Gabriel chewed his lower lip, deep in pensive thought as the coin danced along the table in front of him. He leaned back into the chair, sucking in the air around him. No matter how much his lungs filled, he still felt deflated. The coin wobbled like a drunk, waiting to topple over. It did just that. Again he picked it up between his forefinger and thumb, pressing its bottom back into the table. Pressing life into the bronze decision maker, he watched it twirl and shine. In return for this solitary moment of momentum, he wanted an answer in return. If the head-side lay facing him, he would give it his all against Andrew Watts. If the tails-side stared up at him, he would spin it again. Five times yielded the same inviting smirk from tails. He gave up.
His most recent times at Sin City Wrestling were a blur of depressive, melancholic regrets. Management paved him a path to walk, each step another success, but he had foolishly misplaced his motivation like a set of car keys. In hospitals, when someone is on the brink of death, it is common for doctors to describe the person as circling the drain. They are slowly being sucked into a void of emptiness and despair, though they still clutch onto consciousness with what little life remains inside them. Gabriel had been circling the drain for some time now. If he couldn’t find some defibrillators or somehow perform CPR on his career, his life inside the ring would dwindle, and it would die.
He spun the coin a final time. Tails.
