The Hunger But Mainly Death Games: A Parody Page 6

  “Oh my god! I promise to be super carefu—”

  “Kidding, kidding. I went down to the morgue, and they’re having a ridiculous sale.”

  I hear the chime of a small bell, and my heart leaps a little—can it be? I glance over at Cinnabon.

  “Thank goodness. I was getting famished.”

  So, the people in the Capitol have afternoon tea, the way we do back in the Crack. I know it’s foolish, but I feel a degree of comfort. Tea has always been one of my favorite parts of the day. It’s a chance to chat with your loved ones and push your troubles aside, even if only for fifteen minutes. It’s only a small similarity that the Crack and the Capitol share, but it makes me think. That maybe, we aren’t so different after all. That maybe, we’re all victims of the same system. That we could band together to throw off its chains. I’m beginning to think it’s not all that crazy—

  BANG! The doors to the room swing open. A group of Xeroxes, yoked together like oxen, struggle and pant as they inch their way inside, dragging several massive tanks filled with water from cords around their waists. Everyone in the room has turned their full attention towards the tanks. Or, more specifically, the large grey creatures bumping against the sides. They eye them hungrily.

  Cinnabon realizes that I’m confused.

  “You poor thing,” he says. “You’ve probably never eaten an entire live manatee every afternoon, have you? Don’t worry, I have an extra carving-saw. ”

  “You’re actually going to eat that thing?” I ask, disgusted.

  “’Course,” he replies, already slugging down rope after rope of manatee blubber, “What else would we do for ’Tee Time?”

  “In the Crack, we used to…put some dry pieces of leaves into water…” Even before it’s out of my mouth, I know it’s a mistake. The whole room bursts into laughter, even the Xeroxes.

  I watch my mouth and the rest of ‘Tee Time goes off without a hitch. Cinnabon is a pretty nice guy, it turns out. And as we’re leaving for our tour of the Capitol, I can’t help but ask him, “Cinnabon, what do you have in mind for my outfit tonight?”

  He gets this far off look in his eyes as he speaks, “What I have in mind…is the kind of outfit that just might…revolutionize the world...But that’s for later. For now, let’s go take a look at this marvelous city.”

  “Wait, do we really have time for sightseeing? I’d rather train, if that’s okay.” Cinnabon considers it, and I can tell he sees my point.

  “Take a left onto that waterslide tube, please,” Cinnabon tells the driver. The cab swerves sharply and soon we’re riding a wave down a clear tube, outside of which is a shimmering marine environment, somehow. All around us, sea creatures glide through the water, and there are also some giraffes tumbling around.

  “These giraffes don’t look too healthy to me,” I say, as one of their rotting bodies smashes into the glass and tears apart.

  “Those aren’t normal giraffes, honey, those are sea-giraffes,” Cinnabon corrects me. “And don’t worry, they’re being refreshed right now.” He points above us, and up on the surface I can see a barge dumping tons of new giraffes overboard.

  “We’ll get out here, sir,” Cinnabon says, as we pull up in front of the biggest building I’ve ever seen. It towers over us. Lines of people in their finest clothing waiting to enter stretch as far as the eye can see. At the front doors, a man in a long black frock dabs holy water onto their foreheads. The people cross themselves, and then slide their shoes off before entering. I look up at its massive, neon “Mall of Pandumb” sign in awe.

  Cinnabon hands the driver two silver coins and we exit the cab.

  “You must think we’re monsters,” he says, as we step up onto the sidewalk.

  “Because of the tip you gave him? I guess it wasn’t as much as some people would give, but I think tipping is a matter of personal preference, and I would never judge you for it.”

  “Oh, honey. That wasn’t a tip. Those were coins to put over his eyes right before he kills himself, to assure safe passage into the Deathworld. In the Capitol, we only use cabs and cab drivers once, and then they are required by law to go laserboom.”

  “Okay, that is pretty monstrous.”

  “I know, right?” he says, shaking his head sadly. “If only there were something to do about it. If only there could be something like a savior who came and saved us…perhaps some girl who needed a bit of saving herself, first…perhaps some nice, caring soul could help her escape…escape so she could become a symbol of rebellion and help end these monstrosities…” He winks.

