The Hunger But Mainly Death Games: A Parody

by Bratniss Everclean

  “What are you doing? And where are you going with my earpiece that doesn’t tell me everything you think?”

  Great. Just great. I have a microchip stuck somewhere on my scalp, and its broadcasting my thoughts to the world. “Pita Malarkey greatly annoys me.” “I kind of need to pee.” “Maybe I should try to avoid dying.” Ugh, now everyone is going to know my secrets!

  There’s got to be some way of deactivating it. After all, it’s just a stupid little piece of electronics. Although wouldn’t water have deactivated it by now? Then I remember: the last time I showered was the day of the Reaming. I know, I know, kind of gross. In theory, at least. In practice, I’ve hardly noticed it. Sure, there’s that greenish trail of smog that follows me everywhere, and lately when I hunt I’ve discovered I can just walk over to an animal and it’ll fall over dead, nowhere near my trap.

  An old van falls filled with lead bars falls and crushes a tree nearby, which reminds me: I should be running. I’ve got to get to safety. My life depends on it, and I also want to get to the bottom of whatever crap Pita is trying to pull.

  I turn to Pita. “Where to?”

  “That party the nice man was talking about! Where else? I hear they have a limbo pole.”

  “Are you stupid? The last ‘party’ almost got me killed!”

  But it’s too late. We’ve arrived at the TeenZone.

  I guess this is it. I get down on my knees and open my arms to the sky. I’m ready for it. Ready for the afterlife. I’m sick and tired of this death tournament and even sicker and tireder of Pita Malarkey. Come and take me, Death.

  “Bratniss, what are you doing?”

  I open my eyes. Pita stands in an empty clearing. Other than some scraps of rotten food and some loose eyeballs and ears, the TeenZone is vacant.

  “See? Not a trap at all,” he says. “We’re early. You go do your make-up. I’ll go gather some paper that we can fold into pointy party hats.”

  But just then, Scar bursts through the trees, running right toward us. And he’s wearing this awesome Che Guevara shirt that is a slightly different color from the ones you usually see. On top of that, his hat is on backwards and the hologram sticker is still on because that stupid fashion thing endured the apocalypse as well. Which all begs the question: where does he get these awesome sponsors?

  “Run!” he screams. “Run for your lives!”

  On top of that, he also has brand new shoes. Air Force Childkillers, I think they’re called.

  “CAN YOU NOT HEAR ME I SAID RUN! RUN!”

  And did I mention he’s wearing sunglasses? They’re all black and shiny, like cool sunglasses should be.

  He’s slowed to a light jog now, “Listen to me, I’m serious! There are horrible monsters coming. There, right behind me. I am literally pointing at them.”

  Yeah, mm hmm, I might look over your shoulder and let my guard down so that you can finish me off. Real original, Scar, I think as I begin pelting him with anything I can find—pebbles, a fistful of grass, a dead kid’s shoe with the severed foot still in it.

  “Ow! Stop it! At least let me run if you’re not going to listen to me!”

  I’ve got Scar by the collar and am about to thump him over the head real good with a bubble gum wrapper when Pita grabs my shoulder, “Bratniss, he’s right. Look.”

  Alright, fine. I begrudgingly peek over his shoulder. Hmm, so there are some monsters. And I guess they are pretty terrible. There’s that white froth spilling out of their helmet and all down the front of their black armor. Maybe Scar is right. Maybe those are some weird townies trying to crash our party. I mean, monsters, monsters. Scar and I take off running.

  But Pita doesn’t. Instead, he just stands there. What is he thinking?

  “Come on, Pita!” I yell.

  “You go on,” he calls out, “I’m staying.”

  “So you can what? Fight them? Pita, you don’t know how to fight! Remember all those times you thought you were headbutting the bullies in their fists and making them hurt so much they laughed? You weren’t winning!”

  “Look, I’ve made a fool of myself here. The following you everywhere, the making you my girlfriend on national television, the slipping love potion in your drinks at every meal…”

  “What was that about the love potion?”

  “I owe you this much. Someone’s got to slow those monsters down. And I…I want you to live a long and happy life, and to take long rides across windswept beaches as a musclebound man in a flowing white shirt holds the horse’s reins in his strong hands, like on the covers of those beautiful books at the grocery store.”

