Two names became a myth and a warning. A driver with ice in his veins, a shooter with steady hands. A duo moved through a city where loyalty is currency, silence is armor, and a single line can start a war. The whispers outpace the sirens. Corners change, codes harden, and a legend crawled from backseat talk to block-wide fear.
Behind the whispers sits a maze of silent rules, and choices made in seconds that haunt for years. Tonight, we’re not chasing headlines or solving cases. We’re stepping into the cold and myth blur, and truth speaks in half words. What started as a pairing became a signal, and that signal lit fires from one block to the next.
The pieces are scattered, the truth sits in the shadows, and the streets still remember. Join us as we trace the rise and fallout behind names that wouldn’t die. You see, 757 is not one block, not one crew, not one family. It is an alliance. Three Gangster Disciples sets linked up and moved like one machine. People say the name 757 comes from the last digits of two numbers that mattered on the South Side. 037 and 035.
When you hear 757, think of a banner that covers three branches and the young ones tied to them. They moved with purpose. They watched each other’s backs, and when smoke came, they stood on business together. But to understand how they moved, you have to know who sits under that banner, where they posted up, and why people call one click inside it the backbone.
That is where the street start talking louder. Those numbers are more than tags. 037 and 035 mark sets that fed the alliance and gave it a name people remembered. One side was called the Ave, or the A, tied to 37th and Indiana. Another side carried Lawless in the name tied to 35th. Put those tales together, and you get the rhythm that people turned into 757.
It is simple math from the block. It is a code you can read on a wall, a hoodie, or a track. And behind the code, there were clicks that each held their own turf and flavor, ready to link up when money or war called. The question is which clicks, and where did they plant their flag? Inside that alliance, people named three components: Rock Nation, Marley World, and Dirty Gang.
Their turf ran around 27th, from State to Federal, with Dearborn Homes in the picture. That stretch was their heartbeat. A place where faces were known, and outsiders got checked fast. If you were from there, you knew who was family and who was food. If you were not, you felt it the second you touched the block. These names did not sit alone, either.
They tied into the other 757 pieces like muscle, bone, and blood. Still, another branch wore Lawless in the title and carried its own weight. Lawless Bunny Boys brought a different edge. Their turf ran from 35th to 37th, Rhodes to Vincennes. People also called it Lawless Gardens. That name fit the mood. Pretty on the outside, problems in the soil.
They held their lines, ran their plays, and kept the circle tight. If you came through wrong, somebody would press you about it. Lawless did not move like random shorties. They had ranks, roles, and rules, even when the rules got bent. But Lawless was not the only voice between 35th and 37th.
There was another zone nearby with its own slang and stomp. Then there is the F, a zone some called the Birds in the talk. The turf ran from 35th to 37th, Indiana to Michigan. That is a short walk from Lawless, but a different accent when they speak. Blocks that close can be cousins or rivals. Here, they were part of the same larger thing.
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Each set adding muscle to the alliance. The F did not try to be pretty. It was blunt, it was busy, and it stayed alert. When the sun dropped, the streetlights made the lines clear. From one corner to the next, 757 kept its map tight. And inside that map, one sub-click turned into the engine room.
They called it the Do It Gang. People in the circle said it straight, the Do It Gang are the most reliable of the three clicks. Most members were close relatives of older heads. They were not loud for no reason. They were mature compared to the wild ones around them, and they tried to keep the reckless shorties in line. They handled the grind that paid for the moves.
Drug trafficking, home invasions, and homicides tied to the life. When something had to get done, folks looked their way. That reliability made money and enemies. It also made eyes watch. The money side of it tells you how they kept the lights on. The Do It Gang focused on the sale of marijuana and pharmaceutical narcotics. Codeine, Percocets, Xanax.
They did not just hope for a plug, they made one. They used workers inside local pharmacies, slid them money, and got product out the back door. Then they moved it to the street and flipped it fast. That stream kept cash flowing and egos high. They grossed thousands each year from trafficking alone, with affiliates as young as 16 up to 23. The age says a lot.
