VIDEO: Brian Glaze Gibbs Part 4 Final.mp4

REWRITTEN: 2026-05-12 10:34:12

SCRIPT 382 OF 686

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Alongside Moochie and a couple other street-certified wolves, LD and another hungry young grinder decided to lock arms and post up on Marion Street, deep in the guts of Brooklyn. Originally the strip belonged to LD, but once they linked with Moochie, the whole operation went nuclear. Moochie was blessing them with whole bricks on consignment, zero bread upfront, and in the jungle they operated in, that type of faith was damn near extinct. At first everything was lovely, the paper came quick, the work moved quicker, but money got a funny way of switching the energy. As the stacks climbed, so did the friction, everybody wanted the crown, nobody wanted to bow. What started as a solid unit turned into daily screaming matches over product, over profit, over power. The atmosphere got toxic, boundaries got violated, and things crept dangerously close to the point where nobody walks away breathing. Rather than let it end in chalk outlines, one of the partners made the decision to exit stage left. He was 21 years old, backing out from one of the most profitable drug corners in Brooklyn at that time. It stung, no question, but it kept pulses beating. Sometimes staying alive means walking away from the fortune. Still, the grind never stopped, with the A-Team operation keeping him occupied on the overnight shift, he found angles to expand his territory. On the side he started pushing both crack and dope. Business was booming, he was raking in close to 20 racks weekly, but hunger got no ceiling, he craved more. Through one of his connects, he helped crack open a new location in Bed-Stuy, right off Ralph and Pacific. It was a dead building, long forgotten, but with a few dollars and some street intelligence, they transformed it into a fully operational trap house. Electricity wired up, no Con Edison involved, they constructed it from scratch. The money started modest, a thousand the first day, then two thousand the next. Within weeks, the spot was pulling five bands daily. The operation was airtight, workers were reliable, the lifestyle evolved with it. Custom suits, Bally shoes, fresh whips, Cadillacs and Oldsmobile 98s all leased all extravagant, driver's licenses and insurance irrelevant, most of the crew didn't possess either. But when the currency's flooding in, consequences feel distant. By 86, things were in complete overdrive. But underneath the glitz, there was always the truth of the product. He understood what it did, had witnessed it firsthand growing up. In the 60s and 70s, heroin had demolished entire black neighborhoods. Back then, it was typical to see users slumped on brownstone stoops or sprawled in hallways, a needle still dangling from a vein. Sharing rigs wasn't just dangerous, it was standard practice. That was long before AIDS emerged and shifted the conversation. Heroin was a slow executioner, it left folks sedated, detached. But crack, crack was pandemonium. It transformed users into wind-up toys, constantly moving, constantly plotting. The rush didn't last, but the desperation did. And once it faded, fiends hit the pavement like missiles, ready to rob, steal or worse, just to chase another hit. He didn't indulge, never had the desire. The streets had already revealed too much to him, shattered families, destroyed homes, violence unfolding on the sidewalks like performance art. He remembered witnessing men beating their wives in plain view, cops rolling up only to retreat when told, this is my woman. And just like that, they cruise away. The drug game was merciless, but predictable. The only real shock was how deep you were willing to descend, and whether you could emerge clean. In the early months of 1985, the streets of East New York were crackling with tension. On Fountain Avenue, a tightly-organized Dominican crew had been controlling one of the most lucrative corners in the borough. They weren't native to the neighborhood, but they maneuvered like they ruled it. Round the clock operations, eight hour rotations and serious currency, six to ten bands on weekdays, even more on weekends. But in the concrete jungle of Brooklyn, longevity breeds jealousy, and somebody was always scheming. One local player, eyes sharp and always observing, had a different breed of ambition. He'd been studying the Dominicans, how they operated, where they posted up, how the money transferred hands, when and where security locked down. The signs were obvious. That block was ripe for a hostile takeover, so he made a calculated play. He connected with the A-Team, a local outfit with its own influence, and helped engineer a plan to push the Dominicans off the map. The first shift on Fountain Avenue fell under fresh management, courtesy of strategic pressure, but even with the assistance, the A-Team wasn't interested in welcoming him into the organization full time. Politics. He didn't stress it. Instead, he started operating with a new circle, Sid from Bed-Stuy, a clean-cut but ruthless partner, and Franchie, another hustler from the mix. Sid was one of those polished types who looked like he belonged on a magazine cover, but had no problem getting grimy when it came down to it. If it was going to escalate into a war, Sid was the type of soldier you wanted beside you. Things got real one Sunday morning. After checking in on the block, he noticed a crew of Hispanic men following him. It didn't feel right. He knew what it was before anything jumped off. He circled around to avoid leading them to his residence and stationed himself near building 1230 on Sutter Avenue. That's when the confrontation erupted. A big dude from the group stepped forward, accusing him of robbing his pops the night before. It was fabricated. He hadn't been in that type of dirt for years, but the man was reaching, and that was all he needed to witness. With the snub nose 38 in his coat already cocked, he fired through the fabric, catching the man in the leg. The crew scattered. He peeled off in the opposite direction. Word on the street. The man he hit might have been connected to law enforcement, but no badge, no ID, no charges. Just whispers and suspicions. Authorities thought L, the 18 boss, had squeezed the trigger. Neither one of them got arrested. The war for Fountain wasn't over. Shootouts became routine. One morning, he and his man, IREF kicked down the door of a ground floor apartment where some of the Dominicans were holed up. They beat down four of them and had them face down on the floor, ready for whatever came next. L walked in just as things were about to go sideways, but before any shots were fired, somebody yelled out the word nobody wanted to hear. Beast, code for cops. The scene erupted into chaos. IREF and another runner slipped out the front. L and his right hand man dashed up the building, aiming for the roof. The door wouldn't budge. He threw his weight into it until the hinges gave out. Then followed L across a four story rooftop sprint, jumping from building to building. When it was time to drop down, L ditched his shotgun and escaped clean, but his partner wasn't so lucky. Loaded down with both the shotgun and his own 45, he lost balance on the fire escape and crashed to the pavement. Out cold, busted up. L doubled back and pulled him to safety. Bleeding and concussed, he still gripped both firearms tight. They weaved through backyards, hopped fences, ducked through an empty lot, and ended up on Crystal Street finally making it to one of the crew's safe houses in the projects. Only one man got bagged. Reff, who happened to be holding the same 38 used in the earlier shooting. That was the wild card. If the cops tied that piece back to the Sunday incident, everything would blow. But luck or fear was on their side. The Dominicans were taken in, shown photos, but said nothing. They were done fighting. One by one they pulled back. Just like that, the block was open for business. Territory was divided. His squad took the Sunday to Thursday 11 a.m. to 3 p.m. shifts. The A-Team covered the rest. And just like that, the money started pouring in. He brought in a tight crew. King Tut, Fat Rob, Kev Webb, and a few more names with muscle and hustle. Within weeks he was clearing thousands daily. By January 86, he'd upgraded out of the rental hustle and copped his first whip, a two-tone Cadillac Seville. The game was good to him. So good in fact, he even covered the biggest chunk of Fat Rob's wedding expenses just to show love. In a city where everything was up for grabs, he took his piece.