The Hunger Pains: A Parody

by The Harvard Lampoon

  “Thanks,” I say, trying to appear sweet and grateful. I remember Buttitch’s advice. I’ll have enough enemies once the Hunger Games begin. It wouldn’t hurt to have the stylists on my side. They seem to be falling for my nice-girl act, so I keep it going. “We don’t have much reason back home to look pretty,” I tell them. Then I pinch my own cheek and giggle.

  The assistants squeal with delight. They understand that I’ve had a rough upbringing living outside the Capital.

  “Don’t get me started on dis government!” Octopus says. “Did ya see what President Bernette was wearin’ last year at the Openin’ Ceremony? Dat pinstripe suit? He looked like a real cockatoo!”

  Just then the door bursts open and a squadron of Pacemakers dressed in black marches in. They grab Octopus and drag her outside.

  Venereal clears her throat. “All right, dear, thas enough for today. Now that ya look like a normal, healthy human, Cinnabon can finally have a look at ya.” At last, I will get to meet the stylist.

  She and Flabbiest gather their supplies and exit the room. Once they’re gone, I remember that I’m naked. It didn’t bother me in front of the assistants. For one thing, I appreciated the attention. And I’m pretty sure they were naked too. It was very hard to tell with all their tattoos and extragenital accessories.

  The door slides open, not at all like the doors back in District 12, which are mostly just tarps. In walks an old man, dressed in a green canvas smock, fashionably holding a bucket. He studies my naked body. I know it’s crucial to stay perfectly still to show I trust his judgment.

  After about four minutes of this, I can’t hold out any longer. I blurt out, “You’re not like any stylist I’ve ever seen on TV.”

  “Stylist? I’m just the janitor,” the man says. “I had to see for myself what kind of creature was shedding all the hair and fur I’ve been shoveling into the furnace. My guess was a wolf, maybe a moose.” I cover my chest, embarrassed. “Anyway, nice to meet you. My name’s Barnels.” He gives my body one last look from top to bottom and then hobbles back outside.

  After that I lose track of time. Back in District 12, few are rich enough to afford clocks, so if we need to know the time, we walk to the public square and ask Counting Richard, a man who spends all day counting.

  Just as I begin to doze off for a quick naked nap, an exquisitely stylish man steps into the room. His hair is dashing—business in the front, party in the back. He wears a Hawaiian shirt, buttoned crookedly and untucked from his cargo shorts. On his feet, lime green Crocs. The ensemble takes my breath away.

  “Hi, I’m Cinnabon, your stylist for the Hunger Games. You must be …” He unfolds a piece of paper from his pocket. “Terry.”

  “It’s Kantkiss,” I say.

  “Right!” he says. “Terry was last year’s tribute. God rest his soul.”

  I bow my head in respect.

  Cinnabon breaks the silence. “You must be hungry,” he says. With his finger, he presses a button on his chair that says Fancy Lunch Button. A meal instantly falls into the room from the ceiling. I notice that Cinnabon doesn’t speak with the Capital accent.

  I eye the food excitedly. “Wait!” Cinnabon yells before I can dig in. “For the love of Bernette, put some clothes on before you start gorging yourself. I don’t know if the naked thing is a custom in your district or just a personal preference, but either way you need to cover up all that back stubble if I’m going to have any chance of keeping my food down.”

  After I throw on a robe, we eat. The food is amazing. Cinnabon’s lunch is served on fine china. He eats a steak dusted in rosemary atop wild rice, with pudding for dessert. And for me, on the carpet, is a tray of steamed cabbage, an assortment of different roots, a full corncob, all mashed together with chicken neck. We have nothing this delicious back home, and though my heart is full of hate toward the Capital, my belly is full of yum-yums.

  Cinnabon puts down his fork. “You must think we’re all monsters,” he says. His eyes glare at me and I feel my breathing quicken. I’m not sure if I should answer, or nod, or stay silent, or try a cartwheel. Unsure of how to proceed, I let out a burp.

  Cinnabon nods understandingly and continues. “It must seem so awful: fat, rich Capital residents snatching up half-fed, mangy children so they can watch them slaughter one another.” Cinnabon has surprised me, both by his cold assessment of the Hunger Games and by starting his meal with the pudding. “Anyway, about your costume.”

