We’re all victims, here: Pita, the crowd, and, most importantly, me. Every cell of my body is crying out for me to end this. It’s just too mortifying.
Wait, wait, wait. Come on. I can deal with thirty seconds of seeing someone embarrass themselves. I don’t even need to look! I’ll just stare at the ground, and ride this out. And, already, I can feel it beginning to pass!
And now that I’ve successfully overcome it, I can look up again! I do, and Pita’s halfway naked.
“Remember what they say, Pita,” he says under his breath, “If you get nervous onstage, imagine that the entire crowd...sees you naked. That’s it, right?” He begins unzipping his jeans. “Right?”
Well, that’s it for me. “I’LL DO IT!” I shout, “I’LL TAKE HIS PLACE!”
A deep silence falls over the crowd. Ah, crud. I did it. I went and volunteered for a death tournament. I see Oofie’s bedazzled finger pointing at me. Her voice booms demonically.
“YOU!”
She takes a nip from her helium flask and her voice returns to normal.
“You…are a girl?” she repeats, as Pita nervously twirls one of his braids.
“Uh, yeah, technically, but maybe we can look past that, and—”
“And you wish to TAKE HIS PLACE AT THE—OH DAMNIT, HOLD ON.”
She takes a long, hard slug from the bottle, really choking that helium down. Tears stream from her face as the sludge slides down her throat. She polishes off the entire thing and sloppily wipes her mouth in that way that people with problems do. “Okay, that should hold me until dusk,” she says. “So, you want to take his place? That is so brave of you, darling. Especially because we were actually going to just pick another name.”
“Oh, great! Let’s do that, and forget about this whole—”
“But this makes everything so much easier. Who has time to pick a single ball from a Powerball machine these days? Get onstage.”
I realize then what a catastrophic mistake I’ve made. But perhaps there is still a way to escape…
“Sounds good, Oofie,” I say, with a big smile. “But do you mind if I give my sister Pig a hug?”
She beams at me. “Not at all, sweetheart.”
I rush over to Pig and embrace her tightly.
“Listen,” I whisper in her ear, “They just called your name. Go on up there, be strong for me. No tears, now.”
“Uh…Bratniss? You’re mic’d up, hon,” Oofie calls out from the stage.
“Ha ha! Of course, of course,” I reply, “Just a little joke between sisters, you know how it is! Now, I’ll simply start walking up to the stage. Here I am, getting closer. Closer still!” But my trick of sprinting directly out of the Square fools no one, and I am dragged onto the stage. My God, this is actually happening. I’m going to die.
Then it hits me. Death isn’t even the worst part of this. Oh, no, not by a long shot. Because I just saved Pita: he must think I like him now. And if I don’t live to survive the Games and tell him otherwise, he’ll go to his grave thinking it, and so will everyone else.
But before I can find a different boy and make him my boyfriend, Oofie grabs my hand, and places a small, plastic-wrapped item in it. When I look closer, my heart begins to race. Candy.
This is only the second piece of candy I’ve had in my life, after that hunk of rat meat that fell in the sugar jar once. All thoughts of death and Pita-liking slip away for the moment as I gaze at it, imagining what it would feel like on my tongue, and my second and third tongues, which humans eventually got from using cell phones too much. Then, as quickly as it was given, the candy is taken away.
“It’s a ritual,” Oofie explains, casually pocketing the shit-flavored lollipop. “Sorry, kid.” Then she jumps right back into the Reaming, directing her anger at the schoolboys who pranked Pita.
“All right, you little twerps, I hope you know what karma is, because it’s right about to bite you on your butts. There’s a higher power, who makes sure we all get what we deserve, not factoring in kids with cancer and all those people who die unhappy. Mark my words...”
Looking at the schoolboys of Slum 12, I can’t help but feel a bit of comfort. Their work in the mines has made them strong and brave, and having one of them as something of a partner in the Games wouldn’t be too bad. I’d even be happy with a kid from the one place here that’s worse than the Crack: a quaint underground township known as the Taint, which is the spot where Slum 12’s sewage and corpse streams converge. I bet those Taint kids would love a chance to get their sludgy paws on some surface-dwellers. And you never know, maybe I’ll even get that one boy standing at the corner of the stage: the incredibly handsome, incredibly honorable Peeta Mellark.
