BLOOD HOUND: Started gangbangin’ at age 10
Started gangbangin’ at age 10
Invented the Elbow of Death
Has been shot 23 times
By Tony Romando
Normally, the most terrifying incident at a magazine photo shoot occurs when a stressed-out celebrity publicist screams into her cell phone with blowtorch intensity. Her weapon of choice is nothing more intimidating than a BlackBerry personal e-mail buddy, even if she does use it with devastating effect on her quaking underlings. At today.s shoot in LA.s Crenshaw district, however, you can.t cross the street without being aware of the presence of real danger. This is Bloods country, and spread across the rooftops, staking out the neighborhood, are 20 gang members. They are guards, armed and posted, ready to welcome both Crips and cops with their weapon of choice: the bone-shredding AK-47.
With firmly clenched cheeks, FHM has come to pay a visit to the man called Bloodhound, the seemingly indestructible leader of the Roarin’ 20s Bloods [The proper name of this gang is Rollin' 20s Bloods]. For the last 30 years, the 150,000 combined members of the Bloods and Crips gang have been fighting each other for control of the LA drug scene. And even though this past April marked the 10th anniversary of the groundbreaking peace treaty between the two groups, slayings among gangbangers have risen in LA for the second straight year. That.s why Bloodhound, one of the most feared members in town, isn.t taking any chances. Security for FHM‘s friendly house call is tight because he suspects our innocent visit might be an elaborate setup by a rogue Crip looking to take him down. FHM, on the other hand, is less interested in local California politics than the bullet-absorbing qualities of Bloodhound: At the time of our meeting, he’d stopped 23.
Now 31, the son of a Jamaican mother and a Swiss father, Bloodhound got his start on a schoolyard playground when the older Bloods instructed him to “put some work in on some Crip niggas.” “So we got out on them fools,” Bloodhound says. We just started fighting. That was the first time I got stabbed. I was 10.. The young Hound took a blade under his rib cage and was on his way up the ranks, which took him from crack-house lookout to drug runner, from brawler to gun-fighter. With his career advancement came arrests and gunshot wounds. “I got shot inside my liver, pancreas, lung. My lungs collapsed. They had to cut out a couple feet of my lower intestine..”
Bloodhound also learned the three basic rules of banging quickly. First off, never cry for help: “The way I grew up, you.re not supposed to scream for help. It’s not in me. You’d rather just get jacked up.” Second, don’t get arrested for stupid shit: “I’m not trying to go to jail. But if I go to jail, I always wanted to go for some murders, bank robbery or something wild.” Finally: “When your mouth writes a check, your ass better cash it. I don’t operate in silly ways. I follow a certain type of militant logic. I regulate according to our bylaws..”
So how do you choose a gang? Is it based on your commute?
It’s based mostly on the gang people have the most respect for.
After your schoolyard “massacre,” did you have an initiation ceremony with cap and gown?
As a young Blood, you’re not invited to certain functions ’cause you’re a new bootie. But after that, I started going to the dice games. I started hanging around with the dope dealers, working in the crack house. After that, they started putting guns in my hand.
What was it like inside the crack house?
It stunk, man, .cause they were cooking up dope. All the windows were closed. You don.t want suckers trying to sneak in. My fist time I had to get out, my eyes were watering. I wasn’t used to it.
Crack dens seem easy for police to spot. How did you keep from getting busted?
We had spinners [pigeons]. The homies would toss the spinners and they would fly around the house. When they tuck a wing and start spinning, there are cops on your turf. That.s where the term .it.s going down. comes from.
What was your first job as a Blood?
I was fast, so I became a race hound, a runner. Say we were driving and you got some guns and a quarter pound. The cops pull us over, I jump out and run with the product and the guns. They’re not going to catch me-I.m a track star.
Were you making career choices by that time, or was it just shoot .em up?
Being a runner almost interfered with my career as a gang member. I started getting into selling drugs, when that’s really not where I wanted to go with it. I didn.t want to go inside the gangster career and not focus. There are a lot of things you could do as a gangster. You could go into doing bodyguard work or become a professional hit man. I ended up becoming a shot caller.
So you’re the top dog now?
Why don’t you ask one of my little homies, one of the young Bloods. See if he wants to tell you. [A younger gang member confirms that Bloodhound is indeed the boss. .So if you cross him, you die? .inquires FHM. "Yeah, you got it," is the reply.]
So what are your days like?
I call the shots. And all the homies from the ‘hood pay membership dues.
It.s like a union with a union dues. Dues are as low as $20 for some people. It.s a percentage of your income.
Can’t answer that question. You feel me?
I feel you.
What I can say is some homies can’t kill the person they want. If a dude broke your mom’s back while snatching her purse or raped your sister, then you hire a local gang member. You get a triggerman to do it. It isn’t that hard for cops to bust you if you kill the rapist yourself.
You’ve been shot 23 times. Can you remember the first?
I was curb serving [selling dope on the sidewalk]. I walked up on a car. I didn.t know they were Crips. I asked, “What y.all want?” Niggas came out with a pistol and said, “Your life!” and started shooting. I got six bullet holes in my lower abdomen. Just where my pubic hair would have been if I had some. I stumbled, grabbed my heat and started getting off on them. Then they drove off.
