This is a story that I was working on when I had no computer for roughly six months. It is, unfortunately, not completely finished, so I'll probably be working on it while writing Power of Insanity and Ignorant Bliss. Stop complaining. I get bored very easily when forced to do only one thing.

Regardless, this is a very crack-like fic, so have fun killing your brain cells while reading this – I do know that my IQ has dropped 25 points since starting this, and after taking a break, has since refused to recuperate back to normal levels.

Enough chitter.

I'll stop my chatter.

Enjoy the story.

Percy Jackson:

Ramblings of a Foul-Mouthed Cynical Brat

Chapter One:

Off is the General Direction in Which I Wish You Would Fuck

In the beginning, there was darkness.

Not really, but hardly anyone remembers Greek Mythology these days, and even fewer believe in it. Sad really.

Chaos. That was the beginning.

The Creator, the Bringer of Light, of the Universe, Primordial God of Everything, Really.

Whose gender just so happens to be of the female variety.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. And none of this has anything to do with this story – yet, anyway.

My name is Perseus Jackson, son of a beautiful mortal by the name of Sally Jackson and some Greek god that I don't really give a damn about and who my mom won't tell me the identity of.

With my luck, I'm the son of Poseidon, a barnacle-encrusted god of the sea who is second in Zeus' hatred only because the Kind of Gods has another, even more unfortunate brother.

If I'm the son of Hades, though, I'm gonna start cursing the Fates and asking why they hate me. Whatever it was, I'm taking it to court, and pleading "Not Guilty", regardless of charges.

Once again, however, we've gotten off topic.

Let me tell you my story.

Now, most stories begin at the beginning, continue through the middle, and finish at the end.

Screw that.

We're starting with the middle, finishing with the end, and skipping the beginning because you've probably already heard it.

If not, here's the shortened version.

I'm discovered by a satyr, who takes me to this fucked-up camp for "people like you, Perce" (my most hated nickname – that bastard!), during the process of which my mom crashes the car, I find out I've got a Minotaur chasing me, my mom literally dissolves into golden dust (no joke) and I'm introduced to those supposed "people like myself" who all, for some unknown reason, seem to think I'm a son of Zeus himself.

Bullshit. Even my luck isn't that bad.

But people keep telling me that the evidence is all there. Black hair, sky-blue eyes, capable of summoning storms, etcetera.

Sorry guys, hate to break it to ya, but Poseidon can do that last one too.

But no. Remember when I said my luck wasn't bad enough to be a son of Zeus?

Yeah, apparently I was wrong.

"Godsdammit! Chiron, please tell me that isn't Zeus' symbol floating above my head."

"Yes, it is, Percy." For some reason, Chiron sounded amused.

"Great." I rolled my eyes and decided not to kill myself yet in case this went somewhere even remotely good.

"All Hail, Perseus Jackson, Son of Zeus, King of the Gods." Screw you Chiron, I thought, eyeing everyone bowing to me. Screw you so hard, and in all the wrong places.

So yeah. My sperm-donor's Zeus.

Dear Fates:

Who put a twist in your toga, and told you to blame me, huh?

Whoever it was, he lied, I swear. I didn't do jackshit.

Sincerely,

And with Best Wishes,

Perseus Sinclaire Jackson

(Fate's Chew Toy until I get my day in court.)

After that little claiming episode, things started going downhill.

Nobody would talk to me, people kept avoiding eye contact, by the end of the week, I had satyrs scrurrying out of my path and was seriously considering applying for a new job with Hades in exchange for some decent conversation.

Oh, did I mention that I'd been accused of stealing Poseidon's Trident?

Yeah, that sucked pretty bad, too.

So, I'm hauled up to the Big House (I know, it sounds sexual, but I promise you, it's just an old white house that's unusually large), and Chiron essentially all but orders me to go on some trumped-up journey to save some trumped-up weapon for a trumped-up god so that my sperm-donor can save his trumped-up ass.

Haha! Yeah – NO!

No way in hell am I doing that! I'm a lot of things, but suicidal isn't one of them.

Except, suddenly, that's exactly what I found myself doing – going on a trumped-up journey to save some trumped-up weapon for a trumped-up god so that my sperm-donor can save his trumped-up ass. Fuck my life.