“And with that lesson in mind,” continues Oofie, glaring, “the Slum 12 male sacrifice for this year’s Hunger But Mainly Death Games is...”
Oofie reads the Powerball.
“Damnit. Pita Malarkey.”
The roar of the crowd almost drowns out Pita’s wails. Almost. But nobody takes notice, because they’re all too busy celebrating the fact that they haven’t been chosen this year, by performing the Slum 12 Slide, a traditional dance with urban undertones. A DJ’s voice booms out over the loudspeakers:
Two steps to the right!
Two steps to the lef’!
Now stand up straight, cuz you’s not dead!
As the crowd dances on, Oofie gravely electric slides over toward us. “It’s time to meet your mentor, kiddos,” she says, artfully pulling jazz fingers across her face.
She then Crip-walks over to the end of the stage, where she beckons to a big, bedraggled, be-bearded bear of a man who, despite the five foot high stage upon which Oofie stands, still towers over her. Over the clamor of the crowd, I can hear only snippets of what Oofie is yelling at the man. From what I can make out, it’s...a harsh warning about copyright laws?
Finally, the giant man steps on stage with her and dougies over to us. When he speaks, it’s in a booming brogue, “Pleased ter meetcha! Hagridmitch be the name. An’ you must be th’ newest students o’ Hogwar—”
SLAP! Oofie’s hand leaves a bright red mark on Hagridmitch’s face.
“What did I tell you? You’ll get us all canned! His name is Pita. And her name is Ratface.”
“It’s Bratniss,” I say.
“Ratlips?”
“Bratniss.”
“Catpiss?”
“Fine,” I sigh. “Catpiss.”
“No, no, I’ll meet you halfway,” she replies. “Stacey it is.”
“Looks more like a Hermione ter me, but—” Hagridmitch interjects. But before he can finish, Oofie pulls a collapsible spiked bat out of her purse, and begins whacking him with it.
“Bad Hagridmitch! Bad, bad Hagridmitch! What did I tell you about copyright laws? Do you want to get sued? Is that what you want?”
Slowly, remorsefully, Hagridmitch gets to his feet. “Aw, I’m sorry, Oofie. I am, I tell ye. But I’ve got jes’ the thing ter make it up ter you’s kids,” he says, reaching into his bag.
“Hagridmitch, you shouldn’t have,” Oofie responds.
“Now, now, it ain’t nothin’!” he says with a wide grin.
“No, I mean you shouldn’t have by law,” says Oofie. “Even giving gifts is illegal here!” We all crack a smile, because wow we live in a cruddy place.
“Slum 12 laws be darned,” Hagridmitch says, pushing Oofie to the side and opening his satchel to reveal…a basket of fresh eggs.
The eggs give us all pause. Even Oofie is taken aback by the gesture. In Slum 12, you see, eggs cost more than human life (which is, of course, incredibly cheap here, but you get the point). As you know, an egg comes from a chicken. And we all know where that chicken comes from. Yes, that’s right, the Chicken Overlord, a hermit who lives deep in the forest and is a notorious jerk when it comes to bartering. We’re talking your wife for an eggshell; that brand of jerk.
“Thank you, Hagridmitch,” I say. “They look delicious.”
“Delicious?” he sputters. “Why, I never hard a such a thing! These be none o’ yer normal eatin’ eggs, child” he responds, looking into the TV cameras and cocking an eyebrow, “These be dragon eggs.”
Oofie’s hands curl into fists and she barks, “Get him out of here! You’re done! Canned!”
Meanwhile, Hagridmitch squats down so that he’s eye level with us and asks, “Do ye want to meet my pet giant-spider? His name is—” Oofie tackles Hagridmitch.
As we are being led away from the rather one-sided brawl, Magma, the mayor’s daughter brushes by me. And as she does, I’m pinned to the floor by something she discretely tosses at me. I push it off of me to find that it’s an enormous gold pin of a huge, flightless bird with a stupendously idiotic smile on its face—a mockstrich, the creature the Capitol once tried to turn genetically engineer into a war-machine to help put an end to the rebellion. The plan fizzled after it became clear that the birds preferred laughing at people and collecting shiny pipe-cleaners more than killing rebels.
