weapons check. Tiny and Rod simultaneously reveal a small arsenal of pistols and shotguns with two thousand rounds of ammunition between them. Rod notes that he now places a porcelain plate in his body armor, known for being effective in stopping the ever present AK-47 round – the great equalizer.
Every pack of Blood Eagle has at least one, if not one for each member, of these ever present battle rifles. A single AK round is known to pass through car doors like poking holes in a sheet of paper. Felling trees with these fire spitters is a favorite past time of Blood Eagle brethren target shooting. It’s much easier to fell a tree with the blasts of an AK-47 than with an axe. A trick as well as a lesson teacher: lest any brother attempt to use trees as cover from an AK onslaught. I take care to note that there is an AK, if need should arise, armed and loaded in the trunk below the lining.
Rod takes a long sip from a brown tinted liquid. This bottle is always at his side. I later learn, through my own sampling, that it is in fact a mixture of vodka and a competition use body building powder known for its stimulant and euphoric affects. This mixture of cannabis, alcohol and banned supplement somehow sharpens Rod. As if his nerves simply need this rare mix, and he is better for taking it.
Though Rod partakes in his water bottle frequently he never loses his cadence and rarely mouths off. Mouthing off usually takes the form of an unguarded moment of pride in mentioning his exploits or those of his members. Though he does note with melancholy that it’s no longer what it used to be – in fact it shouldn’t be, it’s evolving into something else. Something beyond Rod.
We get to the club. The inside is jumping with half naked dancing girls and sex maniacs as well as a smattering of Blood Eagle members. The bar is free to Blood Eagle members, but they are careful not to abuse the privilege; in some cases bringing their own supply to fly on, instead of relying on the bar.
A walking pharmacy appears. The types and dosages are unlimited and the man seems to produce large bags of whatever pill is being requested. Rod immediately consumes Reds, or downers, and lights a new blunt. Rod produces a bottle of prescription cough syrup and pours into into a cup of ice. Pills and drinks make their way to me – I make sure to maintain the tape recorder wherever I am.
“Come upstairs,” Rod motions to me to the stairwell which is being guarded by two men wearing mirror shades. They allow Rod and I to enter but stop Tiny. After a bit of confusion Tiny joins us a bit later holding a platter of plastic capsules.
“Amyl nitrate! The store down the street is selling them as room deodorizer.”
Tiny pops the lid off of own and inhales deeply, then grunts. Tiny is 6’4” and between 250-275lbs depending on his mood, which shifts from deep and brooding to violent outbursts. I learn never to get between Tiny and his target, which tends to be whomever he is currently engaged in speaking to – without warning they instantly become his enemies, and pay dearly. All except Rod, which he seems to guard fiercely and loyally.
Rod is seated in a VIP booth which is manned by a female named Kat. Rod imbibed in large quantities of his concoction of ice, Sprite brand soda pop, and prescription brand cough syrup. I was on my second cup. I had mistakenly downed the first cup convinced I felt nothing. Now it was difficult to keep my head up, and my eyes were drooping considerably. Rod laughed.
“Don’t lose your tape recorder!”
“No, never,” I croaked. Speaking was now taking a considerable amount of effort.
The scene below grew more wild as the club allowed more patrons in the doors.
A shout
“That’s that motherfucker right there!”
A pack of white tee shirted Blood Eagles made there way through the crowd to an individual in red. They began going through his pockets and emptied his wallet. A Blood Eagle member with a cue stick appeared; he swung it overhead and brought it down on the man in red. He went crashing to the floor and vanished in a flurry of kicks from the surrounding Blood Eagle members .
Tiny turned to me: “He owed money! Haha!” Tiny cracked his knuckles and went downstairs. We was looking for action.
Rod exhaled deeply and began to mouth off a bit.
The money was good and his South American brothers had all been, one by one, implanted in legitimate business ventures with direction to operate clean. Times had changed, most brothers were now retired and directing these legitimate ventures. A few brothers, unemployable types, really, remained Lieutenants to direct street operations of this new wave of recruits. Local thugs that took a shine to the Blood Eagle plight and wanted in, for whatever reason, wanted to be a Blood Eagle. But there was a problem. The Blood Eagle were impervious to law enforcement agency attempts at shutting them down because the Blood Eagle refused to play the game. There were no moles or snitches implanted in the Blood Eagle ranks…ever – that is, until now. Rod is sure they have taken aboard malcontents, snitches and other dishonorable members in their latest recruitment drive. The only original members remain as leadership positions to direct the new recruits in operating procedures. But the point remained, Blood Eagle would no longer exist. They are now Los Aztecas. The name change symbolic and signifying the birth of whatever would now become the new iteration . Rod wanted no part of it.
He took to retiring.
“I’m out of the game, Right now I’ll remain the leader for the duration of this run, but ill be stepping down.”
This is the first he’s mentioned of retiring to anyone. The news doesn’t come as a surprise, Rod had been operating on the edge for quite a while. Though Rod is quick to point out the decision was not his, that he in fact risked assassination, from whom or why he never specified; only that there had been credible threats. What he fears the most is the CIA. Approached at the height of cocaine trafficking in Los Santos, Rod alleges the CIA approached Rod about turning the organization to their control. Rod said he didn’t immediately refuse, citing the danger of refusing an offer you cannot refuse.
