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EL CHIEF



EL CHIEF


El Chief has been barking out orders to the unwashed masses for a long, long time. Long enough to now qualify for slightly cheaper pancakes, which is about the only thing that can make El Chief smile. Well, that and brootal metal. The kind of metal that still manages to make skittish people cover the ears and run to whatever crap-tastic pop music is still being spun on the dial. That kind of sappy, happy pop makes El Chief cringe. It makes him want to go to those producers and talent scouts and bang Beyond Creation discs against the fading hairlines of their oblong skulls until they can no longer hear the shit Bieber's shoveling. 

But, there's a hidden story here. Just like all unreasonable fears, El Chief is covering up for a secret that he doesn't want told. How, when he was a wee little Chief, he swayed his little pudgy legs back and forth to the strains of "Disco Duck." How he got excited when K.C. and the Sunshine Band would play on "American Bandstand." And how he hated it when his daddy would tune the dial of the family's transistor radio until he fished Heart's "Barracuda" out of those invisible airwaves.

But then, one day, El Chief found himself all alone on a high school bus. Well, not exactly alone. There was a tall, thin man sporting a gray suit whispering to El Chief, telling him to come to the back row. When El Chief did, that mysterious stranger pushed play on one of those oversized walking juke boxes that can only find in episodes of "Stranger Things," Popping out of that oversized Sony? The glorious, powerful chords of Angus Young and his brother, Malcolm. AC/DC liberated El Chief that day. And he's been screaming the gospel of metal ever since. Praise Be to the Almighty Riff.