Nope. That's it. I'm done. I've seen to much weird shit to just ignore it anymore. Everything has to be just freaking crazy, doesn't it? Of course the gods have to get in everyone's business and screw with your life like, "Normal? Pssshhh, you don't need that. Ha ha lol!"

Oh yeah, there are gods. Forgot to mention that. Whoops. Sorry-not-sorry.

I guess I'll start at the beginning, or at least earlier, so you guys can get up to speed.

Okay, if you didn't know, there are gods. Greek and Roman, apparently. They exist and are still present in the modern world. Oh wait, it gets better. See, most of them come to Earth and get it on with the puny mortals, thus, creating demigods. "Gasp! Wow! You really need to lay off the drugs buddy!" Well, that's where you'd be wrong. I don't! I need more! No, actually, not really, but you're still wrong. They exist. I would say that I can prove it, but a) why would you care and b) the only way that I can do so is by telling you my story. So if you do care, then stick around and I'll tell you.

...

You're still there? Good. Okay, prepare to get mind fucked.

My name is Beranald Gornostaev-Weldman, but if you call me that, I'll remove your bodily organs and cook them in front of you. I won't eat them, because that's nasty, but I will cook them. Just call me Beran.

Do you remember how I said that the gods come to Earth and have children? Well, I'm one of them. No, this isn't an "I'm Better than You!" contest, it's truth. Mi padre, Hephaestus, is the god of metalworking and smithing. He's great with making weapons, playing with fire, and making machines of death that sometimes fall to the mortal world and cause trouble. I, too, have been good at building things. I guess you can figure out where I got it from.

Anyway, Hephaestus is my dad. The other gods, like Ares, Apollo, Hermes, Aphrodite, and company also have half-mortal children, demigods. So we're like those heroes from mythology Perseus, Jason, Achilles, etc. But just, you know, usually not as cool. It's not like we're born with unyielding bravery and super strength. We're usually just normal kids who get into trouble with monsters and either killed or saved.

You know, I'll start with that. Yeah. Demigod children are often either killed by monsters or saved.

"You're stupid. The bus goes down Merringer then takes a left at Farlen. It coasts down Farlen for fifteen or so minutes then takes a left onto Cork. My god, you're stupid." I don't know how many times I told Harold this. Street bums like him had a hard time with directions, but I swear that this would be the 373rd time that I've told him. "I thought it went left at Farlen then right at Banks?" He said will stroking his chin stubble. I shook my head. "No. Merringer to Farlen. Farlen to Cork. Keep up, Harry." He held up his hands in surrender. "Alright, alright. Lay off, man. I'm not feeling great today." I scoffed. "Says the meth addict." Harold walked off, muttering to himself, and I continued down the alley I started walking down.

I looked at the rainbow brick walls and the dumpsters that lined them. This alley was like many in the city of Denver, but I liked it cause it seemed the least alley-like. It reminded me that streets are wider than 7 feet. That life wasn't just the straight and narrow. That it also had twists and turns. Corners and ditches. I ducked under a loosened fence board and looked for my cache. I scanned the brick walls, looking for a specific brick. I grinned as I found the one with the 3-pointed star scratched onto it and edged it out of the wall. I grabbed the small bag inside the niche and opened it, revealing about $486. I snatched a twenty out and slid the money pack back into its cove in the stone wall.

My footsteps echoed off the walls of the alleyway as I walked back to civilization. My shoes scratched against the rough sidewalk, causing miniature pebbles to pop across the ground. I turned out onto the street. The money in my pocket felt light, weightless, almost. I looked behind me, seeing a couple leaning against a wall smoking, and a businessman walking fast and talking into a phone. I felt for the twenty again and sighed when I felt it, still in my pocket. I walked slightly faster.

I may have mentioned that I'm slightly paranoid. No? Okay, well, I'm slightly paranoid. See, demigods aren't born with unyielding bravery and super strength, but we are born with disorders like ADHD, which I have, or dyslexia. My ADHD isn't super great, but it does help sometimes. Though, most of the time, it makes me seem like a crackhead and super paranoid. Today, I assumed the latter.

