Becher suggested it.
Stahl named it.
Priestly defended it, but I control it. I am the Priestess of Phlogiston.

The fool Lavoisier, with his measurements and instruments, doubted its power. He mocked Phlogiston, calling it a mere product of oxidation. The heretic could not save his own life when the French peasants descended upon him and removed the last bit of life, of Phlogiston, from his body. I hope he realized how important it is to respect that which you do not understand.

Marie Curie thought that she understood radioactivity. Her bones still glow in the grave. She lacked the proper respect for the source of her power.

My subjects have learned respect as they wait in the bell jar for their final moments. Their eyes are searching for the truth along with mine. Then their glory is released. Their souls reveal and revel in the perfection of phlogiston. I pull it from them and I send them to an existence far more honorable than this one.

“Oxygen” is such a mediocre name for power.