Young enough to be fearless, old enough to know the risk. With cash in hand, the music and the media kicked in, too. That brought fame and heat at the same time. This subset did not hide the life. They flaunted it in songs and on Instagram. They taunted opps by name and dared them to slide. That kind of flex is part pride, part pressure.
It makes fans cheer and haters plot. In Chicago, one post can flip to a funeral. But for the Do It Gang, the flex was also a warning shot. We run our corner. Try us and see. The content pulled eyes to 757 and to the click that kept the wheels turning. And past the flex, the streets kept a story that was colder than a caption.
Now, we hit the Ave, also called the A, 37th and Indiana. This spot became the face for part of the 757 web. People said the Ave was BD heavy, but mixed, and it sat close to the other branches that folded into 757. Over time, the A linked with Rock Boys and Lawless, and stood under the same alliance flag.
From those corners, names grew into myths, and myths grew into warnings. This is where two names lock into our title and set up the legend that still gets whispered. Princess Cece Streeter came from the A, 37th and Indiana, and her name carried weight on that strip. She was a real member in that world, not a mascot, not a myth.
The kind of woman the low end saluted. On 37th and Indiana, everybody was rocking with Cece. The way folks tell it, she had real pull. Men respected her, not out of fear, but because she stood on business and stayed solid. Other crews stayed bitter about that situation tied to her name, a stain they could not scrub. Cece was loud when she needed to be, calm when she had to be, and always outside.
On the Ave, that balance gets you love. It also paints a target. And once a name rings, the streets start keeping score. You could spot her early. In 2008, Cece, also called CTH or Princess, pops up in an Icky’s project blog. Loud, assertive, center frame. Later, she moves to the Ave and Burr Street, a nod some tied to Gucci Mane’s Burr.
That is the world Cece carried into the Ave. Hard lessons, fast choices, and no breaks. By then, her face and voice were already known on cam and on the block. Cece did not move solo. Beside her stood Christopher Neff Daniels of the 6200 block of South Perry Avenue, a face the Ave knew and a driver pressure when the block got hot.
Together, the streets stamped them the Sheraq Bonnie and Clyde, the pair you did not want creeping your lane. The tagline wrote itself and spread fast, a cold slogan that stuck like glue in barber shops, trap spots, and studio talk. But taglines hide blood and politics. They skip over cousins crying, sets plotting, and phone calls that flipped to retaliation.
People called them riding or sliding buddies. The talk was simple. Neff would go do the hits, and Cece would always drive for Neff. They were relentless and always together, so rumors flew that they were a couple, but it was platonic. Cece had a baby father who wasn’t Neff. We will get to that later.
What mattered in the moment was the bond, wheel and steel. That kind of teamwork turns two names into one legend. Even before the war heated up, the Ave had losses that shaped moods. In 2006, Stephon, just 18, got killed by a chest shot, unsolved. His name gets shouted in a 2009 hood blog, a reminder the grief was still fresh.
Late 2008, Cane Fiers was hit with 17 shots while in a car. At first, street sleuths tried to link Neff or Kenny Mac. Later, a different account said a corrupt cop, Sergeant Ronald Watts, was extorting, and Cane threatened to talk. Days after Cane was gone, the streets blamed Watts. Nothing got settled. Those unsolved stories sat like fuel in a cold engine.
Tay’s story starts at home, not on the corner. His father was in prison since 1991, the same year Tay was born, and only came home when Tay was 12. Pops came back different. He had converted to Islam inside. He was strict and heavy-handed with what Tay calls gorilla parenting, and that rubbed a kid who had been listening to his mom his whole life the wrong way.
Tay did not lean into faith at first. The streets were louder. Later, when he sat in jail, he says the switch flipped. He learned to pray, kept a prayer mat on him when he moved around, tried to hit the five a day. That inner shift matters for who he became after. But in 2010, lessons were background noise, and the city was the teacher. He jumped off the porch young.
At eight or nine, he was already stealing cars with older guys. It was simple mechanics in that era. Break a window, or catch one left unlocked. Then a screwdriver to the column on those older Toyota models, and you were rolling. First serious case landed around 15 or 16, armed robbery at a sporting goods store.