“The taps, the helicopters, the spooks in the bushes, the tails. Heat is on us hard and that tells me they’re going to make a move”
Rod places the Glock from his waistband on the table. The dancer shifts a bit to avoid the gun. It’s amusing to watch, for me, and the inebriates I had been taking amplified my amusement.
Rod mouths off.
The Blood Eagle control their domain: drugs from Mexico; guns from here in town; they sell violence and buy and sell drugs guns and whores. It’s all plentiful thanks to the long road trips from Mexico and the hiring of special drivers for such duties. Flowed free and easy and made for quick resale. Enemies were non existent, as I would later learn the Blood Eagles had just recently agreed to meet with the other crime families in the city for a sit down discussion. The problem was the new members and where they wanted to take the organization. Rod would help set it in motion but he would quickly step down once the new recruits named a leader. Rod was sure it’d be a CIA plant. Nasty business, best not to prod to deep in those allegations.
I ate a yellow jacketed upper, which should keep me up and alert for the next 6-7 hours.
The routes from Mexico brought in millions of dollars in heroin, cocaine, and weed weekly. They were Rod’s connections and they were never dry – in fact, during the holidays they paid extra to pickup their goods. The gang was estimated worth $4million in liquid assets. The product they handled sold quick and began netting profits of $2 million a week on a bad week. The new breed of Blood Eagle were just as vicious, but many had ulterior motives and that once sacred bond and the tradition of traveling in packs finally died out. These dudes were outlaws and thugs, but loners.
“Maybe its for the best.” Rod kills his drink and reveals his water bottle. He sips on it a bit.
Commotion downstairs. A rival gang had made its way past the front door and into the bar area. A brawl erupted. Stools were being thrown, cues used as weapons. A pack of Blood Eagle, including Tiny, singled out the members and beat them down one at a time. When it was clear each member of the rival gang would receive a beating in turn they began to scatter. Fighting back was useless, Tiny’s forearm made short order of any excited spectator. The gang dispersed after having been beat down, one member unlucky enough to have been stabbed, was bleeding out on the club floor.
Rod stood up “Fuuck this, let’s dip.” Rod immediately ate more Reds and stuffed his Glock in his waistband. He left a wad of cash for the stripper and instructed the waiter to flood out the club, meaning disperse the $30,000 for the night to the strippers.
“What’d you say?” Rod turned to me. I had been silently watching.
“Nothing, I said nothing,”
Rod had a noticeable tic. He was paranoid. Rod was now puffing on another blunt. We hop into his car. He starts it up and within minutes we are cruising down an avenue. There’s a car behind us. Rod reaches for the Glock the glove compartment and hands it to me. He takes his out of his waistband and resumes driving.
“FUCK we shoulda brought Tiny”
Rod takes a left and then a right. Boom. The car erupts in automatic gunfire. I see exactly where its coming from and start shooting back at the fuckers. Rod dives out of the car and returns fire over the trunk. The trunk is popped and he already has the AK in hand. Rod runs back around and lets off a few second burst. The target car is silent. Rod paints the car a bit more to ensure any passenger is hit and then throws the AK back in the trunk.
In moments he’s in the car and we’re off – a hotel room. We pull in and I arrange the room and leave my card in good faith. We’re in the room. Rod immediately checks every closet and door. He then takes care to lock every door and window. He sets a chair in the corner of the room facing the entrance and sits in it for a bit. The seat is nestled between two walls and is diagonally opposite the only entrance. Rod disappears for a bit only to return with a sawn off shotgun. He places it against the chair he was sitting in.
“We need beer!” Rod exclaims to no one in particular.
We arrange to meet Tiny and find a store that sold cheap beer. I dig into my wallet and offer Tiny a $20 but he says he already has the money but takes the $20 anyway. I sit and wait. Rod is fried and nodding off in the drivers seat. He awakes to take a sip of his water bottle and adjust his bandana. Tiny returns with an arm full of 6 packs of Coors. Tiny immediately complains: “all they had was 4.3, you know, I wanted a real beer.’ Upset about the alcohol content they balance this by buying in bulk. Soon my backseat is filled with six packs and we are off to the hotel room. Rod immediately posts up in his chair with shotgun in lap and six pack in hand. No talk is made about the attempt on our lives earlier in the day. I find that I have a taste for firing guns and note to buy one. The TV is on. War news. We consume a six pack each and move two our seconds and thirds.
Rod mouths off.
The Blood Eagle is a fully functional and highly profitable smuggling ring: it will turn a profit. Now what do you do with that money? Reinvest of course, but what new ventures? Where does the money go? As it stands we took it and used to to launch legitimate businesses and but our brothers to work in these ventures – now the money just sits in coffers. And the new breed are going to be the one to direct that money. Rod drinks deeply from his water bottle.
Living on the edge like this has me consuming Reds at an alarming rate.
Rod was disappointed in his street soldiers and vowed to train more ruthless and fitter fighters while in Mexico. And that was it. Rod spent the night tripping balls on a large sheet of acid. I was content with my hash pipe and the copious amount of beer. I dozed off contemplating the CIAs role and woke at sunrise. Rod and Tiny were already packed and ready. Rod was still tripping balls, but semi functional. His trip to Mexico abdicates the Blood Eagle thrown. The remaining Lieutenants will choose his successor. Goodbyes are made. I’m not sure what to make of my encounter. Maybe I won’t have a complete understanding until the new leader is set and has a chance to enact his ventures or ideas. Maybe I'll never know the full picture until I know what the CIA's involvement entailed. Only time will reveal these things.
Raoul_Duke
