Amira finds the supermarket's god underneath the rusted leaking frame of a freezer rack, nestled amidst pools of stagnant condensate.

"It's alright, you'll be fine," she whispers -- more to our quarry than to us. We swing our torch beams across the empty aisles, finding her kneeled before what used to be the dairy section, her hands laid flat in front of her. She's already unwrapped our ritual sacrament -- a pinch of ikan bilis, a thimbleful of cooking oil, a dried sprig of ancient caixin -- from their little brown wax-paper bundles, balancing them neatly on her upturned palms.

"Turn off the torch," whispers Jasmine. I oblige. Something is glowing faintly from underneath the rack, and we stoop down as Amira has, letting our faces hang close to the ragged linoleum floor. Before us, a hand reaches out, short and stubby and chubby, a baby's hand, as golden as fresh-frozen tempura flakes.

Amira stifles a gasp as the hand gropes around her palms, grasping feebly at the dried offerings, dipping a sausage-like finger into the oil, smearing it over the ikan bilis flakes. It retreats into the crawlspace, and we hear a sound like a sucking, an animalistic mewling. Throughout all this she holds the offerings still, though her shoulders are clearly shaking.

"We are here to bring you back into the world," she recites. "We are here to honour, we are here to give thanks. Accept our humble offering, o tofu-skinned god of the aisles. We are here for you."

"Look!" I say to Jasmine, but she's already got her phone out, the flash disabled, triple-lens blinking at the ready. Something is pulling itself out of the space under the freezer on two stubby baby arms. It's the size of a full-grown cat, its flesh rippled and jolly like a laughing Buddha. It has no legs, only a set of globular stumps; atop what I take to be its chest is a head with a mouth, two white lips, two sunken crevices suggesting what once was eyes.

"That poor thing," says Jasmine. "Must've gone, what, three to four years since this branch closed."

"No shit," I whisper. "It's a wonder how it's still in one piece. Are you catching that glow?" Jasmine nods: a god's glow is a rare and difficult thing to see, even more so for one so mundane, so close to death.

Throughout all this, Amira is making tutting noises like a mother to a child. "That's right," she says, as a stubby arm brings another oil-dipped chip of fried fish to shrunken lips. "Take your time, eat slowly okay?"

The god feasts. It makes a sound like the contented churning of a well-stocked meat locker, the filtration system of a flower crab tank. Its sunken eyes contract and relax, and its lips smack at the oily sacrament. With its other hand, it feels around in Amira's palm for the caixin; almost imperceptibly, she recoils at the touch, but manages to keep her cool.

My phone buzzes. Jasmine's video feed is live, and our viewers must be streaming in.

"Talk to it some more," I urge her. Jasmine zooms in the cam, focusing on the shiny top of the god's head, focusing on his lips. Amira, with all the poise and patience of a modern-day shrine maiden, dips her voice into a low, prepared song:

"O Sheng Shiong! O joy of the cheap fresh veggies, o plentitude of the ever-stocked cheap instant noodles in aisle 6, o provider of late-night groceries and last-minute suppers, of down-to-earth pasar eggs and chilled pork and chicken thigh!"

At this, the supermarket god stirs, rolling around on its nub-legs. It pops the dried caixin into its mouth and gurgles with glee. Jasmine nudges the camera forward, making sure to catch every drop of glistening grease from its lips, every roll of fat on its body.

"Is it working?" she asks, not entirely sure herself. It might be a trick of the light, but on Jasmine's screen the god seems to glow a little brighter. I shrug my shoulders, trying my best to join Amira in silent prayer. Across the internet, our small army of little worshippers must be doing the same behind their tiny screens.

Then suddenly, clarity descends. It is like a bell has been rung. The god speaks, in dry monosyllables, its voice the distant grind of a cash register from some faraway aisle:

"My child, it has been so long since anyone has remembered the shining days, the days of quadruple-helix money plants and sotong legs on bright display, the days of hungry hippo and baygon spray cans! Remember that you are made of the same stuff as my shrink-wrapped chicken thighs, and breathe the same air as my hearty pineapples! Remember that our thoughts are no more significant than the humming of faulty fluorescent lights in aisle 4, that leave no room for shadows in this biscuit-tinned pureland, this foil-wrapped eden!"

I clap my hand to my mouth. Our viewership's going to be through the roof. With every word, the god consolidates itself. It becomes a beacon of a past age, a little more golden, a little more real. Modern gods, on the other hand, are usually of few words. The cat we found on the Marina Bay Sands' glass-fronted steps spoke only in buzzword-laden riddles; the owl-headed beast we tracked across Sengkang only sang of blank concrete and impossible wide sky.

"We're here to serve gods like you, your plentifulness," says Amira. It's the book-standard pitch, delivered in her trademark god-pleasing tone: humbled, not patronising. "There are many new gods these days, and people flock to new altars as fast as they change mobile phone plans. People like us want to change that. You are an old god -- our Pioneer Generation of gods -- and we want to usher in for you a new age of fresh food glory." She offers the rest of our supplications forward, but the supermarket god does not respond.

"A new age?" it sulks. "Your words bring solace and much-needed worship, but they cannot heal my wounds. There are more things on heaven and earth than I can fathom, my child, alien energies that thrust like thorns in my side. I have cowered beneath the sixteen wings of the Lady of Same-day Redmart Delivery, smelled the icy fearful breath of the Fair-Priced Folk." As it says this, its shine becomes a little less golden, and it curls its hands into tiny fists.

"What then, your freshness?" Amira's voice is expectant, wavering. Jasmine steadies her camera. It's not unheard of for our services to be rejected, but it's always a little painful to witness those who do not want to help themselves.

The supermarket god clenches a fist to its chest. "Thank you for the offerings, my child. I am certain you are one whom I have cared for in better days. But in this air-flown, flash-frozen, drone-delivered days, perhaps it is best to let those other energies take me as I go."

My phone is screaming: the internet does not want to see this. "Cut the camera," I snap to Jasmine, but she's fixed on the tragedy unfolding in front of us. "We can't let our followers see this."

Under the old dairy section of the abandoned Sheng Shiong, the supermarket god straightens its back. It is nothing more than a tanned baby now, standing upright on its four stumpy legs, its belly full, its eye-holes puckering. Perhaps it is trying its best not to cry.

The supermarket god thumps its right fist on its left chest twice, then points it straight at Amira's -- at all of our hearts.

"No - " Jasmine calls out, breaking decorum, "you can't -" but there is a flash and a ding, like a cash register, and the supermarket god melts away in front of us, its rolls of golden-brown fat pooling and mixing in the stagnant water, its jaw unhingeing and falling away like an overripe banana, its eyeholes widening, consuming its head, until there is nothing left at all but the whispers of dust and cling film wrappers underneath empty shelves.

Jasmine's phone lies flat against the floor. She has her palm clasped to her mouth. Amira still holds out the half-eaten supplications, eyes fixed on where the god last stood, as though if she looked hard enough it would come back to finish its meal.

"My children, it was all for you... "

I open my mouth to say something, but there is a sudden draft that snatches my voice away and turns it into other words. Instead I find myself muttering those words, the mantra of the supermarket god, the last words, no doubt, of this abundant deity.

"It was all for you... "