He did about three months in juvie, six months on house arrest, then got shipped to Arrowhead Ranch out in Coal Valley. Around 16, he caught a juvenile shooting case, sat about a month. The victim left the hospital and did not press, and the courts slid him back to probation. At 19, he took a gun charge as an adult. First time in county was actually off a domestic, a brief bullpen, but it showed him the culture of close.
Jail talk in Chicago comes with warnings and war stories. Tay confirmed the chaos that people whisper about. He heard all the Glock dookie tales and the humiliation trends that cycle through the tiers. He said an older guy named Primo, who the that exact move before he left, but the point stands. The county is pressure.
Pressure bends people. And when pressure bends you inside, it twists what you do outside. He already had scars before the summer everybody remembers. One of the earlier hits on him ties to the same boy he once shot as a juvenile. That guy shot Tay in the leg later on. They squashed it because their hoods were not deep in beef.
They even rode in a car together after. Tay says he was armed and was not sure the other guy was. That is Chicago logic. Yesterday’s opp can be today’s passenger if the line was not that deep, but other lines were about to get deep fast. Pain hit the Ave first on April 2nd, 2010. Jermaine maintained Streeter, family deceased, got killed in the Ave area, unsolved.
On the Ave, a cousin’s death is more than a headline. It changes how people sit in cars, how they check mirrors, how they watch alleys, how they speak on phones. Those new habits were only the start. The block was bracing and did not even know it yet. On May 13th, 2010, it is Tay’s mom’s birthday and the block is outside.
Words turn slick and then guns do the talking. Tay gets hit twice, one in the arm and one in the stomach. The ambulance grabs him as the crowd scatters. He goes into shock, fades in and out, and doctors put him under to operate. While he is fighting for his life, the block holds its breath. In hallways and on phones, people are already arguing about what to tell him and when because some truths burn hotter than the bullets that caused them.
That is the energy in those 48 hours. Every phone lights up. Every porch is a briefing. The next evening, around 7:00 p.m. on May 15th, 2010, Welch is walking near OBN territory on 40th and King Drive. A corner where names carry weight and footsteps get counted. But someone else when a car rolls by slow enough to feel wrong. A door cracks.
Somebody hops out, runs up, and dumps. Welch takes a chest shot and dies on the scene. The person with him gets hit in the leg and lives. There are no arrests in that case. Only the thud of another body on a block that already knew his name. Tension landed with the BDs from 41st, St. Lawrence and Drexel, and word on the street was simple.
Sess and Neff ended up getting into it with them. That was the talk that spread first. Then the allegation went further, the kind of claim that makes a whole hood lean in. People said Sess and Neff killed Welch from the set so icy. Almost instantly people knew who did it. The streets talk, sometimes too fast, sometimes too loud.
But in this city, that is how rumors turn into rules and how rules turn into moves. While Tay is still in the hospital, family and friends debate whether to break the news or hold it. Some even lie because they know the truth will shatter whatever is left of his calm. The city can sound heartless, but this is love in a war zone. Sometimes you protect a man from a phone call because you need him to heal enough to stand up again.
When a young man named Anthony Ray Welch is shot and killed, the people who loved him refuse to let the name fade. The older tag was So Icy, the new name becomes Welch World. That is how memory becomes territory in this city. Later Tay calls Welch wild in the moment, but a good guy, and says that loss changed him drastically.
Paint, music, and block talk turn a person into a banner. Later on, police and papers will say Welch World does not live alone. They go at it with 757, Young Money, and OBN in different seasons and different cliques. But for our road, the part that matters is the link. 37th Avenue stories on one side, Welch World on the other, and lines on State Street and King that feel like borders whether you like it or not.
Rono, also called Boline, puts it raw. First Street, a danger zone. Another rumor says Welch came to the Ave to avenge Tay, ran out of bullets, got chased, and got dropped while heading back. The allegation locks on the title of our story with no hesitation. A witness is said to have ID’d Sess as the driver.
Tay would later tell CPD in interrogation that this was the known theory even as he lay in a hospital bed. It is the kind of theory that moves through a block like wind. Nobody has to text it. Everybody knows it. But a theory is not paperwork, and paperwork is what courts eat for breakfast. May 22nd, 2010, Welch gets buried and mourners talk about the Washington Nationals W cap on the stone like it is a flag.
