How The 7 Crowns Gang Became LEGENDARY QUEENS KINGPINS скачать в хорошем качестве

How The 7 Crowns Gang Became LEGENDARY QUEENS KINGPINS

Back in the early ’70s, before Queens had kingpins, before the Southside became a blueprint for every hustler that came after, there was a crew moving grimy through the borough—Seven Crowns. Not the myth, not the whispers, but the raw, early-Queens energy that came before the money, before the murders, before the organized streets. According to the old heads, Seven Crowns didn’t start as no polished empire. They were straight-up neighborhood chaos, the type of wild kids who’d rain rocks on somebody’s crib just to send a message, talking slick about burning a house down if somebody got too brave. They were reckless, untamed, and they moved with a kind of young-man madness that made the whole Southside pay attention. And out of that early storm? You had the names that would one day define Queens’ underworld—Anthony “Pretty Tony” Feurtado, Fat Cat, James “Wall” Corley. Before anybody was a boss, before anybody touched weight or ran blocks, they were just pieces in the same formation. Same streets, same dirt, same squad. “Seven Crowns was way early-’70s,” Bing says, the tone of a man remembering when everything was raw. “I was in Seven Crowns. It was all on the Southside but spread out. Different pockets. Different corners. Still one gang.” The name itself? Nobody could give you a clean origin. It wasn’t like today’s branding and marketing. But what people do remember: two Seven Crowns members got bagged wearing matching gold rings—fat diamonds shaped into a seven sitting heavy on top of a crown. That was the vibe. Every member saw himself as a jewel, part of something bigger, shining together. The crown wasn’t a symbol—it was an identity. Queens in the early ’70s wasn’t no gentle playground. Lance, another vet, lays it out: “Queens had a lot of gangs. We were fools. We went off the chain.” And when he says “off the chain,” it wasn’t metaphorical. They ran the borough like a tidal wave—1,500 deep at their height. A small army of teenagers who weren’t thinking long-term, weren’t thinking about police files or courtrooms. They were thinking about reputation, unity, and repping the set. “That was back in the early ’70s,” Lance continues. “We were just friends. That’s how everything came together. One love.” But don’t get it twisted—this wasn’t gun-toting warfare. Not then. Not yet. They weren’t moving like the later generations who turned the streets into battlegrounds. Seven Crowns believed in knuckles, boots, and bruises. “We were wild,” Lance says. “But we didn’t carry guns. We believed in a beat down.” That’s what made them different. The violence wasn’t surgical—it was personal. Fists, not firearms. A fight, not a body. They weren’t following no political doctrine, no movement, no blueprint. Their role models were the early hustlers, the men on the block with fly cars and fat money clips—the types the kids saw every day. The story of Seven Crowns ain’t polished. It ain’t pretty. It’s the beginning of Queens’ street history, the spark before the empire, the wild spark that would eventually birth legends, bosses, and the darker chapters that came after. It was loyalty. It was chaos. It was the foundation.