Thrashin by Total Slacker

Out west lie the Mesa's. Majestic table-top butte's with steep cliffs of volcanic rock falling from their flat tops before eroding into rocky, dusty hills that drain into the arroyo's and canyons of the low lands. Those who have lived in the southwest can attest to its mysteries; there is something in the air, someone in the hills at night. What are the coyotes howling at? The cattle seem restless. In a valley north of Santa Fe, a land of chamisa bushes and prickly pear bordered by distant mesa's over which dark, towering rain clouds would gather in the afternoon's sending rumbling lighting bolts down upon dry, cracked Piñon trees, there lived a young member of Total Slacker. There was an old ranch hand, known simply as The Gaviero. A man with deep wrinkles along his brow, skin worn to a rough leather after years underneath the unforgiving New Mexico sun. A quiet man, he would occasionally fall into bouts of melancholy nostalgia in which old stories and tales, both lived and heard, would come bubbling up to the surface of the terse man and he would raise a finger, pointing ominously to the distant mesa's, places only he had been, perhaps while searching for a missing horse, out reliving its days as a wild mustang on the plains. "Out there." he would drawl, indicating a wide swarth of land, "Out there you can find ancient hopi burial sites. Mysterious carvings in burnt boulders, strange rock formations. And even stranger still, are the bones. Now I have seen my fair share of bones, the bleached white skeletons of strayed cattle, and even the pitiful remains of some lost soul. But out there, I have seen skulls no creature on earth has ever resembled. Strange humanoid shapes that grow into domes above large, gaping eye holes. Strangely long finger bones ending in devilish points and tiny, fragile rib cages. Alien bones."