But active members such as Bill say Houstone will never be as organized as the other prison gangs.
"Police and prison guards are trying to make us out to be like Texas Syndicate or some shit," says Bill, "but that's just because we're getting so big, and maybe too quickly. But they don't understand that a lot of guys who go Houstone are leaving Houstone because we don't operate like the other prison gangs, and when they try to organize us like the others, we don't play that. Sure, there are groups of dudes doing things, but it's not like they're doing it for Houstone or any greater good. Everyone is their own man, and if a group of guys make the choice to do whatever, that's got nothing to do with Houstone as a group."
Daniel Kramer
No longer active, Randy Moreno says Houstone recruits members promising brotherhood without lifelong commitment.
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When police first caught up with and arrested Randy Moreno in 1998 for threatening to shoot his girlfriend, he had only vaguely heard of Houstone and Tango Blast, and did not know any members or that it was even a prison gang.
Randy was 19 and had spent the last five years gang-banging with the Locos 13 in Alief, where he grew up.
"I was an enforcer," Randy says. "I knew how to intimidate."
Randy is about 5-foot-10 and weighs around 200 pounds. His bald head, thick neck and rounded shoulders give him the appearance of a boxer, though his eye-glasses, which rest on his squat nose, and his puffy, almost chipmunk-like cheeks soften his look. Like most gang members, tattoos are peppered all over his body, including his nickname, "Joker," which he says was given to him because "of my crazy smile when I was hitting a guy."
Randy can't recall how many fights he's been in — he estimates it at nearly 100 — but by the time the law came crashing down upon him, sending him to prison for four years for the episode with his girlfriend and a subsequent theft charge, Randy had already dodged a pair of murder attempts and was running a chop shop and several crews of car thieves, making enough money to prepay two years' worth of rent on five separate apartments scattered throughout the city.
"I guess I just thrived on the violent lifestyle and destruction," he says.
Before going to prison, Randy did know something about the hard-core prison gangs. Several months before he was arrested, Randy accompanied members of one of the Hispanic prison gangs — he won't say which one for fear of retaliation — as they went after a member they believed was a snitch.
"They asked me if I wanted in the gang," says Randy, "but they said that before I answer, I need to think about if I'll still want to be doing it at age 55 and 60. I didn't say anything to them out loud, but I thought to myself, 'There's no way.'"
Randy remembers it was a Thursday, his second day at the Goodman unit in Jasper County, when a pair of inmates first approached him in the chapel about Houstone.
"I told them I didn't want to be in a gang," says Randy, "but they were like, 'Oh no, we're not a gang.' They said it was just homeboys looking out for homeboys and that 'We can hook you up with some food and stuff from the commissary.' They said they were not like the other gangs because there wasn't the same kind of commitment."
Randy told them he'd think about it, and then spent the next two weeks watching what members did and how they interacted.
"When I went to prison," says Randy, "I told myself, 'Okay, don't join a gang, behave, make parole and get out.' Well, that soon turned to shit."
He says that when he first entered the system, his mind was focused solely on using the time to straighten out his life. But after hearing Houstone guys pitch the gang and its lax attitudes toward commitment, and realizing he was stuck there for four years, he was sold.
"I told them they seemed pretty cool and didn't seem like the other gangs," he says. "So, I said, 'Fuck it,' and got down with them."
Randy was initiated into Houstone in 2000, back when you had to be in prison to join the gang. Today, the rules seem to be more relaxed, and more and more men and teenagers are claiming to belong who have never served time in a state penitentiary.
In Dallas County, for instance, gang prosecutor Heath Harris says he is handling a case in which a young man belonging to the local street gang Brown Pride is awaiting trial at the county jail for allegedly stabbing his girlfriend to death last August. Harris says that jail guards have intercepted the man's mail, which details how he now belongs to Tango Blast and is fighting it out with Texas Syndicate members. The defendant also is covered in Tango Blast tattoos, all of which were applied in jail, Harris says.
"He hasn't gone to prison yet," says Harris, "and he's already been recruited and is aligning himself with that particular group. I'm definitely going to look into having the jail personnel really monitor the situation, because obviously he joined while incarcerated at the county jail. I'm going to talk to the sheriff and see what we can do to gauge what type of recruitment is really going on there."