A young, clean cut Archie Andrews sits in the rehearsal space of the band named for him.
He has his guitar on his lap.
The neck of a broken beer bottle is snug on his finger, like a wedding ring, and he runs it up and down his guitar, playing the blues.
‘Shit,’ he says after a spirited take on Love in Vain, ‘Johnson was badass.’
He takes a swig from a bottle of JD.
‘What d’ya think I’d get for my soul?’
Several hamburgers deep into a late night snack, Jughead snorts, ‘a spoonful of blues.’