Level one, the observer. You are 13 years old. You live in a neighborhood painted in invisible lines.
One side of the street is safe. The other side is a war zone. You see the older guys posted up at the park.
They wear red bandanas. They wear Cincinnati Red's caps. They drive cars with rims that cost more than your mother's yearly rent.
You are invisible to them. To them, you are just a neutron, a nobody with no affiliation. You watch them count money.
You watch them laugh. You see the fear in the eyes of the shopkeepers when they walk in. You want that fear.
You want [music] that respect. You start hanging around the edges of the set. You fetch cigars.
You run to the liquor store for malt liquor. You keep your eyes on the patrol cars cruising the block. You are not a blood.
You are a mascot. You are auditioning for a life that guarantees two things: prison or a grave. But right now, all you see is the shine.
You don't ask to join. You wait to be chosen. Level two, the initiate.
The day comes. You are invited to the backyard of a house with boarded up windows. The music is loud.
The air smells like weed and tension. The big homie nods at you. This is your put on.
You don't sign a paper. You sign with pain. You have to fight.
Three guys against you. Or maybe it's a specific time limit. 31 seconds of pure violence.
You step into the circle. The first punch breaks your nose. You fall.
You get kicked in the ribs. You can't quit. If you quit, you're out forever.
You swing back blindly. Your blood hits the dirt. The time ticks by like hours.
[music] Finally, it stops. A hand pulls you up. It's the same guy who just broke your jaw.
He wipes the blood off your face. He hugs you. Su, he says, "You are family now.
You are a baby. You have a new name. You have a set.
You have 50 brothers who will kill for you, but now you belong to them. " Level three, the soldier. You are 16.
The bruises from your initiation have healed. Now you have to earn your keep. You are a soldier.
You are the hands and feet of the set. Your job is the grind. You stand on the corner from sundown to sunup.
You move product, rocks, powder, pills, whatever the set controls. You don't keep the money, you keep a small percentage, the rest goes up the chain. You are the first line of defense.
If a car full of blue rolls through the block, you are the one who shoots. You don't think, you react. You are constantly hunting for status.
You want stripes. You earn stripes by doing dirt. You rob a rival dealer.
You smash a window. You pull a trigger. You start wearing the beads.
You start flagging the red heavy. You feel powerful, but you are expendable. If the police sweep the block, you are the one in handcuffs.
The big homies are at home sleeping. You are the cannon fodder. Level four, the young G.
You survived the corner. You did a stint in juvenile hall. You kept your mouth shut.
You didn't snitch. Now you are a young G. You have graduated.
You don't stand on the corner anymore. You manage the corner. You have three or four soldiers working under you.
They bring you the cash. You count it. You check for shortfalls.
If the money is light, you are the one who hands out the discipline. You have to be ruthless. Weakness [music] is a death sentence.
You buy your first car, a used charger, or an impala. You put money into the rims. You buy a gold chain with the set's letters.
You have a girl now, maybe two. Life feels fast, but the paranoia sets in. You are known now.
The gang unit has your picture on a wall. Rivals know your car. You stopping [music] at red lights.
You check your mirrors every 10 seconds. You sleep with a pistol under your mattress. You realize that the higher you climb, the smaller the target on your back gets, but the bullets get bigger.
Level five, the shot caller. You are 23, but you look 35. You have been shot once, maybe twice.
[music] You have put in work that makes the young guys whisper your name. You are a shot caller. You run an entire block or a housing project.
[music] You answer only to the OG. You handle the logistics. When a shipment comes in, you decide how it gets cut and distributed.
When a beef starts with a rival [ __ ] set, you decide if it's a fist fight or a driveby. You are a manager of violence. You [music] hold court in the back of a barber shop or a safe house.
You settle disputes between your soldiers. You're making real money now. $3,000 to $5,000 a week.
You help your mom with rent, but she cries when she takes the money. She knows where it comes from. You start thinking about the future, but you can't leave.
You know too much. You are too deep in the politics. To leave now would be treason.
You are trapped in the kingdom you helped build. Level six, the prison boss. The inevitable happens.
You get knocked on a conspiracy charge. 10 years, you enter the state penitentiary. You think your life is over, but in the Bloods, prison is just another battlefield.
In here, the structure is even tighter. You aren't just a street gang member. You are part of the UBN, the United Blood Nation, or the lineage of your coast.
You link up with the brothers inside. You embrace the G-code. You work out until you are solid muscle.
You study the gang's literature. You memorize the codes. You become a leader on the yard.
You control the phones. You control the contraband. You order hits on inmates who violate the rules.
You send kites, tiny written notes, to other cell blocks. You have power in a cage. The guards hate you, but they respect you because you can start a riot with a single hand signal.
You are serving time, but you are also ruling an empire of concrete and steel. Level seven, the OG. You are out.
You survived the bid. You are 38 years old. In the gang world, you are an ancient relic.
You are an OG. You don't run the block anymore. You don't touch the drugs.
You don't touch the guns. You are the diplomat. You are the big homie in the truest sense.
You meet with OGs from other sets. You attend peace treaties and parks to stop the wars that are killing the business. You authorize the new sets.
If a group of kids in another state wants to bang your set, they need your blessing. You collect the tribute. Money flows up to you from the streets you haven't stood on in years.
You drive a luxury SUV. You own a legitimate business, a trucking company, or a clothing line to wash the money. You command respect without raising your voice.
But you are lonely. Your friends from the start are all dead or serving life sentences. You are the last survivor of a sinking ship.
Level 8, the Godfather, aka a triple OG. You are a myth. You are a triple OG.
You were there when the rules were written. You walked the streets when the colors were first chosen. You are insulated by three layers of soldiers.
You never speak on the phone. You communicate through trusted messengers. You oversee the network across multiple states.
You are dealing with cartel connections for supply. You are playing chess with the federal government. The FBI has a task force dedicated solely to taking you down.
They don't want the soldiers. They want the head of the snake. You know the end is coming.
It's either a RICO indictment that puts you in a supermax until you die or a bullet from a young ambitious upstart who wants your crown. You have millions of dollars buried in holes and hidden in accounts, but you can't enjoy it. You live in a gilded cage.
You are the king of a mountain made of bones. Level 9, the end. You are 45.
You are sitting in a federal courtroom or a wheelchair. The ride is over. You look back at the empire you built.
You see the blood on the pavement. You see the mothers crying at funerals. You see the wasted years in cells.
You realize the lie. The brotherhood was real, but the game was rigged. You didn't own the block.
The block owned you. You are stripped of your jewelry. You are stripped of your cars.
You are just a number again. You look out the window of the transport bus. You see a kid on the corner.
He's 13. He's wearing a red bandana. He's looking at the older guys with hunger in his eyes.
He wants the respect. He wants the power. You want to scream at him to run, to go to school, to walk away, but the bus keeps moving.