  My costume. This is the part I’ve been dreading, even more than my probable death alone in the wilderness. For the Opening Ceremony, tributes are dressed in a costume representing their districts, and since District 12 is the telemarketing district, our tributes usually end up looking like phone books.

  “Now, I could’ve sworn the Hunger Games didn’t start until next week,” Cinnabon says, as he picks up a small suitcase from beside his chair. “I must have misread my calendar. But I did my best to throw something together at the last minute. Don’t worry, nobody will notice that it was rushed.”

  Cinnabon reaches a hand into the suitcase and pulls out a large white sheet. He unfurls it and holds it up for me to see. It’s just a regular sheet, aside from two small holes cut in the middle. Cinnabon tosses the sheet over himself and twists and turns until his eyes are visible through the holes. “You’ll be a ghost!” he declares.

  At first, I don’t say anything. I stare blankly at the ghost standing before me. I take a moment and walk a full circle around Cinnabon. “Well?” he says from beneath the sheet. “What do you think?”

  “It’s … it’s … genius!” I say. Cinnabon shimmies out of the sheet and tosses it over me. It fits perfectly. He can’t see it, but I’m ecstatic. I’ve never felt so beautiful.

  I’m rushed downstairs for the ceremony. Everyone we pass in the halls jumps back in horror before realizing I’m not a real ghost. Then they congratulate Cinnabon on his masterpiece. At this year’s Emmy Awards, Cinnabon will be a lock for Best Costume Design, Reality Series.

  Finally, we arrive at the child stable where the tributes are kept until the ceremony begins. Pita walks in a few minutes later. His costume is beautiful. His doughy body is enclosed in a hulking black plastic suit meant to replicate a Singer-Point 14 series telephone—just like the one they use back home in the telemarketing office. As I stare at Pita, he keeps trying to scratch an itch on his butt, which involves slapping the 9 button with his palm.

  I go over to Pita to ask him about his experience with the stylists. “That was pretty weird, huh?” I say. “Especially being naked in front of all those strangers.”

  “You were naked?” Pita says.

  “Yeah. Wasn’t everybody?” I say.

  Pita shakes his head. “I didn’t get naked,” he says. In the hallway, a few other tributes shake their heads as well.

  A couple guards walk in and push us into the front of the child stable, from which we’ll enter the stadium for the Opening Ceremony. Attached to a chariot stand two massive horses. I’ve never seen a horse up close before. They’re extremely rare in the woods of District 12, and I’ve been dying to hunt one since I was a little girl.

  One by one, the different tribute pairs will emerge from the child stable onto the stadium floor. Tributes will ride their chariots toward the center of the stadium, where a large stage awaits.

  The first tributes to ride out are from District 1. District 1 is known as the champions district. Whereas my district specializes in telemarketing, District 1 specializes in breeding kids to dominate the Hunger Games. These kids are big, strong, and ruthless. They ride out wearing varsity letter jackets and drinking Red Bull.

  District 2 is next. District 2 is the ultimate fighting district, and it’s home to some vicious kids. Its tributes are wearing basketball shorts, tattoos, and mohawks. Even in the chariot, they’re kicking and punching each other, entertaining the audience as they inflict pain. Like District 1 tributes, tributes from the ultimate fighting district usually do very well in the
Hunger Games.

  The districts roll by, too many for me to possibly count. I catch the girl tribute from District 7, the district attorney district, staring at me contemptuously. I can tell that beneath her pantsuit there is a fierce rage directed straight at me, although I have no idea why. Maybe it’s my killer costume that’s setting her off.

  The next pair is from District 8, the red light district. I’m not sure what they make there, but their tributes are dressed very provocatively.

  Later comes District 10, the theater district, and as usual both tributes are boys.

  By counting my fingers and toes, I conclude that our turn is coming up. Pita and I mount our chariot. As we move into view of the crowd, and the millions of viewers across Peaceland, I feel sick with nervousness. Man, I hope they like my outfit.