So Icy falling back and Welch World rising has already been spoken into being on corners and online. The name now lives in granite and in the way people throw up a hand sign when they take pictures at certain corners. From that day forward, a W cap does not just mean a baseball team. It means a set, a grief, and a promise.
You can measure grief by silence. You can also measure it by how loud a name gets after a funeral. Tay says Welch’s death triggered something in him, turned his bully up, and the block hears it like thunder. The city does not need a forecast to know what comes next. Longer nights, faster cars, colder eyes. That is the shift.
After the casket closes, everyone rechecks their map. The borders feel harder. The favors feel smaller. You move with your hoodie tighter and your words shorter. On the Ave, the story of Sess and Neff now floats like a legend and a warning. It is how the South Side stamps a pair when the streets have seen enough to make a slogan out of two faces.
And once a slogan sticks, it shapes how people move. That summer taught a lot of young ones how to move. Do not walk open in an active feud. Do not stand at bus stops for long. Do not party on a block where a known threat lives. If you pull up to a corner in your stomach tightens, trust it.
Those are the rules that live under the louder headlines. You can call it fear. You can call it tactics. Out here, it is survival. It is how you make it to see the next summer and not the next candlelight. It is just before dawn, February 5th, 2011, and South Shore is cold and empty. Princess Streeter, 24, is walking the 2600 block of East 75th Street with her sister.
No car, no warning, no long words. A man walks up on foot, gets close, and lets it go. Multiple hits. Cops will later say 19 to 23, African-American, off the scene in seconds, running, no wheels needed. The street swallows him like it always does when the shooter knows the corners. Calumet area detectives put a pin on the map and start calling it work.
The sergeant on the scene does not sell a story. He keeps the motive open and says it plain, could even be domestic. The only sure thing is the gun smoke and the blood on the sidewalk and the sister who saw it all and somehow didn’t get hit. Medics load Sess and burn rubber for Northwestern.
They fight the clock, but the clock fights back harder. 5:13 a.m., the medical examiner locks it in. Critical turned fatal. Another South Side morning with a toe tag and a family phone that won’t stop ringing. Detectives try to circle back to the sister as the sun pushes through the lake haze because witness talk is gold when the city wakes up.
But even with the living witness, the shooter is smoke. No arrest, no name, just a cap, dark clothes, and a run route that fades into alleys and gangways. The neighborhood hears first, the news hears second, the paperwork comes last. And in that gap, the streets start writing their own script. The detail that won’t leave your head is simple.
Sess’s adult sister was right there, shoulder to shoulder. The kind of detail that kills sleep. She is not hit. That is luck or grace or both. Detectives try to talk again before the day gets crowded, but even the cleanest witness talk has limits when the whole block is measuring every word against a life lived here. The sergeant’s quote about looking at all possibilities isn’t just police talk. It’s a shield.
It keeps the world from rushing to the easiest headline because in this zip code, bullets wear many names. Personal beef, set beef, or the kind of messy overlap where love, money, and turf all get mixed in the same pot. The shooter in the report reads like half the guys you pass on a winter bus stop. Dark jacket, skin tone in that medium range, black and white baseball cap, young, medium build.
That is not a fingerprint. That is a ghost. It was clear that he planned the exit. It means whoever sent him, if anyone sent him, knew one thing that always sticks. Get close, shoot quick, leave even quicker. That is the South Shore play when a drive-by would pull too much light, and it is a play that makes cameras useless after the sprint.
With Sess gone, the talk hits phones, kitchens, and corners. The people who rocked with her feel like the block lost a coach. The people who hated her story feel like a chapter just turned. The question is whether the talk gives up a name or just gives the city something to argue about. The difference between rumor and proof is the size of Lake Michigan.
April 10th, 2011, it is broad daylight now, a Sunday on 74th and Vincennes. Christopher Daniels, 22, is at the light, boxed in by everyday traffic. The kind of daylight where you think you’re safe. Then the familiar move. A car stops in front. Door pops. Shooter gets out, walks up, and opens fire at close range. The detail that chills you is that this isn’t new.