  So, this is seriously happening. Pita Malarkey is giving his life so that I may go on living. I’m not sure what to do. No boy has ever done something like this for me before. Come to think of it, no one has ever really done anything nice for me. How is it again that people reciprocate kindness? What are the words? There are, like two or three words you’re supposed to say. Quick, Bratniss, THINK!”

  “Pita, thank…uh…umm…” but my words are failing me. And the monsters are almost on us.”

  I give Pita once last, grateful look, and turn away. From over my shoulder I hear him say, “Oh, and when you see her, tell my mom I love her.”

  With that he takes off, straight for the horde of armored monsters.

  At the edge of the woods, I collapse. My lungs are searing, but the pain serves as a reminder: I’m still alive.

  “I can’t believe what Pita did,” I whisper. “It was so incredibly brave.”

  “It was actually pretty stupid, I think,” Scar responds.

  Of course, Scar doesn’t understand. How could I ever expect him to? He was raised to win, not to love. It doesn’t matter what Scar thinks. Pita didn’t die as a boy; he died as a man—a man still eagerly waiting for the onset of puberty, but a man nonetheless.

  I can’t help but sneer at the cowardly Scar.

  “So…uh…” he begins, awkwardly.

  “What? What do you want?”

  “We should probably start acting like boyfriend and girlfriend so that the tournament can be over.”

  The thought hadn’t even registered. Scar and I are the final two sacrifices—I hear a loud roar in the distance. Okay, the final two non-bear sacrifices. All I have to do is agree to be his girlfriend, and I can go home to the Crack, where Greta, that small baby-girl, and that big murderous woman are waiting for me. It doesn’t sound great, but at least I’ll have that year’s supply of hot dogs that all Games winners get.

  But is that what I really want? To say ‘yes, Scar I’ll wear your girlfriend ankle shackle,’ and just pack up my belongings and go? Becoming his girlfriend would be a slap in the face of Pita’s legacy, and I’d probably end up like that girl in that sequel to the movie “Ghost,” where the ghost boyfriend decides he actually isn’t cool with his ex dating another guy and comes back and spooks everyone to death.

  “And to be clear,” Scar continues, “We don’t need to stay together after the tournament, or anything. This is simply so both of us can survive.”

  “Cut the crap. I’ve seen you out here. I’ve seen what you do. You’ll probably kill me with some fancy gadget the second you get the chance.”

  “No, I won’t. I understand why you’re scared of me, but I don’t want to kill you. I want the killing to stop. I’ve lost so much in this competition. My butt, for one. And my ice cream.” He gives me a pointed look.

  “The ice cream was an actual badger.”

  “Shh, shh. There’s no need to blame defenseless animals. And there’s no need to put up an act, anymore. I know what it’s like. Because when I killed all those people, that’s what I was doing: acting. I thought it was my best chance to win. That’s how they expect you to act when you’re from Slum 1. I just played it up. Hell, this isn’t a rocket launcher,” he says, pointing to his arm. “It’s a melon baller.”

  “Yeah, okay.” I deadpan, skeptically.

  “Seriously! Look!” he says, pressing a butt
on. A long, silver melon fires out of his arm and explodes an abandoned car nearby.

  “Anyway, you heard what my mom was like. Every hour of my life has been planned. First soccer practice, then choking classes, and then killing people with a violin bow lessons.”

  It’s then that I realize for the very first time: Scar is a human being. He’s a victim, too. He’s not the enemy. Adults are.

  “So, Bratniss Everclean,” he says, getting down on one knee, “will you be my Hunger But Mainly Death Games girlfrien—”

  But before Scar can finish, a monster flies from out of nowhere and tackles him to the ground. Scar does his best to fend off the monster’s advances, but the monster is too strong. It pins Scar down and, despite Scar’s best efforts, slowly lowers its breadknife toward his throat. I try my best to pull the monster off of him, but it’s just too strong. With a few whirs and clicks, its head suddenly turns around a full one hundred and eighty degrees and examines me. “Target: Bratniss Everclean. 16 years of age,” it says robotically, “Objective: Make girlfriend. Course of Action: Resume killing of target called Scar.”

