Dylan Sticks and Seamus Stones were, hands-down, the most unlikely heroes to land at anybody's feet, but freshly tossed, face-first, from Durty Jimmy's Public House in one of Dublin's woeful sections is how we found them. With the luck of the Irish everyone except Emerald Islers are keen to drivel on about, our plucky lads lifted themselves from financial ennui and set upon adventures hitherto only fairytale-imagined. Tinly-proned ears and commoner minds will malign this far-fetched folk tale, but the irreverent among will dive knees and nodes into this rumpus-roaring report. A person of modern persuasions and velocities will query, "Where do these lyrical listings loosen?" the rejoinder coming swifter than blather from a pundit's pie-hole. "Instigated in Dublin and forged heel-and heartbeat in London's swarthy portage, traversing the mighty Atlantic, barbaric, high-seas exploits along the way, to New York City then the wildly-historied Colorado Territory, where folly and fate wrangle treachery, lust, and deceit with the fecundity of a hound dog chewing a gnat from its tail-end, culminating in Gunshot, the fledgling gold-rush boom town where civility and goodwill are matters of flexible assertion. Alas, first things at the outset as accordingly prescribed. Let us snip the sanguine cord that binds mortal coil to sentient being and sally forth in robust reverie, making the most of what time we have on this whirling rock before our impoverished planet snaps, crackles, and ka-ploofs to cosmic etherealization, our kinkly-charred frames pondering, "Where hath Life's joys gotten to?" Yay, verily, Tom Sawyer, Huckleberry Finn, look out. Sticks and Stones are in town.