The Hunger But Mainly Death Games: A Parody Read online

  “Get as much training in while you can,” a voice announces via intercom, “A local women’s volleyball team has this court reserved for 4PM.”

  But, wait, it’s already 3:40. They’re only giving us twenty minutes to train today? A measly twenty minutes to begin our preparation for the Hunger But Mainly Death Games? Come on, wouldn’t more training at least make for better television? But apparently that means nothing to the Gamemakers, or the ludicrously tall, spandex shorts-wearing women stretching on the sides. They glare at us impatiently, volleyballs balanced atop their heads.

  A whistle sounds, and the other sacrifices sprint to stations throughout the facility, above which hang banners explaining each station’s function.

  There are lots of options: “Ducking;” “Maybe You Should Act Like a Tree;” “Is This Water Brown or Clear?” But before I can decide between “What Does a Knife Look Like?” and “Poop Bomb: Yes, Seriously,” a big, strong, veiny adult hand grabs me. It’s Oofie. She’s wrangled Pita up, too.

  “Don’t bother with the stations,” she says. “Twenty-three out of twenty-four sacrifices who rely on them end up dead. I’ve managed to get you guys something special: your own personal trainer.”

  Suddenly, a massive shadow looms over us and, all I can smell is sun tan lotion. I start to gag. When I turn and look at him and I start to gag even harder. His skin is golden-brown, but not in the good way. Not even in the Snooki way. It’s over-tanned and leathery, like something you’d peel off of a roasted chicken. His muscles jiggle around under the skin and each several-inch long baby-step he takes appears to be causing him a lot of pain. He wears nothing but shiny white boots and tight white spandex pants.

  “Meet Malibu, former Pandumb Gladiator, and now an official Hunger But Mainly Death Games trainer,” Oofie says, beaming.

  Malibu tries to speak, but he’s struggling. His face is set in place like concrete. Little injection holes in his neck dilate as he breathes. Finally, he musters a few gravelly words, “Bring…turkey sandwich…Oofie?”

  “You’ll get your payment once training is complete,” she says, before turning to us. “Now, children, Mr. Malibu will be teaching you today. And if you pay attention, you might learn a thing or two about dying with honor.”

  And with that Oofie is gone. Pita takes this as his cue, “All right, first thing’s first: the kissing station. We need to train there if we want to survive!”

  “Wait…kid...” says Malibu, audibly pained to be speaking, “more useful stuff…learn first.”

  With that I instantly take a liking to Malibu. Yes, he may look ridiculous and yes, he may be hardly able to move or speak, and yes, on top of all that, I can clearly see the catheter snaking down his spandex pants and into his boots, but the man actually seems to have a shred of common sense.

  “First thing…teach you,” Malibu begins, “Tug...o’ War.”

  Okay. So this guy might even be a bigger idiot than Pita.

  “Can’t stress…importance…win games with rope.”

  Even Pita questions the logic of this, “Mr. Malibu, are you sure there aren’t any other...slightly more important stations we could go to? I hear there’s a snuggling station out back. It’s integral that Bratniss and I know how to use our body heat efficiently.”

  “You kids want be…Gladiator Champion…or not?” Malibu says. Then something pops into his head. He slowly peers around to see if anyone is watching us, then leans in and says, “You kids want…learn something really dangerous?”

  At this point, I’m up for anything. Pita agrees and Malibu tells Pita to go get his gym bag. When Pita leaves Malibu turns to me and says, “You have…extra Botox?”

  “Uh, no.”

  “What…about syringes? Fine…if empty.”

  “Mr. Malibu, I don’t—”

  I’m cut off by Pita’s scream. I look over at him. He’s staring into Malibu’s bag, clearly terrified.

  “There’s a GUN in here!” he shouts.

  “Yes…” Malibu begins, walking over and placing the gun into Pita’s shaking hands. “I show you…dodge bullet.”

  Malibu clicks the safety off of the gun and motions for Pita to shoot him.

  “Simple…kids,” Malibu says, “stand in front…gun…just jump...when you hear it...FIRE!”

  BANG!

  The bullet flies through Malibu’s head and he falls to the floor.

