Disclaimer: Percy Jackson and the Olympians belongs to Rick Riordan.

Chapter Four: I Really Tick Off Dionysus

The concrete trees were swaying gleefully, the honey pots swelling with pride, I didn't know what they meant to me but the gibbons were jogging and cried; the jelly topped mountains cruised on in the mud to the pancake of darkness and death, the blackness fell out with an echoing thud and history belongs to the rest…

It then occurred to me that I could possibly be dreaming. Possibly.

"Wuidggfasc?" I mumbled, opening my eyes.

"He's alive." A silky smooth voice said.

"Damn!" a gruff voice barked. "I lost the bet."

"That'll be a thousand drachmas, dear colleague." The first voice answered smugly. The person who cussed grunted something else, and I could make out through my hazed vision a porky, black haired man dumping a bag of coins angrily into the waiting lap of youth in white clothing. Looking to my right, my eyes found the face of the centaur in the tweed jacket from earlier.

Oh God, they're still playing this game with me. Perhaps it would've been much better if I had died from shock, despite how highly unlikely that was. I could've lived it up in heaven, the fat man would've won his bet and this bloke wouldn't have to smile at me so patronisingly. Everybody wins.

Who knows, maybe I should stick around and hope something interesting happens. Like my inevitable death. Or meeting Big Foot.

"Okay, this isn't funny anymore. Where the hell's Murphy? I wanna shove a pencil case up his-"

"Dear child, whatever do you find so humourous?" the centaur asked, raising his bushy eyebrows. My sight had regained fully, just in time for me to notice the lemony brightness of the youth's hair and the arctic whiteness of his two beautiful wings. Weirdly, I felt like I had seen him somewhere before.

I was about to say something like 'Wuidggfasc?' again until the centaur butted in.

"Don't worry, a lot of people are surprised when they first see me. My name is Chiron, activities director of here, Camp Half-Blood. You should settle in nicely, seeing as you didn't burn to smithereens after I gave you some nectar in your unconsciousness. What is your name?"

"Chiron?" I said, my eyes widening. "You mean that guy who taught the heroes how to wave swords 'n' stuff?"

Chiron sighed, knitting his brow. I knew immediately that he had just sorted me into the 'retarded' pile. "Yes, child. I'm that guy." He wiped away his frown with another smile. "But you must tell me your name. I'm afraid Murphy wasn't too clear on the details when he told me about you."

I bolted upright. As I did, I noticed that I was sitting on a deck chair on the porch of some building. The table where the winged youth and the grumpy man were sitting was behind Chiron, and the unmistakable scent of alcohol wafted my way. Looking to my left, I saw Murphy leaning against the wall, towering over me in his observation.

"Still wondering where to shove that pencil case?" he said with a sly grimace.

I looked between him and Chiron, gob smacked. "You two know each other?"

"Duh. We live in the same camp. We satyrs do stuff here all the time, y'know."

I looked between Chiron and Murphy again, too focused on the spinning gears of my current thought to take in what he has just said. Back and forth, back and forth; until it all made sense. It was the only possible conclusion available, the one that completed the puzzle….

I pointed at Murphy, and glared.

"You were stalking me on Facebook!"

Murphy's eyes somehow did the splits. "No I wasn't!"

"It was definitely you!" I countered, narrowing my eyes at him. "There was some guy sending me ads in Ancient Greek, trying to sell me discount ambrosia!" My accusing finger moved upwards at Murphy's head. "And he had ginger hair!"

"Now then boys, don't-"

Whatever Chiron said wasn't heard. Murphy scowled, and I stood up from the deck chair, taking a step forward. "Don't you dare insult my hair!" the satyr snapped.

"Really frizzy ginger hair!" I cried, pointing even harder at him.

"Hey!"

"Like a bush!"

"You're one to talk! You look like a girl!"

I gasped. "Why you little-!"

"A little girly girl wearing a tutu!"

"Right, that's-"

"SHUT UP!" Chiron yelled. It was so loud that I clutched my ears, for fear they had blown off. "Enough with this tomfoolery! Child, sit back down!"

"Aww, Chiron, I was enjoying that…." The man with the gruff voice said, chortling.

My ears pink with embarrassment, I slowly crept back into the chair, feeling like a toppled sandcastle. Chiron took a deep breath, trying to smile again. Murphy mouthed something to me, probably a death threat or some ancient never-ending curse of eternal punishment. Who knows?

"You still haven't answered my question. What is your name?"

"Marlin Mason…" I said quietly.

And then someone burst out laughing.

"Your name is Marilyn Manson?"

I looked over Chiron, and saw the face that belonged to the voice.

Upon seeing it, I sat back down, terrified.

"No!" I said quickly. I did not want to tick this guy off. He was that sort of type. Hey, read on a few more paragraphs, and see for yourself how I totally screw myself up! Otherwise, we wouldn't have much of a chapter.

…See, I knew you love to see me suffer.

"But you said Marilyn Manson."

"No, I didn't. Notice the may in Mason?"

"Whatever you say, Mary Magdalene."

"Mary Magdalene!" I spluttered.

I couldn't help but step the mark. It was just the aura this guy gave off; it was the aura of an utter asshole. A true, certified asshole. I bolted out of the chair before I knew what I was doing.

"Are you deaf or something?"

