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Rating: "Coming to America, people brought us with them. We traveled here in their minds, and we took root. Soon our people abandoned us, remembering us only as creatures from the homeland, creatures they believed they had not brought to the new world. Our followers died or stopped believing in us, and we were left alone, lost, scared, and dethroned, getting by with the little faith or veneration we could find. And surviving as best we could. Now, in America, new Gods are rising that grow above nodes of faith: the Gods of credit cards and highways, of the internet and the telephone, of radio and television. Gods made of plastic, ringtones, and neon. Gods full of pride, fat and foolish creatures. Swaggering because they feel new and important. They will destroy us if we allow them. That's why it's time to act"
There's a storm on the horizon.
You see it because you feel it.
You feel it in your mouth, like the taste of battery acid beating under your tongue.
You feel it on the back of your neck, in the electricity that stiffens your shoulders.
You see it in your dreams. Dreams of raptors carrying lightning in their beaks.
There's a storm on the horizon, but you don't really care.
Because your name is Shadow, you're thirty years old, you've just gotten out of prison, and your wife, the only woman you ever loved, died in a car accident while blowing your best friend. And, you know, a shadow without light is just darkness.
You're dead and don't even know it. Actually. Maybe you've never lived.
And so it's worth accepting the proposal of an old stranger, one-eyed and drunken, who loves a bit too much tricking others and join him on a journey aboard old and battered cars, on highways that look like the skin of an endless asphalt snake stretching to the horizon.
Desolate. Endless. And all lead to the storm.
You're crossing a Midwest of winters that can kill a man and diners that can save his life, a pilgrimage through the four corners of a postcard America: the America of good cops, simple people, donuts, and maple syrup. But also of small daily tragedies, child murderers, depression, and, most importantly, loneliness.
The America of the Gods.
Not ancient Gods, but simply old.
Slavic divinities forgotten by their faithful, who get by with tricks, like slightly senile grandparents neglected by their grandchildren, sharing an apartment that smells of "boiled cabbage, cat litter, and unfiltered foreign cigarettes". Alluring fertility goddesses who become whores to beg for a little veneration. Egyptian Gods of death reduced to being undertakers for a small funeral home.
Divinities to be enlisted, to be convinced. To be placed as pawns in a war that must decide to which Gods America belongs.
You will visit rickety rides that hide altars and dimensional portals.
Horror houses that are temples without even knowing it.
Old shacks on top of the hill, where human lives are decided.
Sacred and profane. The eternal and the ephemeral. Ancestral rituals and daily gestures mixed to the point of being indistinguishable.
You will die.
And perhaps, then, you will truly begin to feel alive.
You will understand that the Apocalypse is little more than a magic trick. Like making a coin disappear.
A trick to fool the unsuspecting audience.
And there will be no more storm on the horizon.
Because, by then, you will be the storm.
"The Gods die. And when they really die, no one cries for them or remembers them. It's harder to kill ideas, but eventually, those too are killed"
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