Did I mention that his trumped-up journey is supposed to wind up in Hades' realm? Or that the weapon is Poseidon's trident, and my sperm-donor is supposed to have stolen it? Yeah, Zeus is full of shit – he can't even save himself from his supposedly inferior brother.

Fuck you, Dad. Fuck you and the eagle you soared in on.

Oh, but wait – none of that is even the best part. You know what the best part is?

Cross-country – I have to make my way by land to Los Angeles (where the Gates of Hell, ironically enough, apparently are) all the way from Long Island, New York.

Yeah, fuck that. I'm jacking somebody's Pegasus and using the easy way.

But no, apparently that won't work either, because I have to have "quest members". Some princess-chick, know-it-all, daughter of Athena, and a satyr with a suicide mission who fucked up in the past and got my half-sister, Thalia Grace, turned into a pine tree (a story I heard from one of the Hermes kids, Luke Castellan).

I've said it before, I'll say it again – Fuck. My. Life.

So there we are, riding cross-country, with a car I "borrowed" (with every intention, but no real expectation of returning), and a complaining, stuck up Princess in the rear seat, with a satyr riding shot-gun and sneaking worried glances between me and Ms. Wise-Ass like he thinks WWIII is gonna break out.

Hey, who knows? If this quest doesn't work out, it just might.

Ten hours later on the interstate, and voila! Los Angeles, City of Angels, California, here we are!

"Woe to all depraved souls," I said under my breath, eyeing some graffiti written in Greek (Gee, what a coincidence!) sprayed on the side of the "Welcome to Los Angeles! Have a nice time!" road sign.

No. No, we will not have a "nice time". Fuck you, sign. We're busy saving the world. You ever heard of someone having a nice time when they're saving the world?

Yeah. I didn't think so.

But, back to the story, of course, the moment I say those words ("Woe to all depraved souls", remember?), some spooky-looking (not really) hole in the ground appears, looking like it really might be an entrance to Underworld.

And here I was, hoping Chiron was wrong, and the City of Angels didn't have demons living right under it, and I'd get to say, "Oh, well, we went to the place you said, but nothing was there, so we threw our hands up in the air, 'cause we really didn't care, and said, "Aye-oh! Let the trident go!" and so on. Pass the salt, please."

Well damn. There goes that pipe dream. On to the next one, I suppose.

Maybe Charon will be a nice fellow who wears Italian suits and can be bribed with golden drachmas into giving us a ride.

...Well, what do ya know? Charon actually is a fairly nice old fellow who wears Italian suits and can be bribed into giving us a ride with golden drachmas.

You know life's fucked-up when pipe dreams come true and little orphan's dreams of food don't.

So there we are, my mates and I (for, after a ten-hour drive, sitting in suck a cramped space, how could you not become friends, or, at the very least, friendly?), in front of Hade's palace. It was big, black, and looking so friendly – not. It was looking distinctly unfriendly, actually.

So, of course, I throw the doors open, waltz right in, and ask Hades, in just as many words, "What's the deal man, we heard you stole Poseidon's treasured trident-shaped sex toy. That's messed up, you really don't wanna be sharing those kinds of things. Why'd ya do it, Uncle H?"

"I didn't. Who the Hades' told you that?"

I shrugged, figuring that Hades' was somewhat forced into the usage of his own name when trying to curse properly in Greek. "Oh, you know how it goes, everyone blames you because they think that with people dying, you'll grow stronger, blah blah blah, kingdom will get bigger, etc. etc. – you know," I said, smirking. "The usual.

"Of course it is, Perseus. So, who do you think is responsible?" Hades, frankly, looked far more interested in his dinner than anything else. (Sorry, did I mention he was busy having Sheperd's Pie with his wife, who was being suspiciously quiet and probably planning another escape? Yeah, well, now you know.)

"Why are you asking me?" I asked, absently reaching over and snapping my qestmate's mouths shut to prevent flied from entering.

"Because your observant and have a tendency to notice when someone's done something wrong while being the biggest hypocrite I've ever seen and ignoring your own misdeeds. So, who stole Poseidon's Trident, and most likely my Helm?" Hades finished this statement by putting a delicious-looking piece of steak in his mouth.