The matchlock gun they fired pierced the night with a howl. The they in this case was pale with fear when when they trembled as they darted between the steam powered vehicles in the foggy cobblestone London streets. They bit the last bullet with their teeth as they met their demise from I, who gave chase on horse. The darkness of the pitch-black, starless night howled fiercely, almost menacingly. The darkness lapped up them with little to no hesitancy. The cobblestone streets trailed on endlessly.

They gave chase to them on their grotesquely large, well-groomed horses. They were frightened of the horses who were much too well fed for their earnest desire across the cobblestone streets of London. They disliked them. They loathed them. They fired their matchlock gun at them who trembled behind a fire hydrant. They would wanted them dead and rotted with a stench more than any man in the world. The smell of smoke ended the chase in a draw between the two who returned to their irrespective homes.