# VIDEO: Willie Flukey Stokes Final'.mov

## REWRITTEN: 2026-05-13 02:19:30

## SCRIPT 684 OF 686

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Yo, what's good evil streets fam, y'all already know we back with another one, shoutout to all my members and subscribers for tapping in on the daily, y'all the reason this channel eating and growing. Anybody looking to promote they music, brand, or business, hit me at evil streets media at gmail.com, we can make something shake. Mad love for all the cash app donations too, and anybody trying to support the channel can do that at evil streets tv on cash app, all donations go right back into the channel. Aight y'all, let's dive into this gangster shit, a cold rainy November night back in '86 on Chicago's south side, the blocks was quiet, but Willy Flukey Stokes, one of the most notorious dope kingpins in the city's history, was about to make his final play. Fresh off catching a flick at the movies, Flukey and his girl made a routine stop at an all-night spot on 79th and Calumet, he been there mad times before, it was just another night, or at least that's what it looked like. Flukey wasn't moving solo though, he rolled deep like always, two whips pulled up, his bodyguard in one, Flukey, his lady, and his driver in the other, the security detail did they usual sweep, checking the aisles for any problems before the boss even stepped inside. Popcorn, bottled water, the last things Flukey Stokes ever copped. After leaving the store, they headed home, but death was lurking. Soon as the Cadillac pulled up to his girl's crib, two shooters jumped from the shadows, they came strapped, one with a machine gun, the other with a pistol, and they let it fly, the bullets tore through Flukey and his driver before they even had a chance to react, his girl, untouched, sat frozen in shock. The two gunmen was waiting, crouched down between parked cars on either side of the street, said police captain Joseph Curtin, when the Cadillac stopped, out they popped and started blasting away. The killers fled south on foot, heading toward 80th street where a silver van was waiting with a third man behind the wheel, but Flukey's bodyguard Earl Wilson wasn't going out like that, he jumped out of a trailing white Cadillac, magnum three fifty-seven in hand, and fired off shots at the assassins, the rain washed away any trace of blood, no one knew if Wilson's shots hit they mark or if the killers made it out clean. When police arrived, Flukey was still holding his portable telephone, investigators later found that the base unit was inside his girl's house, meaning he had been making his usual call before stepping inside, his final routine. Flukey's murder wasn't random, he had enemies, a lot of them, word on the street was that he had financed a failed hit on one of his biggest rivals, a leader of one of Chicago's deadliest street gangs, that man had survived and vowed revenge. Flukey was no ordinary drug dealer, he was one of the most successful black gangsters in American history, dominating Chicago's south side drug trade from the late seventies into the mid-eighties, he was old school, coming up in the nineteen fifties, long before the crack era turned the streets into a free-for-all of teenage shooters and reckless violence. And if his flair for the dramatic wasn't enough proof, just look at how he buried his son, when Willy the Wimp was killed in '84, Flukey sent him off in style, a custom Cadillac coffin, a funeral so over the top that Stevie Ray Vaughan turned it into a song. But despite his reputation as a Robin Hood figure, known for helping struggling families, handing out cash, and looking out for the neighborhood, Flukey wasn't untouchable, at the time of his murder, federal agents were closing in, two years deep into an investigation, within a couple of months he was going to be indicted on racketeering, tax violations, and running a criminal enterprise, according to a federal agent involved in the case, what he would have been looking at was life in prison, but the streets got to him first. After his death, Flukey t-shirts sold like crazy on the south side, proof that his name would live on, but the real story, it wasn't just about Flukey, it was about the system that let him thrive, the Chicago police, the Cook County prosecutors, they all knew who he was, they watched him move weight, watched the bodies pile up, watched him get richer by the day, and yet he ran the south side for decades. The feds said Flukey Stokes had the whole block on lock, running twenty to forty dope houses slinging heroin and cocaine nonstop, twenty-four seven, each spot brought in anywhere from twenty K to sixty K a week, with up to two hundred people working under him at