Two weeks before, March 29th, same block, almost the same dance. That time, the bullets missed flesh, but a car being shot at slammed into a CTA bus and almost a dozen people got hurt. That is what spillover looks like. You try to smoke one opp and a bus full of strangers pays the bill. At the time, the bullets hit steel and glass, not skin, and the city still bled.
On April 10th, the setup repeats with cleaner aim. At the light, pinned, nowhere to go. Daniels tries to reverse, tries to break the trap, crashes into a parked car, and the shooter keeps walking, keeps shooting, keeps pressing the trigger the way a man who is not scared of witnesses does. Police call it gang-related in that flat voice they use when any other word would be a lie.
They already know this pattern. By 5:17 p.m., Northwestern has another body and the calendar has another date to ruin anniversaries. Anthony Redd it, who owns Ryan Anthony’s on that block, says what every shop owner says after a double weekend like that. The violence has to stop.
A customer named Benita Prior says the quiet part out loud. She is scared to walk her dog in her own neighborhood. “It’s just really stressful,” she says, “and the word stressful does not cover it.” Stressful is bills. This is fear. Police have no suspects in either shooting, which is the kind of line that keeps people inside and keeps shooters outside.
Put it side by side and it looks like a drill script. Two different corners, two different times, the same result. Sessen Daniels, both end at Northwestern with a flatline and a clipboard. The city shrugs like it is trying not to feel anything, but the maps in the stations tell the real story. Pins cluster where people live, not where they die.
A minister on the block tries to spread calm and says the hits could have happened anywhere and just happened to land on the same street twice. That is how leaders fight panic. You change the story to help people leave the house, but daily life does not care how you frame it. It cares whether the red light on 74th means stop for you and go for someone else.
By mid-2013, stories like this are stitched into a long quilt of blue lights. A Tribune walk-through reads like a notebook from a medic who never sleeps. “They’re DOA,” an officer tells a family at Kevin’s Hamburger Heaven in Bridgeport at 4:00 a.m. Another scene at West Pullman, a man laying in rain, a white sheet clinging to skin while a detective’s umbrella gives up against the wind.
In South Austin, a kid named Jaylen catches a stray and has to be carried up the stairs after hospital discharge. A mother says, “They’re hitting the floor when small pops echo outside.” People inside the tape talk like they are tired of new words. “Sergeant, you hear that?” an officer asks as more shots ring blocks away during a vigil.
You can feel it. Every corner is one argument away from a fresh candlelight. Those vignettes draw lines from West Pullman to Austin, but the low end keeps showing up. Two restaurants across Wallace pull different crowds. One side’s one thing, one side’s another. A mother in West Pullman moves her infant to the dining room when gunshots start because the living room’s too close to the window.
The quotes are heavy and simple, the way pain always is. “We just want to know it’s him. I don’t plan on staying here too much longer.” “The little boys in the neighborhood, they’re just shooting at random.” None of this is filler. All of this is the floor our story is standing on. The Vincennes hit is math on a map.
It is a plan being run, adjusted, and run again. It is a drill. It is a man saying, “I will walk on you in front of the whole block,” and dare the block to look me in the face. Between February and April south of downtown, regulars try to act regular. Milk runs, bus stops, church. Then another headline.
The restaurant owner begs the air for peace. The police press officer says gang-related and looks at his shoes. The hustlers pretend it does not scare them because fear smells like food to an op, and families move their babies to the dining room when shots start because the living room window is too big.
Uniforms blocking camera angles, family pushing against yellow tape, people by the grill acting like bacon tastes the same on a day like this. It does not. November 6, 2013, the name on the paperwork is Dwayne Timberlake, 22. He is already in Cook County on a different case, aggravated vehicular hijacking, bond at 325 grand.
The new sheet says first-degree murder for the early hours of February 5, 2011 near 75th and Exchange, the night Princess Sess Streeter was hit and lost. The medical examiner line in the Northwestern time are the same as they were the day it happened. The difference now is a face under a booking number. Press stories run the basic block facts and leave out everything that cannot stand up in court.