  Wow, there’s something fishy about this monster. And a breadknife? Why on earth does it have a breadknife?

  I sense something behind me. Another monster! I whip around to cave its head in with a plastic Solo cup. But it isn’t a monster. It’s Pita.

  “Pita! Help Scar!”

  “Oh, looks like I missed one of the monsters,” he says. “And one of the really dangerous ones too. Whoops.” He sits down and yawns.

  “Make it stop! Help!” yells Scar.

  But it’s too late. The monster manages to stab Scar just before Scar rips off its head. The monster’s severed head rolls over and settles at my feet. The helmet pops off and I see…it’s bread. The monster is made out of bread. The froth I saw was just icing.

  “I’ve been killed by…bread, Scar says weakly, in a way that conveniently lets us know he is dying.

  With what strength he has left he grabs me by the collar, “Promise you won’t tell anyone. Promise!”

  “No one will ever know,” I say, nodding my head into the cameras.

  Scar’s eyes roll back in his head, all dead-like, and Pita jumps up excitedly.

  “I did it!” he says, rushing over and hugging me. But I suddenly realize that he’s covered in flour...that crusts stuck to his shoes...he’s even still kneading some dough.

  “Pita,” I say slowly. “Why in God’s name do you have that rolling pin?”

  He gives me a chilling stare. “Look on the bright side, Bratniss. At least this means there actually is a party.”

  “One, two, one two,” says a man standing behind a set of turntables, “That’s what DJ Evilmonster was tryin’ to tell y’all. But now that you’re done with all dat monster mash, it’s time to party down with some monster jams!”

  “No!” I yell, “DJ Evilmonster, don’t you dare touch those wheels of steel! In fact, just get out of here.”

  A record scratches loudly as Evilmonster pauses and shrugs. “Aight, y’all, it’s about that time. This is DJ Evilmonster, signin’ off. Remember, I do bar mitzvahs, weddings, pool parties, anything you can put a beat to and get people shakin’ them butts.” He unplugs his system, grabs his turntable, and walks into the awaiting firing squad.

  “You!” I say, thrusting a finger in Pita’s face, “You were behind the monsters!”

  Pita laughs, “Please, Bratniss, give me a little more credit than that. You really think it was just the bread monsters? What about the Reaming? What are the odds that the two of us would get picked? But here we are, Bratniss. Dating. After all these years, we’re finally dating.”

  “Wait, wait, wait. You rigged the Reaming? Then why did you put yourself in the girls—”

  “So I got pranked a little! By those mean old cool boys. Who cares, I wasn’t about to let it ruin everything. So I had to improvise a little...turn on the waterworks to make you feel embarrassed. You took the bait.” he says, raising an eyebrow oh-so-evilly.

  “Oh my God. You mean...”

  “That’s right. There is no Mr. Bear.”

  My jaw drops.

  “And from the moment we got on the train to the Capitol, everything else went exactly according to plan. My perfect, flawless plan.”

  “Pita, this is sick! How can you—wait, getting captured by the careers was part of the plan?”

  “A MISTAKE! One minor mistake. But it ended up being a lucky one, because when you heard me screaming for help, you realized you couldn’t bear to see me hurt, and wouldn’t be able to go on living if you didn’t rescue me right then and there.” When you came to my rescue, it was the first time you felt a real bond with me. Not yet love, but closer, closer.”

  “No, Pita, that’s not what happened at all.”

  “Oh, what does it matter! It all worked out in the end, didn’t it?”

  “I guess. Do you really want me to be happy that we survived the death tournament you threw us into unnecessarily? Like, I guess the way you used that fake diary entry to eventually inspire the Gamemakers to change the rules was smart, but we could have died at any point before then.”

  “Uh, yes, yes. Thank you. That diary was...it took quite a bit of planning.”

  “Pita, are you trying to tell me something?”

  “Okay, I messed that part up, too! I had to sneak into the Gamemakers’ hut and plant the rule change because they didn’t bite on that diary entry! I’m sorry, okay! But here we are, we both survived! We’re both winners, and it’s all because of me, and now we can date each other in peace!”

