My life forever altered by a visage appeared in a slice of toast. Mustache. A bulbous nose. A hat, emblazoned with "M." Foretold, truth, in my bread. I spread the word. My wife, apostate, left me. My children, estranged by my "madness." No, my prophecy. Toast taken on pilgrimage to the Vactican. An audience with the Pope. The Pope said: "No Christ, this." I smirk. "Certainly not. Much more." The Pope labels me heretic. I murder him with his hat, continue on with the toast. Prophet.