And people who knew Sessen read those lines twice, then stare at the ceiling. March 13, 2014, the same name gets pinned to another map. Timberlake is charged again, first-degree murder for the April 10, 2011 shooting at 74th and Vincennes. The police version is crisp. The medical examiner confirms that the 22-year-old was pronounced dead at Northwestern.
The man’s name is written on the same kind of white tag that took Sessen, and the city’s story puts them side by side in the file cabinet. Two murders, two corners, one defendant number. Court language is boring on purpose. It uses neutral words to build a frame strong enough to carry a sentence. But if you read it slow, it also tells you what the city already knows.
In an appellate order from a different case entirely, the court notes that August 2011 saw a series of shootings and retaliation shootings between the 37th Avenue Boys and Welch World. It says out loud in a clean sentence that Princess Streeter was killed as part of that conflict. It notes a witness with a W tattoo and a W cap.
It puts on the record that one side had just took a loss and the other side heard it. That is a judge telling you, without slang or spin, that the beef was live and the bodies were not random. The appellate record walks through a different scene in Metcalfe Park State Street. It says that before the shots that killed one man there, a gray Charger pulled up, faces covered, guns present, and rounds let off.
It is not our main case, not our main block, but it mirrors the same kind of rhythm. A car, a quick pull-up, masked faces, and the sound of two calibers arguing with the air. It also shows you how courtroom time feels. Days of testimony, motions about phone calls and Miranda rights, and a jury being told to ignore a family outburst that cracked the air.
Those jurors had to be told they were safe. That is the reality of trying gang beef in a courthouse that everybody knows how to find. If you want to taste the atmosphere around these cases, read the part where a deputy tells the judge that jurors feel watched coming in and out. People pointing, faces being made.
“I feel like I’m going to cry right now,” one juror says. Another hear someone say, “I think that’s one of them right there.” The judge calms them down and asks if they can still be fair. They say yes because that is what you say when the robe is looking right at you. Later, a man in the gallery shouts, “I told you don’t f with me,” and gets cuffed for contempt while the jury gets asked again if they can be fair.
The trial grinds on because trials always do, but those moments matter. They show the heat that sits under every name when the beef is not just a YouTube clip, but a funeral program. Some murders get labeled easy and disappear. Sessen’s does not. Her name is tied to a narrative that even her haters kept bringing up, the kind of woman the Ave talked about like a captain.
Then in late 2013, the paper finally prints a charge sheet with a face. That does not end the talk. It changes the tone. Now people speak in two lanes, what the street say and what the court can say, and those lanes do not always meet at the light. The quotes from 2013 still frame the feeling two years earlier. “We just want to know it’s him. We need some help.
” That is the South Side chorus behind every case. From South Shore sidewalks to the Vincennes light, the part you cannot shake is how both anchor murders in this section show you a walk-up. The Bridgeport scene is miles away and months later, but that one line works like a chorus. Another name was thrown into the mix and says it straight.
Sotay Staff was also charged for the murders of Nathan Sessen, but he beat those cases for lack of evidence. That is the kind of line that makes a hood lean in. Charged, then free with nothing sticking. In a scene already crowded with whispers and paperwork, a second face getting walked out the door adds more smoke than answers, and smoke like that hangs until the next headline forces the block to pick a side.
August 2011, Metcalfe Park is packed. Darius Brown is a teen with speed and a jumper, the kind of kid you hear before you see because the net snaps and people cheer. Three gang members spin and looking for payback and open fire on a crowded court. Shots slice a summer day and the park turns to a stampede.
The worst part is simple. People saw everything and still said nothing. Loyalty and fear lock mouths tight. In that silence, a kid who lived for the court dies on it. When the dust settles and the reading starts, two names get stamped with the murder. Jamal Streeter, 20, and Aramis Beecham, 24, are convicted. The host tells of the way the block frames it.
Jamal is Sessen’s brother and Aramis is Sessen’s baby father. That bloodline and that bond make the Metcalfe story sting even more because the family tree is tied to the same legend we are tracking. In a war like this, the enemy map sometimes looks like a family photo album. The setup was quick and cold. They spotted Tay South in motion, hopped out, and started shooting.
