Percy Jackson and the Olympians: The Chalice of the Gods

But that was exactly why Geras had stolen the chalice. It let you cheat the system. And he wasn’t wrong about immortality being a curse. The gods were the most messed-up people I’d ever met. They’d had centuries to work out their problems. They just didn’t. Sure, they changed their clothes and modernized their lifestyles once in a while, but at heart, they were still exactly who they had been back in the Bronze Age.

A heavy feeling settled in my gut. . . . I wasn’t sure if it was despair, desperation, or donut. Was I on the wrong side of this fight? If I walked away and let Gary keep the chalice, Ganymede might get shamed and exiled from Olympus. Would that be so bad? The gods would have to pour their own drinks. They’d have one less way of making new immortals. Ganymede could get a job at Himbo Juice. Maybe Gary would even write me a recommendation letter instead, praising me for embracing my inner cranky old man.

But Ganymede had chosen me for this quest. Putting aside the fact that every god chose me for every quest, I felt obligated to keep my promise. I remembered how nervous the poor cupbearer had looked at Himbo Juice; the way he’d ducked under the table when he thought the golden-eagle-flavored smoothie of Zeus might swoop down to get him.

Yes, he was traumatized and miserable. Maybe he would’ve been better off getting kicked back into the mortal world. But he hadn’t asked me to free him from Mount Olympus. He’d asked me to retrieve the cup. If I chose to wreck his life for his own good, without his permission, I wasn’t much better than Zeus. I believed everyone should have the right to ruin their own life without anyone else ruining it for them.

“I need to do this,” I told Annabeth. “I think I can find a way. . . .”

She studied my face, maybe wondering whether she should try to knock some sense into me with the hilt of her dagger. Finally, she sighed. “It has to be your call. Just . . . don’t underestimate him because of how he looks, Percy.”

It made me uneasy when she called me Percy instead of Seaweed Brain. It meant we were way beyond the point where she needed to criticize how dumb I was being.

We marched back to the play structure. Gary was gumming a Fruity Pebbles donut while Grover looked on in horror. The rainbow sprinkles around the god’s mouth somehow made him look even older.

“Ready to say your good-byes?” Gary asked me.

I shook my head. “No good-byes yet. Let’s confirm the rules of engagement. You and I wrestle one-on-one. You push my face to the ground, I lose, get turned to dust, et cetera. I force one of your knees to the pavement, you give me the chalice and leave us in peace. Either way, when this is over, my friends go free.”

“That is the deal,” Gary agreed. “Although, since you’re going to lose, most of those terms are . . . What’s the word? Moot.”

“You’re moot,” I grumbled, because I am deadly with those quick clap-backs.

“Or . . .” Grover said, “you could trade the chalice for these leftover donuts.” He flapped the lid of his box, wafting the scent of mochi toward the god. “Then we can all go our separate ways. I still have two more black sesame and a pistachio.”

Gary seemed to consider this. In my book, mochi donuts would be pretty close to magic chalices in any post-apocalypse barter system. I thought Grover might actually be onto something. He was about to make my life much easier and also longer.

Then Gary shook his head. “We’ll stick to the original arrangement.”

“Fine,” I muttered. “When do we start?”

I didn’t even have time to breathe. Suddenly Gary was on my back, his hands like steel clamps on my shoulders, his legs wrapped around my rib cage, his heels digging into me like I was an uncooperative horse. My knees buckled. The guy weighed a ton. I threw out my hands and broke my fall, my face only inches from the asphalt.

His sour breath made my head swim. He said in my ear, “Oh, we can start whenever you like.”





I yearned for the good old days when I’d had to fight one-on-one with the war god Ares—whaling on me with his massive sword/baseball bat, unleashing giant wild boars to trample me, glaring at me with his nuclear eyes.

Yes, those were simpler times.

Now I was locked in a wrestle-to-the-death contest with Gary the diapered god of halitosis.

And I was losing.

I tried to push against him, to force myself upright. It was like pushing against the roof of a tunnel. I twisted sideways, using his own weight to sling him off my back. I crawled away, gasping for breath, and barely had time to get to my feet before he slammed into me again, wrapping his arm around my neck. He pulled me into a side headlock, forcing my face dangerously close to his armpit. I really wished I hadn’t taken those menthol tissues out of my nostrils.

“Oh, no,” Gary cackled. “You can’t run from Old Age.”

“Technically not true!” Grover shouted. “Exercises like running can add years to your life!”

Gary snarled, “Quiet, satyr. No interference!”

“It’s not interference,” Annabeth chimed in. “It’s commentary! Every wrestling match has commentary.”

Their distraction bought me a few seconds, which I’d like to say I used to formulate a master plan. Instead, my thought process was: Oh gods I’m going to die help ow armpit armpit.

This falls short of the criteria for master plan.

I tried to shuffle sideways. Gary held me fast. I pushed forward with all my weight. I leaned back, hoping to pull him off-balance. Even though the guy was half my size, he didn’t budge.

“Going somewhere?” he asked.

With his free hand, he punched me in the ribs. The sound that came out of my throat would have alerted any walruses within a two-mile radius that I was looking for companionship.

“Flag on the play!” Grover yelled. “Ten-yard penalty!”

“No body blows!” Annabeth agreed. “That’s not wrestling!”

“Shut up!” Gary complained.

While his attention was divided, I managed to twist out of his headlock. I wrapped my arms around his chest and squeezed with all my might. I tugged and pushed, but I just couldn’t budge the guy.

He laughed. “Having fun?”

I didn’t have the energy to answer. At least he wasn’t smashing my face into the pavement yet. As long as I amused him, he seemed content to let me make an absolute fool of myself. Fortunately, that was on my list of superpowers.

There had to be a trick to beating this dude—something aside from superstrength, which was a ridiculous power only possessed by ridiculous Hercules, who was ridiculous. Maybe Gary had an Off button. Maybe he was afraid of something I could use against him. . . .

What fought off old age? Antioxidants. Crossword puzzles. Fiber supplements. I realized I was getting delirious from the pain and the old-person odors. My teacher Chiron had once told me that in a life-threatening situation, the most important thing is to stay calm. Once you get into fight-or-flight mode, you are too scared to think properly. That will get you killed.

Unfortunately, I was not calm. I couldn’t fight or flee. And I was fresh out of fiber supplements.

I tried my ace in the hole. I summoned my anger, channeled it into the pit of my stomach, and reached out for the unlimited power of the sea. We were in Manhattan, just above sea level, bracketed by major rivers, right next to the Atlantic. Surely I could draw on my father’s might, summon that great force to fight for me!

I unleashed a primal scream.

Halfway across Washington Square Park, a single manhole cover shot into the air. A geyser sprayed the tops of the trees, then fizzled out.

“That was impressive,” Gary said. “Now, shall we end this?”

He plucked me off his chest like I was a tick, then threw me across the playground.

“Percy!” Annabeth yelled.

Her tone of concern was the only thing that saved me. As I sailed through the air, Annabeth’s voice electrified every molecule in my body. My senses went into overdrive. Instead of slamming into the play structure, I twisted in midair, grabbed one of the bars, swung around, and landed on my feet. My shoulders throbbed. I’d probably pulled my arms out of their sockets, but I hadn’t broken my back, or, you know, died.

I staggered forward. Little globs of light swam in my eyes.