  A ghost-faced Pita looks at the smoking pistol in his hand and drops it. The gun clatters against the floor and fires—BANG BANG BANG—all into Malibu. Greenish-red, sun tan lotion-scented ooze begins pouring out of him.

  I’ve never been this close to a dead person before, and it’s a harrowing experience. I try to pick up Malibu’s gun to put it back in his gym bag, out of respect, but the second I reach down for the gun it fires again, this time smack dab into Malibu’s thigh. Hmm, maybe I should test this. I kind of fake like I’m about to grab the gun and pull my hand back at the last sec—BLAM—the gun fires again. But this time it misses. The shot is way off, into the rafters. Ha, nowhere near—wait, no, it actually just unhinged a big electronic scoreboard which is now sailing downward in 3…2…CRUNCH. The scoreboard cuts Malibu’s body clean in half.

  Not bad, I think. Now if I can just practice it a few more times, it’ll be second nature in the arena. A gong sounds and the intercom crackles, “That’s it, kids, training is over. Over forever. Time to kill each other. Whoops sorry—in a few hours, I mean, haha, obviously please don’t start—”

  But the announcer is too late. A gigantic boy from Slum 1 has already torn off the head of another sacrifice. The rest of the sacrifices gape at him, in awe. He is tall. We’re talking like puberty tall.

  And, like most boys who have gone through puberty, he has a robotic laser eye, one of his arms looks like some sort of rocket launcher, and most terrifyingly, his voice has changed. When he talks...it’s like hearing a dad talk. Gradually, I begin to hear his name whispered by the sacrifices around me. Scar. And then, as the whispers continue, I hear his last name. Scar Humphrey. That’s…well, actually, he should probably just go by his first name if he wants to sounds scary.

  One by one, the sacrifices are ushered out of the facility and into a side room, where they each show the judges how dangerous they are. Finally, my turn comes and I am ushered into a room with white walls and a white table in the middle. On top of the table is a small chocolate chip cookie with a note next to it: “If you can wait fifteen minutes without touching the cookie, we will bring you three more cookies.”

  A cookie? How can withstanding the urge to eat a cookie possibly give an accurate impression of our skills in the arena?

  Shaking my head in disbelief, I look over at the window from which the judges are monitoring me. And I realize that they are a group of toddlers. They stare back at me, some drooling, some wiping their noses on their sweater sleeves, diapers bulging in their Oshkosh B’Gosh overalls. Several are in the middle of a nap.

  That’s it. The lack of proper training is bad enough, but to find out that the judges are toddlers? That’s too much. It’s time to do something drastic. In an instant, I know what I must do.

  The judges said I shouldn’t eat the cookie. But they didn’t say I couldn’t stab it in the face with a big old butcher knife. So I walk over to the rack of knives conveniently located next to the cookie table—you know, where they are in most social science experiments—and slide out a monster of a blade. We’re talking serrated edges, serrated handle, and a little buzz saw feature that really isn’t necessary for what I’m about to do…

  BZZZZ. I use the buzz saw feature anyway. Because screw this cookie. THUNK. The saw-knife slams through the cookie and kills it in f***ing half.

  That gets the judges’ attention.

  They leap up from their seats and paw at the glass wall. Even through that thick glass I can hear their pained cries. One toddler crumples to the floor in tears. Another has been driven so insane that he starts giving himself a spanking. />
  As I’m dragged out, I stare at the teary-eyed judges. Yes! I think. I nailed my audition. Kiss your cookie goodbye, stupid idiot babies.

  But maybe I’m the stupid idiot. I just upset the very people who will give me my danger score, which is some...measure...that means...something...And getting the wrong danger score...Well, I’m not sure what it could do, really. Whatever the case, it’s still insulting to have babies judging us.

  I’m taken to a small chamber where the rest of the sacrifices are waiting. I begin to walk out when Pita yells after me, “Where are you going? The judges are about to announce the danger scores!”

  “Already? I was there like two minutes ago.”

  “Shh, now they’re halfway through!”