  “Boooo! Boooo!” the crowd screams in an obvious nod to my ghost costume. On the Jumbotron, Cinnabon’s face appears. The crowd stops booing and goes absolutely wild. Cinnabon is one of the most popular stylists, and everything he’s associated with is a hit. My white sheet is no exception. Even though Cinnabon is burying his head in his hands, I know that he’s proud of us. The crowd chants his name.

  Our chariot comes to a stop at the broad semicircle formed by all the tributes. Taken together, the costumes are truly magnificent. Pita and I are the capstone: telephone and ghost. President Mark Bernette appears at the podium and the crowd erupts in applause. He raises a hand to indicate that he’d like the crowd to quiet down. Immediately, there is silence. No farts.

  Good afternoon,” bellows President Bernette. “Welcome to the Seventy-Fourth Hunger Games.”

  As I process that statement, I realize its magnitude: I am one of a long line of telemarketing district tributes. I am being welcomed. And there have been at least fifty Hunger Games before this one.

  President Bernette grips the podium firmly with both hands. He is a good-looking man, with a wide forehead, flowing brown hair, and a dashing smile that he never flashes. He wears a black suit with a black dress shirt underneath. His boxers, I’ve been told, are also black. When I look at him the only color I find is in his rosy cheeks.

  He continues. “We know there are three keys to a healthy society: having elected leaders, promoting separation of powers, and making children fight to the death on national TV.”

  The crowd roars in agreement. Pita claps also. I don’t blame him. He’s simply distracted by the bagel he’s pulled from his pocket, completely unaware of what’s been said.

  “To suppress a revolution,” President Bernette goes on, “it’s important to infuriate and humiliate your constituents regularly, while televising the deaths of their children. On that note, I am happy to welcome these fine tributes. We have a great arena prepared this year, and it should be fun to watch them die—not like that one year where they all starved to death and it took forever.”

  The crowd applauds. Pita, listening now, looks appropriately concerned. The Boy with the Head and I exchange worried looks.

  “Seeing as how these games are quite perilous, I would like to remind the tributes that you are free to leave at any time,” President Bernette says.

  Phew! Pita and I smile. That’s great news. I imagine Prin watching this. I miss her so much. And I imagine my mother beside her—that stupid woman. I think of them hearing this and realizing that I can come home safely. Maybe Pita and I will leave tomorrow. Or we’ll enjoy touring the Capital for a few more days. I breathe a sigh of relief, knowing that I will soon be back home, living in horrible poverty.

  President Bernette repeats himself. “That’s right, you can leave the arena at any time and go back ho—” An adviser cuts him off and whispers in his ear. After nodding, President Bernette continues. “Sorry, sorry, I was thinking of something else,” he says. “Sorry about that.” He laughs. “You can only leave if you die.”

  Pita and I look at each other again. We go back to being scared.

  “In closing,” President Bernette says, his voice sonorous, his hair gelled, his views right-wing, “I hope you have enjoyed these Opening Ceremonies. To the tributes, I hope you take pride in a few things: your district, getting to be on live TV, and the fact that you will die in interesting ways. Enjoy the evening. Remember, the food court closes at ten thirty.”

  Now that the ceremony is over, Pita and I ride our chariot back to the Training Center. Pita wants to stop at a drive-thru, but I remind him that Effu asked us to be in the apartment for dinner. To show his frustration, Pita tries to cross his arms, but he can’t. He settles for making a pouty face.

  On the ride to the Training Center, we pass Buttitch huddled with a group of men on a street corner. They’re exchanging money and slips of paper. I can tell that they’re making bets on the Hunger Games. When Buttitch spots us, he hurriedly puts away the money. The others follow suit. Then, in an effort to look casual, they all start whistling and walking in small circles.

  As I walk into the training center, I try not to think about how my life is basically in Buttitch’s hands. This building is amazing. It has a floor for each district. I step into a thing Effu calls an “elevator.” When you get out, you are at a different place than you were when you got in. Unless you do not press a button. The whole experience is remarkable. The only other times I’ve ever been in an elevator were when I went to the District 12 Injustice Building to collect my father’s vaporized body, and every day at school when I rode the elevator to class.

