Fuming, and likely well aware of the devastating blow dealt his spiritual shell game, Tilton responded shortly after "Primetime's" piece with a priceless tirade. Gone was the "aw shucks" delivery, in its place a junkyard dog. In reference to the trashed letters and kitsch: "Somebody musta stole them prayer requests and planted them there," opined the ghoul. His smooth, P.R.-crafted explanation for multiple mansions around the country: "Ain't I allowed to have nuthin'!?"

Then, addressing why he had spent thousands on a hair weave and plastic surgery, Tilton got surreal. He launched into a roundabout explanation of how ink had seeped into his bloodstream during his relentless "laying of hands" for prayer requests, which somehow resulted in capillary damage to his lower eyelids. Thankfully, Tilton chose not to justify why his proclaimed Jesus-inspired retreat to the mountains for fasting and contemplation took place at a Colorado resort via Mercedes, from whence he was captured on film lugging a large TV. At the end of the diatribe the fun-loving wackiness returned: "And until we meet again, happy trails; I love that song, don't you? Marte [his soon-to-be-dumped wife], would you come over here; you're so sweet and obedient." The theme music then cut in, playing what would be a swan song -- or so it appeared.

After the revelations, disgusted followers filed a dozen lawsuits. One of the plaintiffs, Mary Turk, said she had avoided seeking medical treatment for colon cancer because she believed doing so would indicate a breach of faith in God. Other followers reported having sent in wedding rings and portions of their welfare allotment.

Tilton subsequently left town to dabble in "demon blasting" with an obscure sect in North Carolina. Another marriage, this one to a former Miss Tallahassee named Leigh Valentine, went down the toilet. By the mid-'90s, it seemed Tilton's last stand was the dismissal of his laughable libel case against ABC.

However, by mid-1997, according to an article by Sean Rowe in the Miami New Times, Tilton had turned up in South Florida, sipping cocktails incognito on various marina verandas while plotting a comeback. One South Florida entertainment industry source familiar with Tilton's secretive outfit commented to Rowe:

"These guys are geared up for real, and they're here to stay ... They're a real piss to hang out with. They're just good ol' Texas boys. They like to smoke cigars and drink brandy and have a good time on South Beach. Tilton told me once, 'I just want to come here and be left alone.'"

By 1998, Tilton was living high on the hog again, having cemented his ties with BET. He was raking in nearly $1 million a month.

These days, Tilton is as brazen as ever. He now culls decade-old "Success-N-Life" testimonial footage, much of which depicts newly affluent and pleased-as-punch African-Americans. The program invites African-American gospel singers to further legitimize the outreach. Tilton's clairvoyant claims that "God doesn't want you to drive a clunker or live in a trailer, he wants you to have nice clothes, nice furniture" continue unabated.

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