A/N: I looked, saw that there were no parodies of American Gods, gasped in horror and glee...guess what I have to do now?

Disclaimer: Own I do not American Gods.

The Holy Debauchery

by Undercooked

Shadow, an aptly named analogy who would in later stories become a downright paradox, was very aptly in prison. Why he was there we would never really know, but it had something to do with an inflatable raft, a unicycle, and an African elephant named Ringo. One day, when Shadow was practicing childish card tricks instead of paying his debt to society, he was called to the office of the prison warden.

"Now, Shadow," said the man sternly. "I'm going to let you out early. I see here that you delight all the officers with your fanciful card tricks and occasionally perform sexual favors for them after lights out. That's something we appreciate here at Fictional Prison. Oh yeah...and your wife died. Bye."

And thus Shadow got what he wanted, but didn't really, because then where would the rest of this story go?

Now, our Shadow is a large man, and apparently when you are a large man it takes a little extra effort to feel emotions. As he walked into the airport, he was actually feeling pretty damn spiffy despite the fact that the love of his life was dead. He even skipped a little, whistling a merry tune. This attracted the attention of a man with a fake eye and a beard.

"Hey, asshole!" he called, halting the sassy Shadow in his tracks. "Stop skipping. It makes my genes look bad."

"I'm not wearing your jeans," Shadow said defensively. "These are mine."

The man sighed.

"So you're not the smartest. At least you're large. I'm Wednesday. Want to be my body guard and shit?"

"...No," replied Shadow, folding his arms petulantly and turning away from the Wednesday, who sighed again and said,

"Okay, so I'm an all-powerful god who also happens to be your father. I'm about to lead you on an epic journey in which you will discover the meaning of life and fuck some pretty women. Now do you want to be my body guard?" Shadow had drifted off during this narration and was looking raptly at the baggage carousel.

"How does it do that?" he wondered aloud.

-LATER-

"Hello, police? A guy with a beard and a fake eye is following me and he won't leave me alone."

Wednesday grabbed the phone from Shadow and threw it across the bar.

"Stop that. Now, I'm going to say this one more time - "

"Hi everyone!" exclaimed a tall Irishman, popping up from nowhere.

"You look crusty," remarked Shadow.

"I am crusty. Do you want to fight me?"

"...Not really?"

"Oh. Want something shiny?" asked the man, producing a coin from midair.

"Fuck yeah I do!" screamed Shadow, jumping up and garnering stares from everyone in the bar.

"Sit down!" hissed Wednesday. "For the love of me, were you raised in a barn?"

Shadow sheepishly sat and was rewarded with a shiny coin, which he spent the next four minutes staring at, awed. Wednesday and the crusty Irishman stared at him, the former exasperated, the latter perplexed.

"...Want to get drunk?" asked the Irishman finally.

"Yes," replied Wednesday and Shadow in tandem.

-LATER-

"May dear departed Laurie...uh, Laura rest in peace," said the minister sadly, standing over the casket of a woman dressed as a mime. Everyone nodded soberly except for one woman, who hurled a firecracker into the coffin.

"What the fuck was that?" exclaimed Shadow. "That was my wife, you cuntburger!"

"Your wife was a dirty mime, Shadow!" cried the irate funeral attendee. "And nothing will change that! We don't like her kind here."

"Is that all?"

"No! She was also fucking my husband!" exclaimed the woman, pouting.

"Oh...well. Carry on," said Shadow, gesturing. The woman proceeded to throw more firecrackers into the casket, while the large unintelligent man stood by and watched, nodding approvingly.

NEXT TIME: LAURA THE DEAD MIME TRIES TO COMMUNICATE HER EVERLASTING LOVE TO SHADOW, WHO DOESN'T GET A FUCKING WORD OF IT