  As I ride this elevator, I remember the year that the Hunger Games took place in an arena that was made to resemble an office building. Most of the tributes from poor districts were decapitated by elevators because they weren’t familiar with them. Man, those were good Hunger Games.

  I step off the elevator and into the apartment. Like the compartment on the train, it’s very deluxe. Pita sits down to take off his sneakers. Good idea, I think. This is a nice place; we should remove our dirty footwear. But then I see that he’s just getting some crackers out of his shoes. As he pulls a few up to his mouth, Effu slaps them out of his hand. “Don’t spoil ya dinna!”

  I excuse myself and head for the bathroom. When I shut the door behind me, I let out a deep breath, pleased to have a moment alone for the first time since Super Fun Day. I look around the bathroom. Nothing is familiar. There’s a silver tube that pees water. There’s a bar of a thing called “soap.” The toilet has a lever that makes water disappear counterclockwise and then reappear again. I use the toilet and, for the first time in my life, enjoy pooping without digging a hole first.

  When I walk out, Effu is standing there waiting for me. “Here,” she says, handing me a small matchbox. “Ya betta light a match in there.”

  “Is that a Capital custom?” I ask.

  “No. It’s not,” she says, pinching her nose.

  I do as she says, and then we head toward the dining room. There, I find another massive meal. Pizza, mozzarella sticks, Diet Coke, McFlurries, lobsters, Polish meatballs, pretzels, Swedish meatballs, and a giant tub of raw cookie dough. Mmm. I lick my lips. Then I lick my hands: this is how we wash our hands in District 12. I take a seat at the table next to Pita. Effu, Buttitch, and Cinnabon join us.

  We start eating. “Did you know this year you can actually bet on the order that the tributes die?” Buttitch says. “I’ve been advocating that for years. Finally!”

  Cinnabon looks worried.

  “I’ve got you going fourth,” Buttitch says excitedly, pointing his knife toward Pita. “Dying fourth, I mean. Kantkiss—you’ll go sixth. Now, I want—”

  “That’s enough!” Cinnabon says, cutting him off.

  “You’re right.” Buttitch nods. “I’d better not jinx it.”

  When I’m about halfway through my first plateful of meatballs, I think about how long it would take me to assemble this meal at home. For the McFlurries, I’d just hit up McDonald’s. But for the meat, I’d have to kill at least two cows. One for the meat and the other for sport. Then I’d have to kill about a
dozen squirrels to trade for the other foods. For the pizza, Carol and I would have to search the woods all day for tomatoes and a pizza oven.

  Buttitch, his mouth full of cookie dough, begins to reminisce about past Hunger Games. “Five or six years ago, little Gary Schechter, he put up a good fight. Made District Twelve proud. Like many District Twelve tributes before him, it all ended when he got his intestines ripped out.”

  Pita and I swallow our food hard. It’s not pleasant to hear about our predecessors.

  “Had a nice funeral, though. Real nice. Flowers, band, speeches,” Buttitch says.

  I try not to listen.

  He keeps talking. “Herbert Morton—that was a funeral. After he was eaten by another tribute in the Hunger Games ten years ago, they buried what was left of him in the most magnificent pearl casket.”

  “Quit talking about funerals, Buttitch! You’ll frighten the kids,” Cinnabon says.

  I’m grateful to have Cinnabon here. He seems like a real friend.

  “It’s insensitive,” Cinnabon remarks. “Everyone knows they don’t have funerals for dead tributes anymore.”

  When we start to run low on mozzarella sticks, a red-haired girl emerges from the kitchen with a new tray. She looks familiar and vaguely reminds me of someone I betrayed one time. While Effu and Buttitch talk, I can’t stop staring at this girl. Then it hits me.

  “I know you!” I say to the girl.

  Everyone at the table gets quiet and stares at me. The girl glances at me for a second, then walks quickly back to the kitchen. “Hey!” I shout at her. But she’s disappeared behind the door. I try to remember where I know her from. The market? The Capital? This dinner?

  “How could you possibly know a Notalks?” Cinnabon asks.

  “A what?” I reply.

  “A Notalks,” he says. “Someone who has committed a crime. The Capital cuts off their tongues as punishment.”

  “Ya couldn’t possibly know her,” Effu says.