Remo sat in his seat, calmly looking around him, while weaving his blanket. They all seemed to be going crazy. Fear did that to people.
But Remo Ralini knew no fear.
Back in Angola, he had been a respected doctor, but he had gotten tired of the simple life. So he'd moved to New York.
There, people called him 'the Voodoo Man' because of the strange clothes he wore and his out-of-the-ordinary beliefs. This angered Remo intensely. He was much more than just a Voodoo practiser. He was an aritist, a gift to the mortals of the universe, if only they would realize...
He had gotten on the plane even though he had known it would crash. This was because it was destiny. Simply meant to be. Not that he was going to die, of course. He didn't believe that he would ever die.
The Blanket of Eternal Health that he was making at the moment was simply a safety precaution.