A coin spins fast, fast enough to endow the flat metal with the illusion of a sphere that travels along the mahogany counter like a planet orbiting the sun.
Richard taps the coin. “Heads or tails?” His eyes sit on Augustus standing across the bar’s counter. Augustus beholds him with the amount of skepticism that his beard—wither than the flowers in his Hawaiian shirt—allows him.
Augustus dangles a toothpick around his mouth a couple of times. “I see no difference.” He crosses his arms. “You have to pay that beer anyway.”
Richard releases a sigh wonkier than his white-and-blue stripped tie. “Don’t you even try?”
“Heads,” Augustus growls.