The Lightning Fart: A Parody of The Lightning Thief (Percy Jackson & the Olympians, Book 1)

It had been a long day and we were pretty exhausted, so we found a back office at the museum with some couches and went to sleep. I guess I slept for a while, because when I woke up I found a note taped to my arm:

Meet us outside, sleepyface.

—Annabeth & Grover

When I got outside, Annabeth was eating some stale chips she’d found in the office, and Grover was talking to a poodle.

“Dude, why are you talking to a poodle?” I said.

“Because he’s talking back to me,” said Grover. “Satyrs can talk to any animal, you know.”

Oh boy. Grover was really losing it.

“Uh huh,” I said. “And what’s he saying?”

“He’s saying he’s lost and his owner will pay a $200 reward to whoever brings him back,” said Grover.

“If he were really talking to you, wouldn’t he lie and say the reward is like $2,000 to get you to return him?”

The poodle barked.

“He says that’s a good idea,” said Grover, “he just hadn’t thought of it.”

The poodle barked again.

“Oh I understood that one!” I said. “He said the weird goat dude who thinks he can talk to dogs is creeping him out.”

Even though I didn’t think Grover actually knew there was a reward, we did need money to continue traveling west, so we took a shot and returned the dog. It turned out there was indeed a reward, and it was indeed $200, which was enough to buy train tickets. But only as far as St. Louis. And only two of them.

“Why are we only buying two tickets?” Grover said at the ticket counter of the train station.

“Because we don’t need one for you,” I said.

“Why?” he said.

“Because you’re our pet goat, so you can travel for free.” I pointed at a small animal cage. “You just need to travel in there.”

“Ohhhhhh no,” said Grover.

“Well, I guess I could just call Chiron and tell him you’re coming home because you didn’t want to protect me,” I said.

Grover got into the cage, mumbling angrily.

“And no talking, either,” I said. “Remember, you’re a goat.”

The train ride was maddeningly slow like all train rides in America, but eventually we made it to St. Louis. When we got off the train, I suggested we have a group meeting to figure out how we were going to get to LA, but Annabeth wanted to see the St. Louis Arch first because she was really into architecture. I didn’t have any desire to see a big arch, but I did have a desire to see Annabeth in a bikini one day on our honeymoon in Hawaii. “Sure, I’d love to check out the Arch!” I said. “I’m really into architecture, too!”

We headed over to the Arch and took the elevator up to the observation deck. There were a bunch of different windows overlooking St. Louis, and we each went to a different window. The view was actually pretty cool, but I could barely see it because there were all these annoying tourists standing in front of the windows taking selfies. So I wedged my way in past some selfie-takers to get a spot right next to the window.

I got to enjoy the view for about ten seconds before I felt myself being boxed in by the selfie-takers. It started getting a bit claustrophobic, so I tried to wedge my way back out, but when I pushed against the selfie-takers’ bodies they wouldn’t budge. So I tapped one of their shoulders.

“Excuse me,” I said, “do you think you might have a second in between the 5,000 selfies you’re taking to let me out?” The selfie-taker turned toward me and removed the phone from in front of his face…revealing that he had only one eye, right in the middle of his forehead.

“HELP!” I shouted.

Annabeth looked over from her window. “A cyclops!” she said. “Grover, cyclopses are attacking Percy!”

Annabeth and Grover tried to get over to me, but they couldn’t move very fast with all the idiot non-cyclops selfie-takers standing around. One of the cyclopses smashed the window behind me, and another cyclops lifted me up. I reached for my pen, but by the time I grabbed it, I was already flying out the window.

As I was falling the 630 feet toward the Mississippi River, it occurred to me that if I were the son of Poseidon instead of Pooseidon, this situation wouldn’t be a problem. Since Poseidon is the god of water, he’d make it so that when I hit the river it would feel like landing in a bed of feathers. But unfortunately, I was the son of Pooseidon, not Poseidon, and my quest was about to be over.

I smashed into the water with a fla-floooom and waited for everything to end. But it didn’t. Actually, hitting the water didn’t even hurt. I started floating gently down toward the bottom the river, and I realized that I was able to breathe underwater.

Then I heard a woman’s voice coming from the darkness of the river.

Percy, go to the public bathroom at Santa Monica Beach!

I looked around, but nobody was there.

The voice spoke again: Percy, go to the public bathroom at Santa Monica Beach!

“Why would I want to do that?” I said. “Have you ever been to a public bathroom at a beach? And where are you, anyway?”

Then I saw her: a woman the color of the water, wearing a gown made of toilet paper.

I don’t have time to tell you more. Just trust me and go to the public bathroom at Santa Monica Beach.

“Am I dead?” I asked.

No. Fortunately for you, swimmers have been farting in this river for years, so the water contains the healing powers of your father, Pooseidon.

Well that explained why I’d survived the fall.

“Hold on, who are you?” I said.

I cannot stay, brave one. Unlike you, I am not fully immune to the smell of farts, and you just made a giant one.

Oops. I was hoping she wouldn’t notice.

Remember: the public bathroom in Santa Monica! She held her nose and quickly swam away.