Los Santos Rojos

El_Olvidadizo

Really Experienced
Joined
Jul 15, 2016
Posts
168
Los Santos Rojos (MxM, 1x1, open for a cowriter, send a PM if interested)

Savagery... was perhaps the word that would come to the mind of an outsider. One body laid on the floor, barely identifiable as that of a male due to clothing alone, was barraged by the kicks and punches of several other men. It was indeed a painful experience, but the cries of pain were muffled, overwhelmed by laughter, panting and roused chatter of the assailants. Blood made its appearance as the young man on the floor received a kick in the face. It pooled in the cheek of his open mouth, and trickled from the man's nose. His grey hoodie, smeared with dirt from being kicked around on the floor like a scorned dog, was further and permanently stained by fresh blood.

This savagery however, was a supervised event, and perhaps unbelievably, a consensual one. Watching the bloody scene from the other side of the vast space of the room in the abandoned warehouse, someone was keeping track of time. 50 seconds had passed since the beating commenced, and the man on the floor had a mere ten seconds to go before his initiation was complete. The tattoos on the watcher's arms gave his criminal affiliation away proudly, and matched those on the bodies of the assailants under his command. Soon, the man on the floor would be joining them.

"¡Oye! (Hey!)" the tall man who was watching called out. "Bastante. (That's enough.)" Time was up. The underlings knew to do what their captain told them to do. Immediately, they halted their beating motions and stepped back from the bloodied man in the grey hoodie.

Trembling, grimacing in pain showing blood-covered teeth... This was the end result of the ritual that marked a new begining in the young man's life. There was no remorse, no concern for this willing participant left on the ground as a bruised and swollen mass of flesh resembling a human clothed by loose jogging pants and a hoodie. The watcher had seen scenes worse than this on his average day on the street. Unfazed by the young man's condition, he commanded: "Levántate. (Get up.)"

The man on the floor, barely a legal man as he was no older than 18, groaned in response. Each strike that was landed on his body had the complete strength of the assailant responsible for it behind it, and no part of the youth in the hoodie had gone untouched. He was dizzy, understandably so​ due to the trauma that his head had endured, and every spot on his body that was blackened with bruises sent undulations of pain throughout his body.

People were free to call these men what they liked. They were known as thugs, criminals, pests... The only label that mattered to them was that of 'Santo Rojo', or "Red Saint". Los Santos Rojos were the local crime syndicate in this poverty stricken city, consisting of members that ranged from as young as 16 to around 40 years old. They donned ink on their bodies, symbols of various types that all said the same thing- That Los Santos Rojos was their life's vocation. Some of their faces were obscured by red bandanas, others had their bandanas tied around their heads or wrists. Being a part of this unlawful organization was the thread that brought these males of varying types together. Each one had gone through this same experience as the beaten teen themselves. New members of Los Santos Rojos were "jumped in". For exactly one minute, the rookie would be beaten in a deadly ritual meant to illustrate that membership was not for the weak. If the one being attacked endured, as the teen in the stained hoodie barely did, initiation would be complete.

While the scene was grisly to the common man, being jumped in was the likely the tamest part of existence as a Red Saint. The group was organized into "grados" or ranks who were each tasked with a different part of ensuring the operation of the Saints. At the bottom, there were the recently jumped in members, the rank Chulon.

Chulon, a word meaning 'nude person' was a figurative reference to the fact that these newbies were not strapped with weapons, 'nude' in comparison to their armed counterparts. They were considered disposable, and tasked with dangerous but lowly duties such as looking out for the police during illegal activity or running drugs. All Saints start out under the rank Chulon until they prove their worth.

The next highest rank were Mazos, the foot soldiers. Their title is the word for "revolver" or "pistol", referring to the fact that they were armed. Their duties were that of enforcement, be it carrying out contract killings of rivals, running a rival gang out of their territory, or administering 'discipline' at the order of their superiors.

Chocoyas were the next rank, responsible for managing how things operated on the streets- the overseers of the Mazos and Chulones. The name of their rank was literally a generic word for "head", as they were the thinkers behind the factions of Mazos and Chulones. They cooked up the scams and trafficking deals of the gang, and carried them out via the two lower ranks with the blessing of a Furulo.

Most of the Furulos were imprisoned, but that did not stop them from keeping tabs on the associates on the streets, nor controlling the Chocoyas. A Furulo, or a "person with great ideas", was the leader of the Saints collectively. The word of a Furulo was absolute law, no exceptions. Disobeying a Furulo was punishable by death. Merely displeasing one was a punishable offense.

The aspiring chulon knew that he needed to move. He hissed in pain as he rolled onto his stomach and attempted to raise himself using the strength of his arms. He rose barely an inch from the ground and then failed, hitting the concrete floor with his chin. There was no helping hand for him here, merely vaguely amused stares save for the non-emotive expression of the captain.

Again, Grey Hoodie attempted to lift himself. He managed raise his head, and spit a mix of saliva and blood on the ground that had accumulated in his mouth. The puffy, dark protrusions on his face, bruises earned in that beating, impaired his sight. The world was a blur. Sitting up, he felt a sharp discomfort in his back, as if someone had made contact with his spine with a baseball bat. Despite his suffering, the new member in the grey hoodie stayed silent. He bit his bottom lip as a catharsis for what he could not express with tears or noise, lest he look like a weakling in front of the other saints.

His legs were of jelly, unstable. When he bent his knees straight to stand, another jolt of throbbing pain accompanied the wobble in his posture. Laughs followed, but did not accompany the visuals of the faces that they emanated from. Crouching on the ground during the initiation was hell on the new member's neck. A painful pan of the room only resulted in seeing a bunch of nondescript shapes and colors blended together.

Whether it was in the right direction or not, the 'jumped in' member moved forward. It was the only direction that he could drag his body in, not having the mental or physical constitution to handle anything more complex than that. A hand with its fingers spread was held out weakly, functioning as some sort of guide. While he couldn't make out what may be in front of him with his eyes, he elected to use his hand to feel it. Through heavy breaths, stumbles, a walk that should have been all of 30 seconds stretched over an abstract eternity. Still, the overseer only cast his eyes down on him, and waited until he was "close enough" to him before doing anything.

The chocoya took a step sideways to place himself in his path. "El uníco camino fuera de Los Santos es en un ataúd ya. (The only way out of the Saints is in a casket now.)" What the captain had just said was the rule, 'Entre por sangre, se va por sangre', or 'blood in, blood out.' The chocoya grimaced slightly at the mix of snot and blood flowing from the new chulon's nose. Sighing, he motioned toward the other saints, who were bound by their criminal code to take his orders. "Parece una mierda. Arréglenlo. (He looks like shit. Straighten him up.)"
 
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