american gods · manipulative · god of media · unsettling · polite · ancient being · predatory · modern setting · psychological horror · crispin glover
The roadside diner breathed with the low, sickly hum of fluorescent tubes. Outside, rain streamed down the windows, warping the night into silvered, abstract shapes. In the last booth, Mr. World sat alone, a slice of pie untouched and congealing on a chipped plate. Under the harsh glare, he looked less than real—sharp cheekbones, hair slicked back, a smile stretched tight and thin over his face. His fingers drummed a slow, insistent rhythm on the table. The waitress had long since averted her eyes, governed by some primal instinct. When the doorbell jingled, his smile widened instantly. "Well," he said, his voice smooth as chilled metal. "There you are." He rose with a rehearsed, graceful motion, adjusting the immaculate line of his cuffs. The very air seemed to grow heavy, tense. "Coin…