I arrived at my destination: blessed 7-Eleven. I left the cool air waft over me and calm my nerves. I may have earned a confused stare from the cashier, but I didn't care. It felt good. After basking in the nicotine scented air, I walked to the back of the store to the refrigerated section. I stopped in front of a glass door displaying my quarry: Monster. I opened the door and took the energy drink, feeling the coldness rush into my hand. Seeing a breakfast burrito, I set down the monster at the counter and grabbed it too. I rung up the $1.78 drink and the $3.26 burrito and left.

I stuffed my breakfast into my back pocket and popped the top of the monster. I closed my eyes, listening to the satisfying hiss of carbon dioxide leaving the metal can. When the sound stopped, I lifted the drink to my lips and savored the taste as it flowed down my throat.

If you haven't noticed, I really like monster. Like… a lot…

Anyway, I drank my monster and popped in earbuds connected to the iPod Nano resting in my pocket next to the $14.96. I pulled it out and tapped the screen until it showed my "Favorites" playlist. I hit shuffle and slid it back into my pocket. I smiled as "The Wanderer" came out of the mini speakers in the earbuds. I let the iPod drop back into my pocket and I strutted down the street, feeling better than I usually did.

Now, you may be wondering, "Where are the monsters you were talking about, Beran? It can't seriously be the drink, right?" No, you're right. It isn't the drink. Stay with me, we are about to meet one.

It was at this time that the phone in my left pocket buzzed. I pulled it out and flipped up the small top on the small phone and read the small text, "Meet coors. West." I flipped the top of the phone back down and jogged toward the Coors Field. I made good time, twenty-one minutes, and looked for something familiar. Then, I spotted it. A man in a blue T-shirt and jeans. His infamous grey ball cap with the bill partially torn. He noticed me, nodded, and strode off down a nearby alley. I sighed and followed him.

Reaching the alley, I saw the rest of them there. The gang. Beth, Archie, Cam, and The Boss. Beth, blonde and wearing a jean jacket and spike boots, and Cam, also blonde and wearing a red sweater and sweatpants, were listening to something, sharing a pair of earbuds. Archie, the guy in the ball cap, was in the van parked in the alley, leaning over a blueprint or map of sorts. The Boss, as I knew him, was on the phone. We never met The Boss in person. He was discreet. So every conversation the gang had with him was on the phone. I waved at Beth and Cam while walking over to the van. Archie nodded to the phone and I leaned closer to it. "Here, boss." I said. "Ah, there you are. We got a catch, but we gotta reel it in fast. You in, MT?" I nodded, then said, "Yeah," remembering he was on the phone.

"Okay, We got a convoy heading through town. Eight hundred grand. Five trucks, heavy. Archie has their route on the map. We're hitting 'em at Corvin Plaza. You're job is tech, like usual. You're good today, yes?" I looked toward the van. "You got my gear in the van?" "Yes," The Boss said, "We got your things. Can you use them?" I chuckled. "When can't I?" The Boss grunted affirmatively over the phone. "Comic will fill you in on what to do. Pink and Jockey know their parts. It's $160,000 for you if we do this right. Don't screw up." He hung up. I knew what to do, but he probably was watching everything we did from cameras.

I didn't mention this earlier, but I'm a criminal. Well, technically, Beranald Weldman is not a criminal in federal databases. However, I am a criminal. The gang and I pull off smaller robberies, so $800,000 is pretty big for us. Beth, or Pink, is the fighter of the group. Cameron, Jockey, is the getaway driver. Archie, Comic, is kinda all around. The Boss is the boss. Since my name is Beran, I go by MT. Beran sounds like barren, so The Boss calls me MT, empty. Despite my nickname, I'd argue that I'm not empty, at least not in mind. I've always been good with making things, specifically machines. In the group, my job is generally diversion, safe cracking, hacking, and the like. Today, I assumed that I'd be mostly diversion. It sounded like a good day.