Pour some sugar on me

It’s 1969.

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.’

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