  “Are you suggesting—”

  “One sec, dear.” He taps the Bluetooth in his eye. “Capitol Cab? Yeah, I just got out of a cab number four-four-two and the driver’s really taking his sweet time initiating death procedures. Could you laserboom him, please?”

  The execution center is next to the food court, so we stop by. The top criminal on Pandumb’s Most Wanted is there, having finally been apprehended the week before. She was a well-known scribe, and rose to fame after releasing her first novel. Unfortunately, the book was so criminally bad that the only choice the Capitol had was to burn the book as well as the author.

  As she’s led down to the fire gallows, a judge lists her crimes. “Having an insipid main character utterly devoid of redeeming qualities—and who is a weak, terrible role model for impressionable fans the world over;”

  “Inhumane and unrelenting thesaurus abuse;”

  “The implicit promise of action and entertainment, despite an utter inability or criminal unwillingness to provide either;”

  “Sappiness levels so high that sap quite literally oozes from the pages, making fingers uncomfortably sticky.”

  “Writing the book that will end up being the only one some people ever read; and making that book be terrible;”

  “For this, and much more, I sentence you, Stephenie Meyer, to death by fire.” Executioners in “Fire Squad” t-shirts grab the woman and start marching her down the stairs to the fire pit.

  “I’m sick!” she cries as she reaches the top, “I’M SICK!”

  That’s when the bag goes over her head. This being the Capitol, I’d have expected them to use a high-quality silken bag, or something. But no, the same kind of rotten old potato sack we use for executions in the Slum 12. The crows will get her eyes.

  Our tour continues. As we stop at an indoor mall crosswalk, and I look at the “Rebel/Don’t Rebel” signal, which from what I can tell is permanently stuck on “Don’t Rebel,” I notice something peculiar. “Cinna, why is that man walking a naked guy on a leash?”

  “Oh, child. The naked one has signed on to be that man’s dog. It’s practically the most fashionable thing you can do now. Take a close look as they walk past, and you’ll see how genius it is.”

  The naked man catches up to us at that moment, and sees me staring at him. “Bow-wow,” he says with a sneer.

  We reach a large store, bustling with shoppers. “Our first stop,” says Cinnabon. “Sacrifices ‘R’ Us.”

  “There’s an entire toy store devoted to us in here?” I ask, incredulously. I don’t know if I want to see what’s in there...”

  “Sweetheart, the sacrifices are the most famous people on the planet right now,” says Cinnabon. “You’ve got to learn to put up with a little bit of adulation. Do feel free to check out the other stores, though.”

  I glance at the store next to us. The sign in its window reads, “ABERCROMBIE AND FITCH: OUR CLOTHES WORK AS CONDOMS NOW.”

  “Okay, maybe I will go in the toy store.” I say.

  “That’s the spirit,” Cinnabon replies with a mischievous twinkle in his eye. “After all, who says you’re too old to play with toys?”

  Maybe this won’t be so bad. Maybe the toys will portray me in a cool light.

  “I didn’t know you laid fish eggs,” says Cinnabon, reading the back of a playing card.

  “What? Give me that!” I say, snatching it away from him. Under the headline “Fun F
acts about Bratniss” is a list:

  Fact #1: Smells weird

  Fact #2: Eats mad boogies.

  Fact #3: Favorite activity is guarding her fish eggs that she keeps inside her gills.

  I flip the card over to see an illustration of myself squatting in an oily swamp. They’ve given me with a rat-like tail, which is sticking out of my pants and coiling around a pile of soft, glimmering eggs. I’m baring two fangs at the viewer.

  “Why would the Capitol do this to us?” I ask. “None of this is true!”

  “Well, I doubt the Capitol would have put it on so much merchandise without fact-checking it,” says Cinnabon, handing me the package of something called an “Easybake Bratniss.” On the back, it reads, “Just plug her in, spoon her beloved leeches into her mouth, and watch the eggs foam out of her gills! You’ll have bowl after bowl of squirming Bratniss-eggs in no time. But beware—if she feels you brush against her leg-spikes, she’ll release a noxious protection scent.”

  I give Cinnabon a withering glare.

  “Hey, don’t protection-scent the messenger!” he says. “Besides, maybe some monster-people will sponsor you now.”

