# VIDEO: NY Goons 17 Final.mov

## REWRITTEN: 2026-05-12 22:14:26

## SCRIPT 603 OF 686

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Yo, for this one we slid through to the Bronx to break down the life and how it ended for BO, they called him Bug Out, a cat who held weight and had motherfuckers shook in the Bronx all through that 1990s hip hop era. My man was deep in the Zulu Nation, had dudes showing him respect and fear in equal measure out there, getting caught up in beefs and strong-arming whoever. Coming up in Brooklyn as a young cat and catching wind about this dude Haitian Jack was like hearing ghost stories that everybody swore on they mama was real. The word floating through the streets made him sound like he was ten feet tall. They said he'd pull up, run pockets on drug dealers like it was light work, and have cats tucking their chains soon as his government got mentioned. The craziest part, dudes would be whispering that he had major names in the game under pressure, cats like Wyclef, the Fugees, even Busta Rhymes supposedly getting extorted by this man. For us, just hearing his name was like catching wind of some street legend that had all the heavy hitters watching their backs. But for those of us who stayed glued to Video Music Box every single day like it was Sunday service, every now and then we'd catch glimpses of another player out here running the same type of program, but he wasn't Brooklyn, nah, he was holding it down in the Bronx or Harlem. While Haitian Jack was known to roll through deep with soldiers like Jimmy Henchman who supposedly learned the game under him, there was another name that rang bells hard, BO, and unlike Jack who had an army backing him, BO had a whole damn nation. Zulu Nation out of the Grosvenor, 20th out of the Grosvenor, got a brother who's a part of Zulu Nation for a long time, his name is BO. What's up my brother? Hey what's up, how you doing? Happy anniversary to you. Happy anniversary to you too. All right, where have you been? Where are you sitting in the wild? Traveling, building with the brothers, training with the brothers, chapters, Zulus all over the United States, in Atlanta and Miami and DC, we've been training, trying to get the brothers right, keep them in school or make them get knowledge of self. That's what we're doing for our nation. You know what I'm saying, for the homeless, doing the shit at night, that's about it. We're just honored to be here, there's a lot of people in the house, you know what I'm saying? A lot of people in the house. I'm just glad that we can actually put this on the table for Video Music Box, you know. Brother looking out for the whole menu. Thank you for that. You definitely put on, put this on the table too. There will be no violence here tonight. Of course, it's about peace and unity. Very true. I'm saying. So we like that to get taped, because they only come around and tape when we acting wild. An article that the Village Voice put out once read, while at Mosque Number Seven, Muhammad summons groups such as A Tribe Called Quest, Wrecks-N-Effect, and Afrika Bambaataa's Zulu Nation to his 127th Street temple to settle differences. This wasn't just about bridging gaps in hip hop. This was about bringing unity to a culture that stayed divided by rivalries and street politics. But among all those efforts, one story stood out. A deeply personal one involving Zulu Nation Chief BO, a figure both revered and feared in them Bronx streets. The article described how four years before BO got tragically gunned down in the Bronx, Muhammad issued him a personal challenge to leave the streets behind and turn his life around. Against all odds, BO, a man with a heavy reputation as a street thug, accepted the challenge. Muhammad recounted how he saw the potential in BO, not just as a leader within Zulu Nation, but as someone who could inspire real change in the community if given the chance. But that promise of redemption got cut short. BO's life came to a violent end, and Muhammad would later reflect that one of the toughest days of his hip hop ministry was standing before a grieving crowd to preach at BO's funeral. When we talking about titans, heavyweights, or thugs who shook the rap game and the streets in the 1990s, Bug Out was one of those names that carried serious weight. If you were outside in New York City during the early to mid-90s, hitting the hot spots or just navigating the boroughs, there's a good chance you crossed paths with BO or his team. And if you didn't, you definitely heard about him. Stories of BO's dominance were the kind of urban folklore passed down in barbershops, block parties, and mixtape skits. Some of y'all might have heard BO's name dropped by guys like Hassan Campbell, who's recounted tales from those times, often referencing the infamous Bronx River Houses. That's where BO wasn't just known. He was a certified legend. Bronx River, one of the most infamous housing projects in New York City, sits in the Soundview section of the Bronx. Built in 1951, it consists of nine 14-story buildings with 1,260 apartments. Over the years, Bronx River has gained a reputation for being a hub of raw street energy, survival, and countless untold stories. Among those stories is the legend of BO, a name that still commands respect and fear long after his time. Though there's not nearly enough published about him, the whispers and tributes you find online paint a vivid picture of who BO was. In a random online post paying homage, one commenter perfectly captured his duality. Many may say BO was feared, grimey, etcetera. But I beg to differ. BO was one of the realest dudes I ever knew. He was loyal, loved, and if he was with you, he was ready to die for you. It can also be said that if he didn't have love for you, you'd feel that side too. And like I said earlier, while there ain't much out there publicized about BO, most of what you'll find links him to Pistol Pete Rollock and the notorious Sex Money Murder crew. But no matter what you dig up, there's always this consistent thread. The mention of BO ties back to how tough he was, how he moved like a certified thug, a goon that nobody wanted problems with. His reputation spoke louder than any official records ever could. BO wasn't just another name on the streets. He was one of those rare figures whose presence alone demanded respect. It's also said he was real tight with another Bronx legend, Carlton Hines, a name that still rings bells for anyone who knows the history of the streets. Word was they even got money together, forming a bond that combined street smarts and sheer dominance. For those of us that know the story, Carlton Hines, aka Duncan Hines or C-Town, is one of the Bronx's biggest what-if legends. But for anyone tuning in who ain't familiar, Carlton's story is both inspiring and heartbreaking. Imagine this. A kid with NBA dreams so close you could almost see him suiting up under the bright lights. His high school coach once described him as an intense competitor whose game evolved from dominating in the paint to mastering the perimeter. He had handles, a jumper, and a basketball IQ so sharp his coach compared him to Larry Bird as a junior. They said Carlton could see plays developing two or three passes ahead like a chess master on the court. But no amount of talent could erase the struggles of making it out of Cortlandt Avenue in the South Bronx. The streets got to him. They say Carlton shifted his focus from jump shots to running a drug operation that reportedly pulled in $50,000 a day. Big money, but at a heavy cost. Carlton wasn't just a name in the streets, he was connected. And one of his closest friends was BO. Another Bronx powerhouse. The bond between these two wasn't just about the hustle. It was about loyalty and respect. On a tragic night in 1994, Carlton was on his way to a party with BO and another homie Tone when he was murdered. That night shook the Bronx to its core. Carlton's death was more than just a loss. It lit the fuse for a street war that would cement BO's name in infamy. The war wasn't just some petty beef. It put BO head to head with an up-and-coming gangster who was already carving out his legacy in the Bronx. Peter Pistol Pete Rollock of the Sex Money Murder crew. What followed was a chapter of Bronx street history filled with bloodshed, power moves, and legendary stories that still get whispered in the dark.

