Your uncle," Poseidon sighed, "has always had a flair for dramatic exits. I think he would've done well as the god of theater.

Dakota's head was stuck in his toga. He staggered around olike a Kool-Aid-stained ghost. "Um," Percy said, "should I wear my bed sheets?

I named my camel Katrina. She was a natural disaster. She slobbered everywhere and seemed to think the purple streak in my hair was some kind of exotic fruit. She was obsessed with trying to eat my head. I named Walt's camel Hindenburg. He was almost as large as a zeppelin and definitely as full of gas.

I said hello to the poodle.

She decided she'd rather die in some less memorable way- maybe falling down the stairs, or going peacefully in her sleep at the age eighty, after a nice quiet life with Percy.Yes, that sounded good.

Lord Bacchus, do you remember me? I helped you with that missing leopard in Sonoma." Bacchus scratched his stubbly chin. "Ah... yes. John Green." "Jason Grace." "Whatever," the god said.

My sister, with her ratty red-highlighted hair and her linen pajamas and her combat boots—how could she possibly worry about being possessed by a goddess? What goddess would want her, except the goddess of chewing gum?