“Magma!” I yell after her. “Why did you give me this? Is it a present?”
She whips around, eyes wide with horror. “Don’t say the p-word!” she whispers desperately. But it’s too late.
“Who here engaged in present-distribution?” shouts the leader of the ‘Peace’keepers present task-force that’s zoomed down from a helicopter to surround us.
“Nobody!” I manage. “This isn’t a present. It’s my grandmother’s lucky mockstrich pin. I was just saying how much I wish my grandmother were present today.”
“Why the heck would you wish that?” the leader asks. “This would be a terrible moment for her.”
“Look, are you going to laser me or not?” I ask.
The leader eyes us suspiciously, and then turns to walk away. “I guess today’s your lucky day, apart from the Hunger But Mainly Death Games thing,” he says.
But I avoid that trap only to fall straight into another. Because when I turn around, I see something that fills me with terror.
No. No, no, no, no, no. This can’t be happening.
Pita is on one knee, looking in my direction.
And he is asking me something.
“Will you marry me?”
Pita sweeps past me and grasps the hands of his best friend: Will Umarimi.
Phew, that was close. But I’ll have to be more careful going forward. Pandumb is a nation in which improbable twists occur with terrifying frequency, and if you’re not vigilant you can end up dead, after which M. Night Shyamalan might use you in whatever his latest abysmally bad movie is.
Pita bends down to speak with his friend. Will Umarimi is a small person. No, not a “midget.” Or a “dwarf.” Those are hateful terms, And shame on you for thinking them. Will is a dwidget, which is a super-helpful, non-offensive term if you don’t want to sit there and guess which kind of short person you’re looking at. I should probably mention here that no one has ever had the heart to inform Will that he’s a dwidget.
“I’m telling you,” Will says to Pita, “you need to hide as much as you can in the arena. Holes in trees, cupboards. Backpacks will do, too.”
“I can’t, I’m…” Pita’s voice drifts off.
“You’re what? Why can’t you just hide in small places? If it works for me, it’ll work for you. We’re best friends, remember?”
“Okay, fine,” says Pita. “I’ll hide in small places. Anything else?”
“I guess just that if you want to stay alive, you have to be ready to do what it takes.”
Pita nods solemnly in understanding. So, he realizes that he’ll have to drop his pursuit of me. I’m a bit relieved to know that on top of everything else, I won’t have to grapple with any teen love issues in the arena.
“And what it takes,” Will continues, “Is the power of love! If you love something, never let it go! Totally latch onto it and turn it into your kissing post! Only then can you win the Hunger But Mainly Death Games!”
Pita nods his head in vigorous, celebratory understanding, all while maintaining unblinking, drooling eye contact with me, and howling in that wolfy way cartoon characters in love do. Then Pita gently punts Will back into the crowd. He soars gracefully through the air, too high for me to grab and strangle.
But I have to remind myself that some of my anger is misplaced. After all, it’s not Will’s fault that I’m about to be shuttled off to the Games with a guy who has an insane crush on me. No, the real villains here are the people who enforce Pandumb’s evil policies. The people who, out of their wild lust for kid death-based basic programming, host a nationwide, televised event in which teenagers are forced to kill each other in a dynamic, action-packed arena, with lots of cool, futuristic weapons and amazing traps, and…
And the more I think about it, the more amazing this all sounds on the spectators’ end. I guess the only thing I can actually get angry about is that my own best friend hasn’t come to say goodbye to me, and maybe to smack some sense into Pita, too. Where can he be? Where can Kobayashi the talking dog be?
Oh, wait, I mean, “Greta.” Perhaps he’s too busy with his experiments. After all, Mondays are when he tapes pencils to his canines and puts on his walrus simulator hat.
But these are my final moments in Slum 12. I’d have hoped I’d be able to share them with someone I cared for. So I guess there’s just you, diary, or whatever it is that I’m writing in/talking into. I suppose that you will have to provide the comfort I would have received from—AGH! An arm is thrust around my neck in a headlock from behind, and I’m slammed into the ground.