  We gather round the TV in rapt silence. On screen is the judges’ art teacher from daycare. “Remember, the judges worked very hard on these!” she begins. “Okay. Next up, Bratniss Everclean. Now, I don’t think you’ll be surprised to hear that we’ve been learning about Thanksgiving over the last few weeks,” she chuckles, holding up a piece of orange construction paper. There, in the middle of a crayon hand-tracing turned into a turkey, is my score.

  Three million. Plus infinity.

  Three million plus infinity. Everyone in the room sits in stunned silence. Except for Hagridmitch, who, as always, is mumbling something drunkenly. “Three million points…that’s almost enough right there to win the Tri-Wizard cup. But that cup is Harry’s ter win, innit? Not Hermione’s. Some kinder trickery’s afoot, and I think I kin guess who: Vol—”

  “Don’t you say it!” hollers Oofie.

  “Ah, yer right, yer right…what was I thinkin’? All us adults are serposed to be idiotically superstitious. I meant He-Who-Must-Not-Be-”

  “Shut your fat mouth!” shouts Oofie, chasing him out of the room.

  “Best be off now!” he says, ducking out, “Cheers, Hermione! Stay away from Mandrakes, Neville!”

  And now that that’s over with: three million plus infinity. It’s almost the highest score you can get, right after three million and infinity plus one. Of course, no one’s even cracked one million before. From what I can remember, the highest score to date was an eleven, and all the sacrifices just ganged up on that kid and killed him in the opening minutes. But the sacrifices this have probably forgotten about last year’s Games. Hopefully, they’ll steer clear of me, and then I can sneak off and hide in the forest. It’s an old trick I learned from cross country meets: when in doubt, wait everything out in the middle of the woods, and come back at the end with some fake sweat painted onto your body, and all of the Dorito dust brushed off of your hands and face.

  Now that I’ve figured out my strategy, it’s time to turn my attention to something that may be even more important: the Interrogations. Oofie’s told me that they’re a chance for us to impress sponsors by wearing a stunning outfit, because fashion is a vital part of the Games. Makes sense, I guess.

  Okay, it doesn’t make any sense, but, whatever, I’m excited to wear something cool. I think back over some of my favorite outfits from tournaments past. One year, a girl had a perfectly-scaled replica of the Arena wrapped around her, with twenty-four beetles running through it, each wearing a miniature version of their respective sacrifice’s outfit. Unfortunately, her designer didn’t realize that they were parasitic zombie beetles. By the time she got called up for her interview, she was little more than a dusty skeleton filled with fat, sleepy insects. Another time, a girl’s designer broke into the pyramid that held the preserved corpse of Lady Gaga, who was a fashionable musician before the Dark Days. They made her body into a beautiful, screaming cape. Of course, the screaming meant that Lady Gaga’s evil spirit had been awakened. But, my word, the cape was dazzling.

  Not that I’d want outfits like those. But I guess they’re further examples of how incredibly entertaining the Games are, as long as you aren’t in them.

  I turn to consult with Cinnabon, but he’s nowhere to be seen. Oh, good. He must have sealed himself away to make sure that whatever I wear is perfect. I guess I’ll take this time to prepare for the Games on my own terms: by thinking over and over again about how much I don’t want to die.

  When I get back to my room, a weary Cinnabon is waiting for me with bloodshot eyes. I can’t believe it—he’s stayed up all night working on my costume!

  “Close your eyes,” he orders.

  It takes every ounce of self-restraint I have to obey. I want to see my outfit. I can’t imagine what this mad genius has come up with for me and I want to see it right n—

  “You can open your eyes, now.”

  I am not pretty. I am not beautiful.

  I am dressed in a knock-off, child-sized Batman costume. The Halloween store price tag is still attached, and the costume doesn’t even have an actual Batman insignia. The black “bat” is just a dog.

  “Goddamnit, Cinnabon,” I say.

  “Is that a happy goddamnit?” he asks with a grimace.

  “You forgot that the Interrogations were today, didn’t you?”

  “No! Of course not! Believe me, it may not look like much right now, but when you’re onstage it transforms into—” My glare cuts him short.

  “All right, I did forget, Bratniss. But it was only because I was so anxious to make you a great dress that I completely lost track of time! I was so engulfed in my craft, and—” Again, my glare cuts him short.