  I turn away and begin to scan the aisles. Despite the inaccuracy of my own description, this could be the perfect opportunity for me to learn more about the strengths and weaknesses of my opponents. Besides, I need to find a dark, moist place to lay my eggs.

  But as I trawl through aisle after aisle of toys I realize there aren’t any toys of the other sacrifices. These are all just toys of me. I go back to the front of the store and look at the sign. Sure enough, there in super tiny font after “Sacrifices ‘R’ Us” is “(Just Bratniss)”

  So the Capitol has individualized toy stores for each sacrifice. This is absurd. Can things get any more annoying?

  They can. Up at the register, I see Pita talking to the clerk! What is he doing here? “Do you have any My Size Bratnisses with realistic kissing-action?” he asks.

  “Nah,” says the clerk, “the only features in these toys are to make sure they bleed and explode realistically. But you might want to check the Hunger But Mainly Death Games kissing-pillow store.”

  I can’t let him know I’m here. What if he sees me and thinks I’m a walking pillow? I shudder at the thought as I duck into one of the aisles, knocking a few Tickle Me to Death Bratnisses off a shelf.

  I can’t believe this. Here we are, shopping, when I have a death tournament to prepare for, and more importantly than that, an Interrogation to look pretty for. I go tap Cinnabon on the shoulder.

  “Cinnabon, I want to leave now. I need to train, you need to start working on my dress, and this place is depressing as hell.”

  He gives a hearty laugh.

  “Bratniss, honey, you’re a breath of fresh air. I know exactly how you feel, and I’ve got just the thing. Follow me!”

  Before I can protest, he’s grabbed my hand and is dragging me even deeper into the mall. As we get close to wherever he’s taking me, he tells me to close my eyes.

  “It’s so like me to dawdle on too long inside the shops and boutiques. But sometimes you’ve gotta get away from all of that materialism. And enter a winter wonderland. You can open your eyes now, Bratniss.”

  And there, in front of me, is a morbidly obese man dressed in a Santa costume, sitting in a lawn chair with tinsel taped onto the legs. His girth spills out through the back of the chair and underneath its arms. In some places it’s hard to make out where his body ends and the chair begins.

  “Go sit on his lap,” Cinnabon whispers. “He’ll make all your dreams come true unless you’re poor.”

  “Cinnabon, that guy doesn’t look okay.”

  “Don’t be silly. He’s Santa. Santa’s always okay.”

  “Is there a hospital in this mall? Can we take him there?”

  “Sweetheart, Santa never leaves his Santa chair. He has elves to wait on him hand and foot! Now go sit in his lap and tell him what you want for Christmas!”

  “It’s September,” I protest. “Not even CVS has its Christmas stuff out yet.” Cinnabon isn’t having any of it, and picks me up and sets me down on the man’s huge stomach.

  “Huh? Wha? Soup?” he says, beginning to stir.

  Now that I’m up close, I can see that his suit has been bleached pink from the sun.

  “H-ho,” he says, his eyes still closed, his face inches from mine. “What do you want for Christmas this year, little girl?”

  His breath smells like sewage. And he—wait a second, is he...is he fused to this chair?

  “Sir, are you all right?”

  “Elfy!” he calls out. “Elfy write that down! She says she wants...she says...Elfy, isn’t it time for my soup?”

  Behind the man’s chair, there’s a small structure made of stiff pastel cardboard, with a sign on top that reads, “Elfy’s Magic Xmas Shack.” Splayed out at the foot of the doorway is a small skeleton in an elf suit. I look closer and see the skeleton’s ankle is chained to a pipe in the shack.

  “Did you know,” the man whispers, “That I have a little helper named Elfy?”

  “What’d I tell you?” says Cinnabon, swinging the gate to the display shut. “Christmas spirit to all, and to all a good night! And, what do you know! We even have time to stop by the Easter Bunny’s hutch!”

  It’s dark when we get back and, up in my room, I try desperately to remember what it even feels like to cut a squirrel in two and make socks out of each half—something, anything to remind me of home. And, more importantly, to keep my mind off the quickly-approaching tournament.

  But the memories are fading too fast, and all I’m left with is this vivid recollection of pre-school recess when Pita decided to go down the slide face-first and the older boys grabbed onto his sweatpants, causing them to rip off when he went down. Somehow, he didn’t notice, and continued happily playing. The swings, the jungle gym, tetherball, you name it and he played it butt-naked that recess.

