# VIDEO: James Beasley Part 2 Final.mov

## REWRITTEN: 2026-05-12 18:35:34

## SCRIPT 529 OF 686

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What's good evil streets family, you already know we back with another one. Shout out to all my day ones and subscribers for locking in daily. Y'all the backbone of this channel's grind and wins. Anybody trying to push their music, brand, or business, hit me at evil streets media at gmail.com. We can work something out. Big respect to everybody hitting the cash app too. And if you trying to support the channel, pull up to evil streets TV on cash app. Every dollar goes right back into the operation. Alright y'all, let's dive into this gangster chronicle.

Myron pulled into a gas station out in Van Nuys. Kaiser was trailing right behind him, and shorty wasn't solo either. Duke came with the whole entourage like it was a motion picture production. They swarmed the van, slapped cuffs on Myron and Madamsi, then started pressuring them to let 'em search the crib. They gave the green light. All they dug up was a money counter, but later on, cops uncovered the secret compartment with residue inside. Things were looking real bad. James's lawyer advised him to step back, don't claim that van, walk away from it. He did just that. Back in Frisco, James severed ties with Rancho Cucamonga. Said Madamsi's connect might've set her up. Granny stepped in to handle driving duties for Luisa's pickups. Even with the heat closing in, James kept the lines buzzing and the bricks flowing. Luisa made sure the city stayed fed.

James Beasley Jr. didn't push weight on Sundays. That day was strictly reserved for family. Monday through Saturday, his operation ran airtight. 8 a.m. sharp to 10 p.m., no exceptions. But come Sunday, the streets had to wait. That was his day to roll through the Bay with his seeds, take them out for seafood and sauce, hit up roller coasters in Santa Cruz, maybe even some shopping in Tiburon, Fisherman's Wharf, or Marine World Great America. He made sure little James and Monet experienced it all. But before the family day rides popped off, Beasley made a statement. He'd cruise down Third Street in his Sunday ride with the B Team rolling behind him like a presidential motorcade. Benzes, Beemers, old-school Cougars, candy-painted Vettes. Every hood from Fillmore to Double Rock knew what time it was when they spotted that line of luxury. Convertible tops dropped low, sound systems thumping, ten cars deep. Brothers clean and feeling themselves in suits with Gucci frames, just like Run-D.M.C., but with a whole different type of hustle.

MLK Park turned into the arena every Sunday. Hodge, Double D, and June Smith had their own softball squads, complete with custom jerseys and full crews. And when the games wrapped, the party didn't stop. Hodge kept the grill lit and the ladies showed out. DJ Smokey spun classics straight into the night, and the after-party always landed at the Waterloo Lounge. That was OG Watts' joint. May he rest in power. He'd been in the game before the new school even knew what a brick was. The lounge had everything but a dope spot. Watt let his folks wild out inside, but drawing heat by selling was off limits. Right next door, Big Guy's Towing and Car Wash, run by Mikey Stewart and his wife, kept the fleet looking glossy. The B Team was their best clientele. Everybody in the city knew where to find somebody. Third Street was the unofficial headquarters. BJ's for food, Waterloo for fun, and if you needed a bundle, just roll down the strip. The only thing you couldn't cop on Third was sex, and that might have just been a technicality.

Beasley had multiple cribs and a couple women. James had us Sonya, but there was one chick who kept things interesting. Money. Thick, yellow bone with bow legs that didn't lie. Living off Thomas Street with her homegirl Reina. Her spot doubled as a stash house. It was convenient, plus Money stayed strapped. Pistol in purse, always down to ride. They had a wild rhythm. Intense, sexual, chaotic. She'd pull up at Long Island nightclub with heat on her and fire in her eyes. Beasley liked the security, but more than that, he liked her legs. They reconnected one Easter at the Sundial. She stepped out in a pink leather mini and purple top, and Beasley knew it was her before he saw the face. He shot his shot again. This time she answered. One date led to another. Soon enough, she told him she was pregnant. Beasley tried to fall back, told her he had enough on his plate, but Money wasn't asking. Baby Jameez was born in '86. Beasley wasn't sure at first, but Grandma Beasley took one look and stamped her. "That's a Beasley baby." That sealed it. Closet got bought, Money got dropped.

Money was holding things down near Keesars Field, raising Jameez and also holding weight for Beasley. When Sonya, one of his other women, got locked for boosting minks, Beasley saw it as a move. He used Sonya's spot as another stash location. Sonya had two dudes, MC and Big, dropping money at her door. It was comedy, but not Beasley's concern. He wasn't hating on her hustle. MC though was different. Street dude, late-night grinder. Beasley dealt with him heavy, fronted him weight through Money, five bricks at a time. But then the money started coming up short. MC swore Money was skimming. Beasley didn't buy it. Still, he kept tabs. When Money moved to Fillmore, he pulled the plug. No more drops for MC through her.

Then things turned. Beasley sent his cousin Tony to Money's with a key, no heads up. She felt violated, called Beasley out for it. They argued, loud and ugly. He cleared his product out and disappeared for a while. Later, Money called saying Jameez had a gift. Beasley pulled up with Uncle Willie. No answer. Then his pager blew up. Money hitting 911. He called her and she claimed she wasn't home, said she was at the movies with a friend. But when she told the story about her friend spotting Beasley's car and refusing to drop her off, it didn't sit right. "He ain't worried about you," Beasley told her. "He's worried I'll stop looking out for him." That's when it clicked. He called Donnie and asked who they'd fronted work to recently. Donnie gave him a short list. Two names, and one of them was MC.

Later that night, driving down Bayshore, a car flashed its lights behind him. Beasley didn't stop. His phone rang. MC on the line. "It's me behind you," he said. Beasley pulled over, stepped out, walked straight to MC's window. "How was the movie, ninja?" he asked. MC looked shook. "How you know I went to the movies?" Beasley just grinned. "Donnie was looking for you. Crenshaw and them hit you for that bread, huh? I'll toss you a package soon." But Beasley was done playing. He put a pistol to Money's head that same night and demanded the names. Uncle Willie took her to the kitchen. She gave it up. It was MC.

Beasley didn't confront him, didn't say a word. He just cut him off. Quiet, cold. He knew MC was already catching a case and headed to the county soon. Through a homie named FT, Beasley agreed to look out for him still. Kept his word, but the trust was gone. MC sat down for four months and change, came home to 172K worth, funded by Beasley's cousin Jeff. But none of it erased the betrayal. Looking back, Beasley's biggest regret wasn't MC. It was how he did Money, and by extension, Jameez. He never should have let the game cross into that child's life. Never should have kept work where his daughter slept. He never even brought Jameez around her siblings. Now, years later, their relationship is tense. Two strong wills clashing, too much alike. Still, Beasley couldn't shake one thing. MC was out and he hadn't come to see him. Not once. That silence said everything.

The streets don't remember mercy, only moves. And moves leave permanent scars on bloodlines. James Beasley Jr. built an empire on Third Street, but the real cost wasn't counted in brick prices or car payments—it was written in fractured family bonds and children caught between loyalty and resentment. His legacy ain't just about the flash, the Sunday cruises, or the way the whole Bay respected his name. It's about understanding that every throne built on the game demands a price from those closest to the king. Beasley knew the rules he wrote, but knowing and accepting the collateral damage on your own seed are two different things. That's the true gangster chronicle—not the wins, but the weight a man carries knowing exactly what he sacrificed to get them.