Tensions where high. Two of the boys had already folded, leaving three left in the game. Orren's hard stare and perpetual scowl gave away nothing. The guy across from him, Tito, pushed a few more chips into the middle of the table, a smirk across his face. The guy to Orren's right cursed as he slapped his cards down on the table.
"Fold." 

Orren laid down his cards with confidence. He was sure he had the better hand, until Tito spread his out on the table. Orren's face dropped, then scowled. "You fucking cheater," He snapped, standing up. Tito stood as well. 
"What are you talking about? I ain't no filthy cheater. I won fair, so pay up!" Orren growled as he lunged at the man, grabbing his arm and pulling a few spare cards out of his sleeve. 
"Then what the fuck is this?! What kind of fucking, shit eating morons do you take us for? Everyone knows you're a fucking cheat, Tito. Your own goddamn mother wouldn't deny it!" At that, Tito took a swing at him. The two started a full out scuffle, knocking the table over and sending chips flying. Orren was pretty short in statue, but he had muscle to make up for it. Tito was lean and lanky, but he wasn't exactly a fair fighter. 

Meanwhile, Jack was about to make some money of his own. The hooker, not wanting to get her brains blown out, handed Jack her wristlet. Jack away about to walk away when someone ran up and grabbed his arm. His sunglasses fell off his face and landed on the cement. Acting out of instinct, he ripped his arm away from the smaller man and brought the butt of his gun down on the guy's head. About that time, a SUV turned the corner and began speeding towards them; Jack assumed it was the pimp. He shoved the kid down and hauled ass. The first rule he'd learned on the street was to never fight if you could run. He ran across a couple yards and hopped a fence, just as a couple men piled out of the van after him. They gave a short chase before giving up when Jack hit TI-32 territory. 

On the other side of town, Dylan was privileged with the ability to walk down the streets without worry of being shot or mugged. Most of his clients were from over here. He was approaching the apartment complex of his next client when his phone buzzed again. He pulled it out as he walked and looked at his new text. A new client had already been added to his list; hopefully this woman wouldn't take too long. As Dylan climbed the stairs, he pulled out a couple little pills from his pocket and popped them in his mouth. He swallowed dry, something he'd learned to do a little too well over the years. One was essentially Viagra, a gigolo's best friend, and the other was cheap Oxycontin. Dylan was rarely sober when he saw his clients; he wasn't such a chill guy when he without his pretty little pills. 

By the time he reached the door, his head was swimming in the clouds. Dylan found the box that had been mentioned just inside the door and began to inspect it. He was a little relieved, if not also amused, to find a pizza boy outfit inside. Old classics never died, he supposed. Dylan undressed and changed into the uniform before lumbering off to find the bedroom, pizza box in hand. He pushed the door open to find his client, a middle aged woman, sprawled across the bed. 
"Oh there you are," She crooned, "Is my pizza still warm?" The woman was doing her best to make her voice sound sultry. If Dylan wasn't high off his ass, he may have cringed. 
"Hell yeah. Shit's burning my fucking hands off." It was usually better for Dylan to keep his mouth shut in the presence of his clients, but he rarely ever did so. 
"I hope you have lots of extra...meat." 
"Why don't you be all coming over here to find out?"