Is it true you were once shot nine times in the chest, then later shot in the face?
Execution-style in the head. But to understand, you got to know my history. My like is like Pulp Fiction. Years earlier my sister brought home a Crip. I was sleeping on the couch. I had my hair pressed with red rollers and red rubber bands, had a red flag tied on my head. Everything I wore was red, the red house shoes, the red blanket-
Yeah, everything. So the dude comes in, saw me wearing all read and socked me dead in my mouth, hard as hell. That’s how he woke me up. I’m like, “What the.?” I’m dazed, my jaw’s hurting, and we start fighting. But the dude is big as hell. I was getting my ass kicked in my own house! So I did what most gangstas would do: I went to the kitchen and got two knives and started stabbing that fool up. He put his hands up to block it and I was just slicing and dicing that fool. He ran out of the house.
You’re a madman.
So years later, I’m chilling and he recognizes me. He.s still got the scars on him. It isn.t forgive and forget. So I’m coming out of the house and they rush me.
How many of them?
Three of them. One of them gets me inside a headlock and the other one knocks the wind out of me. Then the other one puts the gun under my chin and squeezes the trigger. I fall. My ears were ringing, blood was gushing out from my head, nose and chin. They’re like, “Yeah, we got that nigga,” talking all this crap. While they were trying to get to the car, I got up and rushed them. I hit one in the back of the head. I kicked another in the back of the head.
They can.t kill the Hound. You should change your name to The Terminator.
I don’t know about that. I’m not saying it didn’t hurt. The bullet went through my jaw, took the tip of my tongue off and lodged in my head. I stuck my finger up underneath my chin and it came out through the bottom of my jaw, where my tongue is supposed to be. My head started swelling up just above where my eyebrows meet. I didn’t get the bullet taken out until three months later.
You must be afraid of something. The dentist? Spiders? Stubbing your toe?
I don’t want to die, but I’m not scared. The only thing I’m afraid of is being paralyzed. When I got shot up in the chest, I couldn’t feel my feet. And the last three times, I couldn’t walk.
Is it true you were shot in the nuts?
Yeah. This guy was disrespecting a homeboy that’s near and dear to my heart, my homey Head. I said, “We can handle this right now.” I’m a gunfighter, homey. I do my fighting with my pistols. This guy and I were the only gunfighters on the block. I was like, “You a foul motherfucker.” I wrote a check, I had to cash it. But I whupped his ass with my hands, and then guns were drawn. People started getting shot.
Did your junk get completely shot off?
Na, na, na. I got lucky. I got shot with a small slug, it’s a little bitty .32. But my stuff was swollen like a grapefruit.
I.m not telling you your business, but I don’t care how small the slug was. Even a grazing with a feather is punishing.
It was a small slug. My homey Mad Mike got shot in his dick. It didn’t fuck his sex drive up. Or mine. The one problem is that from being shot up so much, I lose weight a lot. I’m just getting back to 170.
Perhaps you can market it. That.s better than the Zone diet.
High lead and iron diet.
What does getting shot feel like?
Each time felt a little different. It depends where you.re shot. I think the most painful time was when I got shot in the stomach. It felt like it was collapsing in on itself and knotting up. It was squeezing itself, from the inside out, like on the Westerns. The stomach wound is the most painful. You don’t die instantly.
You don’t die at all. What’s your weapon of choice?
Give FHM readers a street-fighting tip.
Do a “dope fiend” when someone’s talking trash. That’s a sneak attack. In the middle of the conversation, you just start hitting the dude. If I feel like the argument isn’t going anywhere, I slow it down. I start backing up and giving you more space to talk shit. The more I back up, the more confidence you get. Then I’m like, .Yeah, I thought so.. You start talking more crap, getting cocky. I.m going to let you do that while I position my feet the right way. I want a solid blow. I keep my hand out while I’m talking. It.s close to your chest. Then I swing, using your chest to guide my blow all the way up to your chin. This one guy was flapping his gums. I didn’t feel like talking anymore. We went past the point of no return, blood was going to spill. He bit his tongue off.
I’m feeling the pain.
And the other one is what the homies know as the Elbow of Death. I knock teeth out with it.
Ever kill with your bare hands?
I can.t speak on that. I’ve been arrested for attempted murders, aggravated assault, assault with a deadly weapon.
Let.s say I try to pimp you in the produce aisle of your local grocer. What would it take for you to give me a whupping?
You just don.t know homey. I’ve had anger-management courses. I.m a three-strike candidate. So in order to stay out of jail, I had to learn to control my temper. I’m what a person would probably describe as cold and calculating. I think about how I can do it and get away with it. Why worry about getting away with it after you.re arrested?
What.s Christmas like at Bloodhound’s?
There’s no Christmas. Every day I’m alive is something worth celebrating.
To what do you attribute being alive? Orange juice? Milk? Wheaties? Vitamin supplements? Why aren’t you dead yet?
I.m just hard to kill. It’s like, you see a forest fire and all the other trees burn down, but one tree makes it somehow. All the other trees are gone. I.m just like the last tree standing. FHM