"Oooh, the kid's gone nuts." The man taunted. He sipped at a can of Diet Coke on the table, and then looked at it as if it ought to be burnt for witchcraft, or attached to an atom bomb and flung into space. "You sure you didn't overload the punk's brain with nectar, Chiron?"

"Ah-"

"Good job. We could do with one less 'demigod' running about. That kid Johnson blows enough stuff up as it is."

"Don't you mean Jackson?" the winged man said.

"Jetson, whatever." By now I was ready to toss the guy into a vat of scalding jam, but sadly no such thing was on hand.

"You should seriously get a hearing aid!" I said without even thinking.

Mentally, I strangled myself.

The man stopped. He turned his face to me, and now it is time for you to see exactly why pissing this guy off is not a good idea at all.

Two deep shot, watery eyes seemed to simmer at me. And his plump, crimson cheeks only made him look like he was boiling.

"What did you say?" He said coldly. It was more of a statement than a question. The winged man suddenly became enthralled by the windowsill.

Murphy made like an almond and blanched. "Marlin, I really think you should-"

The man got up from the table, his grape coloured eyes now bubbling with rage, the scent of alcohol only getting stronger. He crushed the can with one hand, brown fizzy liquid oozing over his chubby fingers.

There was something infinite about those eyes. I could stare and stare and stare, and never have any hope of getting out…

The illusion was broken by a falling curl of the man's black hair.

"Do you know who I am?"

I shook my head feebly. My mind was focused too much on the fact that my limbs were getting weaker and weaker by just being in the man's prescence.

"No…" I croaked.

A small grimace tugged at the man's lips. "Well. Let me tell you. I'm quite important 'round here, you know. Verrrry important. Do you know what happens when you mess with important people? Especially ones who could possibly come from…say…you know…up there? Hm?"

The ends of his blue Hawaiian t-shirt flapped aimlessly in some ethereal wind. I stared in horror, feeling like someone had shoved a stick down my throat.

"Worked out who I am yet?"

That was when I made my first mistake at Camp Half-Blood.

I let my eyes slide over to the winged man.

He had a young, porcelain face and a warm smile, but like all ceramics, I could tell there was definitely something cracked about him. He was clad in moon-white robes with gold symbols sown into them, possibly in Greek, which only made him look paler. When he caught me looking at him, he smiled at me, showing off all his Hollywood whites. A pure gold quiver of arrows was slung over his back, their flights replaced with small hearts. And - wow…were those nails manicured? You can't get eyes that blue. He was bound to be wearing coloured contacts. That hair simply couldn't be real. No one could have hair that blonde and not be seen fifty miles away. In short, he could easily qualify for a Vain Bastard of the Year award.

And suddenly I knew why he seemed familiar. I had seen his face on almost every Valentine's Day card in the world, albeit much, much younger. And with less clothing.

Of course, I just had to say his name aloud at that precise moment.

"You're Cupid. The god of love."

At which the psychotic man pulled an expression I had never thought possible on a human face, until I remembered that this guy was no human; a look of emptiness but a maddening concentration at once, a gravity that bore upon the very fibre of my soul as his plump lips hung slightly ajar, his frown deeper than the deepest abyss you can imagine.

I used everything inch of being to not die on the spot.

"What."

Note the lack of question mark. This guy was beyond questioning.

I gaped, and felt every inch of my face glow blood red.

"I – uh, I, oh, I meant, er, I, oh, shit."

"I AM NOT CUPID!"

I gave a little shriek, and toppled to the floor. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'M SORRY!"

"Why the HECK did you think I was Cupid?" the man growled, and I could imagine little puffs of steam whistling out of his ears like a kettle.

"I didn't mean you! I meant the, uh, other guy!" I pointed at Cupid desperately, hoping for his aid. Unfortunately, he just seemed to be rather amused.

"Cupid is my Latin name. Personally, I hate it." He replied in his rich voice. "Most call me Eros. Or Mr E. Whatever suits you."

He turned to me slightly, looking sophisticated and composed, with his chin resting on his fist. A light breeze swept gracefully by just then. It was a Kodak moment.

If not for the fact that the guy's hair didn't move a bit. Goddammit, that had to be hair-gel.

"Who cares about you, pretty boy?" the man said. Finally, something I could agree with. "This punk here has made a serious mistake. I've never been so gravely insulted for…for, well a good ten years or something. Which is longer than Marilyn Monroe here has been breathing mankind's precious oxygen."

"For your information, I'm thirteen years old." I corrected him, and then slapping myself for almost standing on another land-mine.

"Fourteen, whatever. Get out of my sight!" The man scowled at me again, as if deciding some cruel fate for me, and sat himself down on his table, summoning another can of soda out of thin air.

I finally had enough courage left to look at Murphy. He was just as terrified as I was.

Chiron looked up at me, and pulled a face, pretending nothing had actually happened. "Well, er…right then! Onto business. Business! Marlin, I believe you've met Chloe Harper?"

"Indeed." I replied. I braced myself for more squealing while I was at it.

"Good, then there will be no need for introductions. Chloe will escort you around the camp."

"Right then…" I sat up from my chair, smiled feebly at Murphy, and walked over to the approaching Chloe, very certain that a pair of deep purple eyes was skewering me from every angle.

At least I worked out that he was the god of wine.