Percy Jackson And The Lightning Thief Rewritten

Ch. 1-I Accidentally Vaporize My Pre-Algebra Teacher

Look, I never wanted to be a half-halfblood.

If you're reading this because you think you might be one, then, my advice? Close this damn book right fucking now. Believe whatever bullshit lie your mother or father told you about your birth, and just try to live a normal, mortal life.
Being a half-blood is really fucking dangerous. It's hella fucking scary. Most of the time, it gets you killed in extremely painful and gruesome ways.
If you're a normal, mortal kid that picked this up, thinking it's just a random work of fiction... then great. Read on, I really envy you for being able to believe that whatever you read in this book is fake.

But if you begin to recognize yourself in these pages, then do yourself a favor ----if you feel something, anything stirring inside ---- stop reading IMMEDIATELY, you might be one of us. And once you know that, it's only a matter of time before they sense it, too. Then they'll come after you too...

Still here? Well, don't say I didn't warn you....

My name is Percy Jackson.
I'm only 12 years old, who, up until a few months ago, I was a boarding student at Yancy Academy, which was a private school for troubled kids in upstate New York.

Am I a troubled kid?
Yeah, I guess you could say that. Honestly, we could start at any point in my short, miserable life to prove it, but let's start at last May, when my 6th Grade class took a field trip to Manhattan--- 28 mental-case kids with 2 teachers on a yellow school bus to the Metropolitan Museum of Art to look at Ancient Greek and Roman shit.

I know - it sounds like torture. Most of the time, Yancy field trips were.

But I had hope because our Latin Teacher, Mr. Brunner was leading the trip.

Mr. Runner was this middle-aged guy in a motorized wheelchair. He had thinning hair with a scruffy beard and a frayed tweed jacket that always smelled like coffee. You wouldn't think he was that cool, but he told stories and joke around and let us play games in class. He also had this awesome collection of Greek and Roman armor and weapons, so, basically, his class was the ONLY class that didn't put me to sleep.

I hoped the field trip would be ok or, I at least hoped for once I wouldn't get in trouble.

Boy, was I wrong.

See, bad things always seemed to happen to me on field trips. Like, for instance, at my 5th grade school, we went to the Saratoga Battlefield and....I had this accident with a Revolutionary War Cannon...I wasn't aiming for the school bus, but, of course, I got expelled anyways. Why was it loaded anyway? But even before that at my 4th Grade school, when we took a behind-the-scenes tour of The Marine World shark pool, I sorta hit the wrong button on the catwalk that my class was on and... they took an unplanned swim and before that... well, I think you get the idea. But this trip, I was determined to be good.

All the way into our city, I put up with Nancy Bobofit, the freckly, redheaded kleptomaniac white girl that continued to hit my best friend, Grover Underwood, in the back of the head with chunks of peanut butter-and-ketchup sandwich, which, by the way, is nasty. Ew, ketchup.