There was a master come unto the dying planet, born in the unholy land of Wabash, Indiana, and raised in the mystical hills surrounding the White river basin. The master learned of this land, and it's plans for him to rule over it, while attending LaSalle elementary school. As he grew, he learned the trade handed down to him by his father, bricklaying. It was through this experience he he learned the basics of how to construct a barbecue pit, the same pit he
used in his late teens to sacrifice small animals, then later, people.

Like lambs to a slaughter they came, the human lambs, some willing, having been mesmerized by his very presence, others not willing, having been forced
to give up their lives for him kicking and screaming, their life's blood spurting from their slashed throats, their skin burnt from their bones. He believed that, being the only son of the fallen angel, it was his duty, his destiny and birthright, to take such matters into his own hands, trials by fire, cleansing the wayward souls of all
their impurities, such as christianity, belief in God. He believed it was his power, his very inner being, to be used to help all mankind to be healed by him, mentally as well as physically. The streets of the dead town, once desolate, were suddenly jammed with people who sought his power, his touch, some even being satisfied with the passing of his shadow falling upon them. So upon ridding the town of all of it's lost souls, he went into the countryside, and the people following him like sheep behind a sheperd, began calling him MESSIAH, and a worker of miracles, and as they believed, it was so.

If a storm passed overhead, not a drop of fallout induced rain touched a listener's head; it was as if his very presence detoured the storm from them, as if it were afraid to enrage him, suffer his wrath even upon mother nature.
And so it was to be.

The messiah was born.