any given time, James Allen, a hitman who later snitched on Flukey for a murder-for-hire plot, once said he saw twenty-four thousand dollar bags of dope sitting right in front of him. Flukey stayed flying back and forth to Vegas where his diamonds and flashy fits made him the center of attention, he'd hit the craps tables and start handing out hundred dollar bills to randoms he thought brought him luck, said his longtime lawyer Joseph Ettinger, casino records showed he could run through a million in just a few weeks. Right before he got clipped, Vegas cops caught him holding classified police files on the suspects in his son's murder, after beating a murder conspiracy charge, a reporter asked if he was guilty of all the dirt on his name, "Do I look like that?" Flukey grinned as he walked out of court. Despite his rep, folks who dealt with him always said the same thing, Flukey was a gentleman, for his thirtieth wedding anniversary he threw a two hundred K party and passed out hundred dollar bills like it was nothing, on the south side he'd do the same, handing out cash while pumping the same streets full of dope. Allen told a story about Flukey spotting a family getting evicted, without a second thought he hopped out the car, peeled off a thick wad of cash, and paid their rent in full, plus a year in advance, his mindset was simple, Allen said, the game was the game and he was gonna eat, but he wasn't about to corrupt what was still pure. The cops saw him different, "A vampire," one investigator said, what else but a vampire stays up all night and sleeps all day, they called him Super Dude, but Flukey rocked with his own name. By the time he got hit in '86, the streets said he was making a mill a week and starting to clean up his money, he was backing a jazz album, trying to buy a recording studio, and managing a prize fighter, his lifestyle screamed money, three nineteen eighty-six Cadillacs with vanity plates, Flukey One, Flukey Two, and Flukey Three, but the night he got clipped he was rolling in a limo owned by his right-hand man, William Big Bill Hill, a heavyweight in the dope game moving a hundred K a week. Hours before he was supposed to get sentenced on drug charges, Hill got snatched up for questioning about Flukey's murder, when he finally saw the judge the next day they hit him with twenty years, "You've been a fast buck artist all your life," the judge told him, "Your time is up." Flukey was straight out of the Superfly era, diamond cluster rings big as silver dollars, gold bracelets stacked on his wrists, a diamond encrusted watch, and a thick chain with an iced-out F hanging off his neck, but when his body hit the morgue he wasn't dressed for the show, a Cook County examiner said he pulled up wearing blue sweatpants, a red leather jacket, a Michigan t-shirt, and a black cap. Cook County State's Attorney Richard M. Daley wasn't trying to hear none of the legend talk, "Stokes has been a drug dealer for years, he's destroyed lives, just because he drove a big car and wore funny clothes doesn't make him a folk hero." Who killed Flukey Stokes? The setup might have started in September '86 when Flukey put out a hit on gang bosses Charles Edward Bay and Charles Hightower, "It appears to be an assassination attempt," said Sergeant Calvin Giles, stating the obvious. Bay and Hightower used to be Flukey's muscle, but they broke off and started their own thing in '84, "It's a straight-up dope war," a Chicago cop said, Flukey was heated at Bay and put fifty K on his head, and that beef was about to cost him everything. The hit never connected, but the retaliation did, and when the dust settled on that cold November night, Flukey Stokes lay dead in the rain, his portable phone in his hand, his empire crumbling around him. The case went cold for years, suspects came and went, but the truth stayed buried in the streets. Some say it was Bay getting his revenge, others point to rivals trying to take his territory, but the real answer died with Flukey that night. What remains undeniable is the legacy he left behind, a man who rose from the south side to become a kingpin of mythic proportions, a drug dealer who played Robin Hood while poisoning his own community, a gangster who understood the power of flash and respect in a world where violence was currency. Willie Flukey Stokes didn't just change Chicago's drug game, he embodied an era, representing the last of the old-school hustlers before the crack epidemic turned the streets into a graveyard. His story is a cautionary tale wrapped in diamonds and cash, a reminder that no matter how deep your pockets run or how many people you got watching your back, in the end, the game don't love nobody, and the streets always collect their debts.