Ogoun saw fear behind the white faces of passers by as they drew back from his brooding figure. Yet he knew that in their false hearts they were mocking him. They flowed round him, none daring to come too close, leaving him a lone figures among the bustling confusion in the center of this greatest of American cities. Their fear was good, no more than was due to him. A man of destiny was to be respected, even at a moment of setback, and they would not mock him for long.

His mind seethed with hot anger as he glared at the newspaper in his hand - his photograph was on the back page, a good likeness, the linesman cowering from the violence etched upon the bearded face behind the racket. He had done well not to hit the man and yet his mask had slipped a little, and that was not good. He must show even greater control when he was cheated, prove how sane he was, fit to rule his country when his destiny was upon him, fit to lead it to glory.

The effort not to hit the linesman had been great. And now this filth in the paper! The bomb in his head was ticking. Time was running out if he was to conceal this upwelling of resentment. He must reach the safety of his room and unleash the explosion of his greatness in private.

Suddenly he moved, releasing some of his inner rage by kicking a newspaper placard into the street. Still he hit nobody; he was not mad, he could control his rage.

He hurried towards the subway as he read the story, his six foot two carried easily and gracefully on those athlete’s legs that covered a tennis court so dramatically despite his bulk, his fleshy lips moving as he puzzled out the despicable words.

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