“Cross-face chicken wing,” Greta hisses into my ear, tightening his grip. “Go ahead, try to escape.”
But I can’t. Greta’s forearm is jammed against my throat and, nice as escaping sounds, lack of oxygen has always weakened my body for some reason.
“Now, quick, stand up so I can show you how to take a punch in the face.”
With what little air I have left I manage to squeak out a few words, “Greta, let go! I just want to say goodbye to you.”
And then, as quickly as he was on me, Greta releases the hold.
“Sorry, Bratniss. No time for that. Only time for chokeholds. I’ve got to get back to the fort immediately. I’m making a…” Greta glances around furtively and cuts his voice down to a whisper, “…b-o-a-m-b.”
So, that’s what he’s been doing all along! Building a boamb! I should have known that Greta would stop at nothing to save me, regardless of his terrible spelling! Still, I can’t believe how daring his plan is—to bomb the Hunger But Mainly Death Games arena!
“That’s right,” he says, “Blowing up the Blob is the only way to make it rain free sandwiches.”
“Oh.”
“Here,” he says, handing me a slip of paper, “take this poem with you. I’ve really gotta get back,”
I look at the paper. It’s not a poem.
“Greta, this is just a page torn out of your diary! It says here that if there’s one girl at school who you want to run your experiments on, it’s—”
“Wrong poem!” he says, snatching the paper out of my hand. He replaces it with a new paper, before slinking as mysteriously as he can back into the crowd. I put the shard of beer bottle glass I use as a monocle in front of my eye and read:
There was once a Sweet Princess
SCHFFPPLLLTTT
Wait a second where is her head
Hand me those pliers, Intern Larry
These wires are all on wrong you fool
ZZT ZZT ZZT
All systems are go
Robot princess up and running
But we are not done here
Readjust those ear-pegs, Larry
Thank you, Larry
Okay now we are done
Charming guy, that Greta. Helpful, too. Just then, a ‘Peace’keeper grabs me by the arm and begins leading me and Pita to the outskirts of town, where we’ll be held until our transport to the Capitol arrives. For the first time, it hits m
e: they’re actually going to make me do this. My mind races—what was it that my grandfather told me when I was little, as I sat upon his knee? What was that advice he had about accidentally volunteering for a death tournament? Oh, yeah: “Do not ever do that, Bratniss. Not in a million years.” Crap.
But when we arrive at my new quarters, I can’t help but remember grandpa was kind of an idiot, because this is the nicest cage I’ve ever seen! Shiny metal bars on all sides and wheels on the underside bars for easy transporting. So, the housewidow tales were true: the Capitol really does know how to treat a prisoner. “You go to the bathroom through the bars on the floor,” the guard says sweetly.
But the wonders don’t end there: the town mule drags the cage up to the administrative building, where the cage is picked up and tossed inside the most beautiful room I have ever seen in my life. It has all the comforts of home—no couch, no rug, and huge, human-hating bats on the ceiling, right down to the black mold that covers basically everything. But the Capitol hasn’t stopped there—no, not at all. They’ve gone so far as to install a table! And not just an ordinary table. Ordinary tables are bare and broken and on fire. This table has four entire legs, and a bowl filled to the brim with a slice of bread.
I’m inspecting the slice for rats when my mother and Pigrose show up. I quickly pocket it, knowing that if mom sees sliced bread she’ll have a full-on Loaf flashback and probably try to kill me.
“What bread, you old loon?” I accidentally blurt out.
“How could you leave us!?” my mom yells at me through the bars. For a second, I think about trying to explain that the Reaming is a lottery and that it wasn’t my choice to—oh wait, it was totally my choice. I volunteered to go to the Hunger But Mainly Death Games. Damnit. Mom kind of has me there.
“You’re out of this family now,” she spits, desperately trying to wiggle her head through the bars so she can get a clean bite at me. “No more Sunday family trips to rat church, no more waking up each morning to the friendly neighborhood doo-doo man Luigi, calmly screaming to let him inside before the street-badgers eat him! And need I remind you, you’re leaving it all for a lousy death tournament!”
The Hunger But Mainly Death Games: A Parody Page 3