  Just then, the loudspeaker pipes up, “Excuse me, remaining Hunger But Mainly Death Games sacrifices. It’s been brought to our attention, by you, because you just admitted it in front of us, that one of you broke into our hut and forged an announcement saying that there would be two winners.

  “Now that we know it was fake, I regret to inform you that we’re not going to abide by it. Only one winner this year, same as every year. Gosh, I don’t even know why I’m apologizing. Just get it over with okay? Feel free to use these Red Bull® Negotiation Wands courtesy of Red Bull®,” he says, referring to the shiny axes floating down to us on parachutes. “Oh, and don’t even think about committing suicide with those facemelt berries you keep eyeing. If you did that, we would obviously kill your families in retaliation.”

  Pita and I look at each other. “All right, Pita,” I say. “You’re the one who brought all of this on us. But we both know that I’m stronger, right?” He nods, and I continue, “So how do you want to do this? It’s your choice.”

  “Cardiac arrest brought on by the most strenuous making out ever, please,” he says solemnly.

  “Fair enough,” I say, picking up the axe.

  But as I lift it above my head, everything around us begins to rumble. Off in the distance, I can see explosions, and they’re coming closer. It’s not enough, I think. Even doing exactly what they want isn’t enough! They’re going to kill us both anyway! Ah, well, I brought this axe all the way up here. No sense in letting that energy go to waste.

  I hear the sound of feet rushing up towards me, as I’m taking my third “practice swing.” Better get it over with, and land this one right between Pita’s—

  “Bratniss, stop!” a voice calls out from behind.

  I whip around, and I can’t believe what I’m seeing. It’s Greta! And he’s wearing body armor and carrying a huge shotgun! And there’s a massive army of people following him. Could this be? Could Greta finally have a real role in this book, instead of basically being the character equivalent of scenery?

  “Greta!” I cry out, rushing up and throwing my arms around him. “What are you doing? And how did you get here? Who are all of these people?”

  “Shh, shh. All in good time, Brat. Now, you know that old saying we have back in Slum 12? ‘You should never be the first person to test the flying-suit you made by taping about a bajillion pairs of dragonfly wings onto an old shir
t’? Well, I was thinking that we could head over to Bonebreak’s Bluff now, and give this new dragonfly suit I made a try. It’s really safe, I promise.”

  “Erm, excuse me, that’s not actually why we’re here,” says a striking, middle-aged man woman, who walks up to me and extends her hand. “We brought Greta along because he had some homemade nuclear warheads we wanted to use.” She tousles Greta’s hair and hands him a fistful of earthworms. “Go and play, Greta. Bratniss and I are going to talk. I’m Sacagawea Coin, by the way. It’s so very nice to meet you.”

  “But we don’t have time to talk!” I protest. “Whoever you are, you’ve all put yourselves in great danger! ‘Peace’keepers will be here any second!”

  “No, Bratniss, they won’t,” Coin says. “We’ve destroyed the Capitol, once and for all.”

  “That’s impossible!”

  “Not with social networking,” she replies with a mischievous smile. “It was pretty easy, especially after Facebook and Twitter added those ‘Execute Dictator’ buttons a few months ago. Greta’s weapons of mass destruction were also quite helpful.”

  “But why?” I ask. Can this really be happening?

  “Because ever since we started watching you in the Hunger But Mainly Death Games, we were goners. You’re a star, Bratniss! And we’re your biggest fans.”

  “You’re our hero!” a young boy calls out. “You taught me that I could have my bully’s butt eaten off by flies!”

  “And you taught me that I could have my own butt eaten off by flies!” says a deeper voice, even further back. “It cured me from my bullying ways!”

  “And that there’s no shame in going to the bathroom in the woods, or in the yard! Whenever you need to go, it’s best to do it wherever you are at that very moment, inside or out!” says a third.

  “You taught me it’s okay to fart all over everything while stealing ice cream!”

  “I can’t thank you enough,” I say, my heart overflowing with gratitude. I can’t believe it. This nightmare is finally over. “Are any of you from Slum 12? Where are my mother and Pig?

  “Don’t worry, they’re doing well,” says Coin. “They wanted to come, but, you know, bus fare being what it is these days. We’ll get you back to them as soon as possible. Before we start that journey, though, we’re wondering if we could ask you for one favor.”