  “Okay, it was because I went to a huge drugs party.”

  A drugs party? What does he think he’s been employed by the Capitol to do—go to drugs parties all the time? Shit, I guess that is what he thinks. Either that, or he’s not a very reliable person.

  “Bratniss, I’m sorry. I kept thinking I would be able to leave the party early and make something for you. And I think I did, at one point. But now I can’t remember where I put it. I should never have snorted all that glitter. Ke$ha’s just so damn pushy!”

  Oh, well. I guess part of me was looking forward to becoming a god-like figure of awe for the entire country based on one dress, but maybe that was a little unreasonable. And knowing how useless sponsors are, it’s not like I have to try to impress anybody. At least I’ll have one other person to share my embarrassment with: Pit—

  Ah, crud. Pita floats into the room in a strikingly tailored suit with a faintly shining map of the night sky sewn into it.

  “I’ll tell you, Bratniss,” he says happily, “Dressing fashionably may be expensive, but you can’t argue with the comfort! I feel so confident! In fact, I think—AH, BATMAN!” he shouts, finally noticing my outfit. “I’m sorry I dressed up, Batman! Please don’t eat me!”

  “It’s only me, Pita,” I say. “Cinnabon forgot to make my outfit. Come on, we’ve got to go to the Interrogations.”

  The ‘Peace’keepers show up to transport us, and before I know it, I’m on the stage of the Royal Capitol Theatre Sponsored by Red Bull®, a massive space usually reserved for productions of Shakespeare’s classics, like “Romeo & Dying in the Hunger But Mainly Death Games,” and “Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.” Funny, how the place people come to celebrate some of the greatest human achievements is also the place they come to indulge their cruel, bloodthirsty side. But that’s adults for you: hypocritical jerks.

  The sacrifice seating is a special screened-off row of bleachers high above the stage. In fact, from what I can tell, where we’re sitting is actually outside the stadium. A biting wind emanates from the clouds several feet above our heads.

  I can just make out the Capitol people seated comfortably in the crowd far below, with servants tending to their every need.

  “Enemas! Get your rich-person enemas, here!” a man with a big vacuum-ey hose looped over his shoulder yells. Various Capitol-dwellers are bent over in their velvet seats, clamoring for his attention: “Put it here, enema man! Put it here!”

  Unbelievable. The Capitol can afford to give their citizens in-seat enemas, and yet we, the people who are about to die, are stuck sitting
on cold metal bleachers, shivering and trying to duck out of the way of passing planes.

  But as I look around at the other sacrifices shivering here with me, I feel an odd sense of solidarity. In a few short hours, we will be competitors. But, for now, we are teammates, and we are in this together. All of us, from Slum 12, all the way down to...Slum 4?

  What the heck? Why aren’t the career slums up here?

  Hey, there they are, getting out of a stretch Hummer limo in front of the stage and being escorted to a luxurious private balcony! The girls are wearing awesome prom dresses, and the guys have cool accessories, like top hats and canes! The crowd roars in approval.

  Leading the way is an obnoxiously pretty girl in a dazzling red dress. You can tell it’s expensive and nice because it has the word “Juicy” emblazoned on the butt.

  “Glamorrhea! Glamorrhea!” yells a man off to the side of the red carpet, “Can I get your autograph?”

  She stops and smiles, and then has her chauffeur spit in the man’s face.

  And there’s Scar! I can see his rocket launcher gleaming from here. A man squeezes through the crowd and thrusts a mic into Scar’s face: “Scar, quick question! I’m from TMZ, and I want to know what you say to the rumors that you were recruited by Slum 1, and illegally transferred there from Slum 2!”

  The crowd gasps. Slum 2 sacrifices are usually the unmemorable sidekicks of the kids from Slum 1. Scar stares at the pale little man and then motions offstage. Moments later, someone tosses him a football. He deftly turns, and heaves it in a perfect spiral, far off into the distance. The entire crowd cheers and instantly forgets the recruiting violation because, come on, sports.

  Following them are Emily and Dylancobra, who look like smaller, less pretty versions of the Slum 1 sacrifices. But the crowd oohs and aahs when they hold up pictures of themselves standing with Glamorrhea and Scar.