"I thought you said forty?"
"I don't remember telling you shit punk! Now, get the fuck out of my car."
"Yea, yea. This is garbage, you fuckin' piece of shit," he snatched the twenty out of the man's hand and pointed a finger at his face. "You watch yourself, dog. Punks like me leave cheap scores like you busted and broke," he got out coolly and slammed the car door, leaving the balding man and his dodge behind; he stepped onto the sidewalk and headed down the broken street. Shoving a hand inside his jeans, he began searching for a lighter.
This city, this specific night had him feeling more lonely than usual. It was all the same, cold hands, cold eyes, cold cash, cold heart. Life like this could do nothing by kill the thing inside. That's why some fled to this life but, through it all, it gave you a reason to get up in the morning. Everyone had their kicks. Whether it be sex, drugs, money, or the game itself, he lived for the game. It thrilled him, kept his blood running through his ever iceing veins.
But whatever, whether you hustle, you deal, you use, you take: it's all one big chain of events that led up to you winning of losing, each day giving you the opportunity to make your move. You play or you get the fuck off the streets. But who would want to do a thing like that?
Living a normal life meant you had to deal with normal problems and he, well he wasn't ready for that just yet. The boy in him was too hungry, too reckless and it was all driving him to hell one score at a time. Some people are just self-destructive. Some people you just can't help. Some people aren't living unless they're dying. He put a smoke to his lips.
A car honked. He smiled and yelled at the car. "Hey, what you lookin' for?"
"What YOU lookin' for? Wanna make some bread?"
He walked up to the car and leaned in the window. The man trailed a finger down his chest.
"You like what you see?"
The man smiled. "You got a name gorgeous?"
"...John."