Kemono Juanes ((top)) Here

“No,” Juanes replied, smiling with fangs. “You’re like you. That’s better.”

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Juanes unclasped the guitar case. Inside was not a weapon, but a microphone. Old, battered, connected to a portable amp the size of a lunchbox. He placed it on the floor, took a breath, and began to sing. “No,” Juanes replied, smiling with fangs