This beef between BO and Pistol Pete wasn't about money or territory in the traditional sense. It was about respect, about who ran what, and about avenging your peoples when they fell. Both men were young, hungry, and dangerous. Both had the backing of their respective crews. And both were willing to do whatever it took to come out on top. The streets were watching, waiting to see who would bend and who would break. But in wars like this, everybody bleeds. The violence escalated over months, with both sides striking back and forth, leaving bodies in their wake. Witnesses disappeared or stayed silent. Cops investigated but had limited leads. In the Bronx, street justice moved faster than the law ever could.

By the mid-90s, BO's name was legendary, but so was the target on his back. He'd made enemies. He'd spilled blood. He'd lived the kind of life that didn't end quietly in bed. On December 28, 1995, that chickens finally came home to roost. BO was gunned down in the Bronx River Houses, the same territory where he'd built his empire. Shot down in his prime, a casualty of the streets he'd once dominated. His death sent shockwaves through the community, through Zulu Nation, through everyone who'd known him or feared him. Muhammad from the Nation of Islam showed up to BO's funeral, standing before that grieving crowd, preaching about redemption and second chances that never came. He thought about the challenge he'd given BO four years earlier. He thought about the potential he'd seen in that young man. He thought about how close BO had come to walking away from all of it.

But the streets don't give you do-overs. They don't reward mercy or second chances. They only remember the strong and the fast. BO's legacy became what all legends become in the hood—stories told late at night, whispered in barbershops, dropped in rap lyrics and street documentaries. People remember how he moved, how he commanded respect, how he stayed loyal to his crew and his nation. They remember his duality: the street soldier and the man who could've been something different if the world had let him.

BO's death marked the end of an era in Bronx street history. The war with Pistol Pete cooled after that, not because anyone won, but because the cost of continuing had become too high. Both sides had lost brothers, money, freedom, everything. The victory, if you could call it that, belonged to nobody. Today, BO remains a ghost story himself, like Haitian Jack was to us. Younger cats don't always know his name, but the legacy lingers. He's in the foundation of Bronx culture, in the DNA of street life, in the endless cycle of young men thinking they can beat the game that never lets anyone walk away clean. BO's story is the Bronx story—it's about ambition meeting violence, about loyalty to your peoples, about the price you pay when you choose the streets. He's gone, but the impact he left will echo through them Bronx River Houses forever. That's the real legacy of BO, Bug Out, a Zulu Nation soldier who held it down and couldn't hold it together. Rest in peace to all the fallen, all the what-ifs, all the potential that the streets took from us.