The driver, a third man, beat the case. Jamal and Aramis did not. The host adds that Tay South went down for an unrelated case and stayed in prison. It reads like a war page. Target seen, doors pop, metal talks, and everybody runs in a different direction, but somehow ends up in the same courthouse later. And when the driver walks, the story grows legs that never get tired.
In war, you do not expose yourself. Welch walking in an open area while the feud is active. Sessen going to a party on the same block where Tay South lived right when the beef is hot. That is a fatal error. Neff, after Sessen’s murder, should have got out of dodge and stayed low until the threat was gone. There’s this rule some hate to hear.
Hiding is tactical, not weak. They let their ego get in the way and forget that staying down is survival. Years later on a podcast, Tay walked in calm and told it from the top. He said on the day Neff died, there were already attempts earlier that felt the same as what happened later. He said his name got thrown in the mix even though he did not know those dudes.
He floated that it might be a name mix-up with somebody who had the same name. In his words, that is how the streets blur faces. One name, two bodies, rumor moving faster than truth. He laid it out like a timeline, then let it sit so the room could feel how fast things twisted that day. Tay said life kept rolling until that parole call, around October 17, 2013, with about two months left.
His PO told him to pull up. He thought it might be early freedom. He showed up and cops snatched him at the crib, took him to the station, then the county. That is when he learned the new play, carjacking and armed robbery. Folks around him said the case looked weak, so he stayed cool.
But coasting in Chicago is a myth. On the mic, Tay said what happened next felt like chess with no clock. The evidence on the murders was shaky and he beat both bodies. Then witness tampering smoke popped up on the robbery case. He said the word was witnesses got targeted and the authorities grabbed his baby mom and three homies trying to tie that pressure to him.
That hit after he beat the first body and while he was still fighting the second. Stacking that on top of murder talk would be ugly in court. So he copped out to robbery and carjacking, took 20 years and turned the key himself. Tay told the podcaster he kept his head down inside. Good behavior, got his GED and the clock cut him a deal. He served eight years and nine months and walked out on March 18th, 2022.
While locked, he said he watched a documentary on his life and decided to flip the image to music. When he touched down he aimed at rap for real, trying to turn a stain into a stamp. He called it a pivot, a lot of steppers dream about and only a few actually pull off. Tay said that while he was in the pen, he hit IG to air out a robbery victim who told.
There were two victims, Devontae Scott and DeMarco Holmes. He zeroed in on Devontae, the brother of rapper C-Dot Huncho. He tagged C-Dot and posted paperwork saying Devontae claimed the streets and still talked. He also posted paperwork from the two bodies he beat and flexed those wins. Tay framed it as Chicago internet in one screen.
Case numbers, captions, pride, not for court, for culture. Screenshots keep score. Tay also addressed the loud rumor that he killed Blasian Doll’s mom. He called it false. He said he even promoted Blasian’s music despite that talk. No conversation with her, no beef. He pointed out that FYB J Maine later called his own claim trolling.
Tay told the host that in a city where rumors ruin lives, that walk back matters. But he also said rumors leave a stain even when they wash off and every stain shows up under the light when you live how he lived. On a podcaster’s couch, Blasian sits with Big BA and plants a flag. 35th, 37th, 27th, State and Indiana.
That is the low end. She said she took a year off and is outside again. A Disney situation made her push harder because she does not play like that with anybody. She says interviews are not really her lane. She keeps it PG-13, but this one she pulled up for the fans. The set idea is loud, 757, and the pride is louder. She tells it clean.
She grew up in the Ickies, then 37th and Indiana. Her mom, Princess Cece Streeter, was a real street woman. She has been around guns her whole life. This life in me for real. The host joked she is a hood princess and the label fits the way she carries herself. She lost her mom at seven and that flipped her from a good child to a bad child because her mom was the one who kept her in line.
Three little sisters followed behind her and the weight of that shows even when she smiles. When the host raises Cece and me, Blasian answers about Destiny in her wording but makes the bond clear. They was best friends. That was my mama best friend. Cece and me was the term they used for Cece and Neef.
