I knew he couldn't hear me, but I stared at him in amazement. He'd magically

grown in size. He had to be thirty feet tall, as big as any of his older

cousins, and for the first time he was wearing full battle armor. Riding behind

him was Briares, the Hundred-Handed One.

 

All the Cyclopes held huge lengths of black iron chains — big enough to anchor a

battleship — with grappling hooks at the ends. They swung them like lassos and

began to ensnare Typhon, throwing lines around the creature's legs and arms,

using the tide to keep circling, slowly tangling him. Typhon shook and roared

and yanked at the chains, pulling some of the Cyclopes off their mounts; but

there were too many chains. The sheer weight of the Cyclops battalion began to

weigh Typhon down. Poseidon threw his trident and impaled the monster in the

throat. Golden blood, immortal ichor, spewed from the wound, making a waterfall

taller than a skyscraper. The trident flew back to Poseidon's hand.

 

The other gods struck with renewed force. Ares rode in and stabbed Typhon in the

nose. Artemis shot the monster in the eye with a dozen silver arrows. Apollo

shot a blazing volley of arrows and set the monster's loincloth on fire. And

Zeus kept pounding the giant with lightning, until finally, slowly, the water

rose, wrapping Typhon like a cocoon, and he began to sink under the weight of

the chains. Typhon bellowed in agony, thrashing with such force that waves

sloshed the Jersey shore, soaking five-story buildings and splashing over the

George Washington Bridge — but down he went as my dad opened a special tunnel

for him at the bottom of the river — an endless waterslide that would take him