There was no thunder. No lightning. Only the sheets of driving rain cast to earth by a disgruntled god, cold and cruel and harsh. He hated the rain. He hated the way it would turn suddenly and sting your eyes. He hated the way it pooled to soak your shoes and how it whipped the back of your neck sore. He hated many things, but none so much as the rain. The rain that was supreme over all these people, these men and women and children bustling to and fro. The reign of the rain.

A harsh, strangled cry escaped his throat- the tattered remains of laughter. They could build their skyscrapers. They could drive their fancy tin cans. But when the rain came, what then? It would soak their expensive suits and rust their fancy cars, and good for them because what did he ever get? What did he ever get apart from dirty looks and sniggers behind his back and egg on his door when the morning came? What did he ever get? He watched them run and scream and he laughed again.

See how they run! A sneer curled his bloodless lips. Watch the sheep run from the wolf. Watch them DIE.