  I can’t believe he’s the closest person I have to a friend here. Maybe if I had been paired with someone more normal, it would be easier. It certainly doesn’t help that the Capitol seems to have brought out the stalkier side of Pita. I have to stay on guard at all times.

  THUD. Pita falls from the ceiling and smashes into my floor. “So sorry,” he says, pulling a chunk of insulation from his mouth. “There was, uh, something wrong with your ceiling and I was quietly fixing it. Didn’t want to disturb you, m’dear.”

  If only he weren’t like this. But how do you get the creepiest boy on earth to act normal? It’s not like you can just ask someone to be normal.

  Or can you?

  “Pita. Drop the act. Right now,” I say, snapping my fingers.

  “What? This is how I am,” he says, adjusting his video camera. “Big weirdo, in big, weird love with my lovely lady. Hold still, this thing won’t zoom off of your boobs. Mind of its own, this camera.”

  I sigh. “Pita, can’t you at least act like a normal human being? For a little bit? No creepy stuff for 10 minutes, okay?”

  And you know what? It seems to work. Pita turns off the camera, and sits down next to me. I have no idea whether I’ve actually gotten through to him, but right now, I don’t even care. I just want someone to talk to.

  So we talk, and it’s actually kind of enjoyable. We talk about the Crack, and our families, and how maybe it’s kind of unfair to make teenagers kill each other on national television. On top of that, it actually turns out that we have some things in common! He may have black hair and I may have brown hair, but we both have hair. His mom is a sex robot and mine is psychopathic bread-kisser, but hey, close enough. It even turns out he and I are the same species!

  Okay, so we don’t have that much in common, but at least he isn’t acting like a complete gross-out weirdo now.

  “You know, growing up, I always respected you,” he says. “I’m sure what happened to your dad was a hard burden to carry throughout junior high…and how hard geography class was for you…�
�

  There, a hundred billion miles away from our hometown, only a day removed from almost certain death, I’m finding out that this boy who has plagued me my entire childhood really isn’t such a bad guy. Beneath his yucky, video camera-wielding, hole-in-the-shower-looking-through exterior is a down-to-earth, in some ways level-headed boy who has been sentenced to death like me. So, I start opening up even further. And by opening up, I mean I’m telling secrets. Who my first crush was. Why girls go to the bathroom in groups. Then, as I’m about halfway through explaining the danger of stall dragons, I realize how dimly lit the room has become.

  “Hey, what’s happening?” I ask. “I didn’t think they’d have power shortages here in the Capitol.”

  “You’re right, it’s so strange,” he murmurs. “But I was getting the feeling that all that light was a little impersonal.” He sweeps back his arm, and I see that we’re now surrounded by candles. Pita claps his hands twice. To my surprise, my closet swings open and three…loaves of bread walk out? Wearing little pairs of sunglasses? Their mouths open, and—

  “Oompa, loompa, doopity-doo,” they sing, as they march around me in a circle. Then their sunglasses shoot off, and they look up at me, with little cameras where their eyes should be. “…KISS-KISS-KISS-KISS-KISS-KISS-KISS.”

  I fly out of the room, gasping for air. Behind me, he yells out, “Is it something my breadbots said?” As I’m running through the halls, I have a very disturbing realization. And it’s not that just that Pita is somehow incapable of not trying to get me to date him. It’s that he’s much smarter than I thought, at least in a bread-robotics sort of way.

  I don’t have long to ponder this, because I get a text from Oofie: “time 4 trayning betch.”

  Within seconds, I’m teleported into the official training facility, along with the other twenty-three sacrifices. They haven’t given anyone time to prepare. Some are still in their underwear. One is right in the middle of peeing. He makes no effort to stop. “If you guys can stop as soon as you’ve started, more power to you,” he says, shrugging.

  But no one really cares, because we’re all astounded by the training center we’ve suddenly found ourselves in. It’s beautiful. It’s like a court, covered in hard, shiny wood. At each end of the court is an iron ring, beneath which a foot or so of pearly white netting extends. Vibrant colored lines snake along the wood at unpredictable angles. Next to one such line is a little sticker on the floor that says “Free Throw Line.”