MetalPaca

Mid-afternoon. A breezy Andean plateau. 1983. Rosalinda grips her staff, proudly surveys the grazing herd of alpacas. The day is long. Long like their fur. But Rosalinda is a caring and watchful shepherd. A sudden, strong—familiar—gust of wind whips her lliclla across her face. Not again. Before her calloused fingers can wrench the fabric from her brow, The bleets of helpless alpacas—young and old—ricochet off the mountainsides And she knows that they’re back. And she knows what to do. Peering up at the muddied underbellies of a hundred ascending camelids She plunges her hand into her chuspas Unsheathes the cassette And clicks it into the portable speaker she carries for just this purpose. Paper Tiger - Heavy MetalPaca. Invaders. Smashes the play button. CRACKing of drums. Sheeeering screech of the rock diablo’s axe!!!! “Ichi! Ni!! SAVE THEM!”