The Day After Lou Reed Died Someone Did Something Stupid While Listening to White Light White Heat

After their work, they slogged through the bog until they reached the roadway outside Downtonderry. 

The sun was rising and the air was cold and it was a nice day. The road by the bog was covered fog that was misty and crispy and fey. 

They walked down the road with the puppies in tow, being dragged in the slats of a barrel.

They made a quick stop at the medicine shop where they sold the misc. bits via haggle. 

And once they were done it was time for some rum, so they hit up the pub, Claude and Daryl. 

And they found themselves again arguing, over needless details disarming. Their lives had descended in cadence when the lost the dread dark queen's radiance in the murk and the mire's allegiance. 

...

Claude looked up from the scrawls on the paper; his whiskey and his porridge were set aside on the pub common table. He turned the paper over, and over again. Daryl had written his name in large block letters on the back, and the words "beyewtiful pomes" at the top of the page followed by "our story" beneath it. There was a lot of exposition on the page. He looked across the table where he met Daryl's eyes, staring back expectantly at him. Daryl's hands cradled his chin, elbows on the table. They were still spattered with puppy blood. 

Claude drew in a breathe. 

"Sure sure. Yeah..."