Gasoline Cult

The Genesis

Deep in the backwater of the southern wilds, a babies’ cry pierces the sweltering twilight.  As legions of insects scream at the coming night the young mother turns the volume dial of the small battery powered radio and with the help of the King softly sings the restless boy child back to sleep, ever so gently whispering every word to, “Love me Tender.”

At this very moment a rowdy little boy watches the fireflies blink their final goodbyes to the eternal guardian of the day.  His Momma calls him in for dinner, her voice ringing across the fertile rolling hills of Southern Illinois.  He heads for the house as fast as his young legs will carry him, hands reeking of soil and gasoline, superman cape streaming behind.

These innocent children could not know that one day their paths would merge ...