Always together on Indiana doing gang stuff and selling drugs. She says they ran the low end and that the female in that duo was really doing it. One of the biggest females to ever do this. Putting belt to ass, always had money, always in a nice car or nice clothes, kept her straight. She calls her mom a real Chicago street queen whose name rings everywhere.
If there is a movie, she wants it set on 37th with Jimmy’s right there, on the burr. And she says the actor to play her mom is simple, me. The host loops back to rules of war and doubles down. Do not walk open in an active feud. Do not party on the block of a known threat. Do not think hiding makes you soft.
We have war right here. He says when he pops out sparks are flying. He adds the part outsiders always forget, nobody is trying to get themselves killed. People are trying to kill the other side and live to tell it. That is the whole point of tactics on these blocks. The host says the last incident tied to this storyline was seven years back.
Yet in 2020 the same patterns kept showing up every day in Chicago. That is the cycle people are tired of. Funerals, paperwork and interviews about what went wrong. He says he hopes the cycle of violence dies out and a cycle of making money takes over. A dream like that sounds corny until you have seen enough blood to know money is the only thing that moves a block without sirens.
They later both showed up at the same interview. Tay Savage and Blasian Doll on Chicago wave, a room that felt tight with history. They prayed before the cameras because this sit down wasn’t clickbait, it was pressure. He admits he’s nervous, calls the setup ghetto but blessed. Two rivals, or so the streets like to label them that way, on one couch.
No extras in the room, just words that could calm a war or wake it. First order was identity. Both claim the low end and stamp it clean. They agreed that both spots are iconic. Then they draw the map in street talk from around 21st to 51st, State to the lake. They make it clear 55th is Garfield, not the low end. That’s turf logic, lines you don’t blur because lines keep people alive.
Then they address why the room matters. They’re from different low end circles with history that isn’t pretty. Tay says he respects her and keeps repeating, this is bigger than us. It’s about the city and the shorties watching. She came alone, so he makes it known he’ll overprotect her in this space. Blasian said she did it because her mama would have. Princess Cece wasn’t one spot.
She moved with everybody on the low end. Blasian wants better for her little sisters and wants the princess story closed the right way. Blasian keeps it solid. She respects the wave but says sometimes blogs give goofies a voice and make them feel like somebody. This isn’t mess, this is medicine.
But only if they tell it straight. The host brings up the internet giving Tay cool points. Tay shuts that down fast, ain’t no cool points. He lists the cost. Then he turns and does what nobody expected, an on-camera apology to Blasian and her siblings for the role their side played when they were shorties. He says they didn’t know words could spark wars and make moms grieve.
Tay pivots to a plan, get money, take care of family, stop hating your own, turn the city up but stop bragging about bodies in songs. Respect is not about a tally, it’s about who feeds the block and keeps the kids breathing. Blasian lays down her code for female rap, be yourself, stop following. You don’t have to be gangster to make noise.
She says a lot of girls ain’t ready for this life. When it gets real, who will ride for you? If there’s smoke between women, she says fight and move on. You ain’t got to kill her, just beat her. It’s gritty, it’s honest and it’s her way of saying keep it in the ring, not the morgue. They talk the music.
Tay says drill is art the way rock says let the bodies hit the floor. It’s expression. But he warns shorties to stop telling the whole case on a track. Too many get indicted for over-truthing. He doesn’t want drill gone. Chicago created it and the world copied it. He just wants fans to see it as art, not a sworn statement. Blasian says bloggers control the story and need accountability.
Tay says the interview was his biggest move and he’s cool. It’s a line in the sand. They will defend their names but they’re trying to keep the city from sliding back into a graveyard of cliques. They circle back to faith. It’s Ramadan for Tay and he prays five times a day. Blasian says she found peace reading Psalms about forgiveness in jail.
That’s the image the youth need, rivals praying, not plotting. The camera holds that picture like a promise and the street waits to see who keeps it. The Bonnie and Clyde of Shyrack, two best friends who stood on business in a city that turned their bond into a banner. The courts chased it. The blogs chased it. The blocks lived it.
