Nganga appeared again out of the blackness like a murderous centenarian, eyes wide and glowing like radioactive ping-pong balls. His wild hair and beard flailed at every erratic movement, and his long, grey tunic hung loosely form his skin-and-bones frame. Holes appeared all over the garment, the victim of rat bites and years of relentless use.

This man did not belong here in America. Civilisation could not tolerate such depravity. Everywhere he appeared - and Nganga did not exist in this land as much as he seemed to simply materialise, wherever the wind began to blow and thunder began to clap - God-fearing Christian Americans revolted at the sight of him, called to their Creator a desperate prayer, "Rid us of this demon, cast him back whence he came!". But here was a man not even the Earth could shake! 

The mystic had made a habit of attending various churches to declare that their God was dead! The fad had been quieted, muted and displaced! Struck down from the heavens by one far greater! A man of such industrious religious fortitude, no heaven or hell could dare to command his spirit! No deity could promise anything so pious as the charity in his one little finger. No man so worthy of the inheritance of the universe would ever step into a pair of suspenders so snugly. They said that the meek would inherit the earth, but Reverend Al Sharpton was no meek man. He was a colossus, a religion unto himself, and the prophets sang his name like golden cherubs in the celestial choir! 

Feed us, they cried, with the wealth of humanity! Rule us, they beckoned, in the kingdom of Heaven! But Reverend Al cast his hand into the air and he cried, Nay! For he already existed within the City of Angels, and to no other place could he belong. He would replace Christianity with something far greater, a religion of which merely the sight of its golden-plated halls would cast non-believers into an eternity of blindness. In the seeking of profits, er, prophets, he would ascend mere mortality, bathe in its marble-tubbed sanctuaries, sleep in its ostrich-feathered bedding, and be fed delicacies by its buxom servants of myth. 

To start a religion in America, from scratch, was surely not within the capabilities of a mere man. One could not simply pretend to have found and read ancient tablets, Nganga surmised, nor simply have uncovered an ancient, extra-terrestrial conspiracy. No. In America, it had to be real. These were a thinking people - the toast of the West! And Reverend Al would be the pinnacle of their divinity - A Godhead for the great farm of the Western world. Of this, Nganga was convinced.