One thing I think Run will appreciate is flowers. I go and pick a bunch of beautiful dandelions that are next to a tree.
“Gagaga,” she says. I love listening to her gaga and gala mouth noises. I wish that humans spoke that way all the time. Run starts crying as I sprinkle the remaining flowers in her eyes.
“I know,” I say, “I don’t want to say good-bye either.” I choke as I start to remember all the great times we had together. Yesterday, for instance, was one of the best days of my life. I start to sing Run a lullaby.
As I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,
I take a look at my life and realize there’s not much left,
’Cause I’ve been blastin’ and laughin’ so long that
Even my mama thinks that my mind is gone.
My final words to Run are “Run, die.” She dies in my arms. Well, not really. She dies in the grass, and then I pick her up so that I can say that she died in my arms. Don’t get me wrong, I would do anything to get her back. But you have to admit, it is kind of cool to say that someone died in your arms.
The saddest trombone yet sounds from above. BWOMMP BWOMMP. I move away from Run’s body so the hovercraft can collect her before another tribute comes along and ruins my beautiful flower art. I find a hiding place not too far off where I can watch Run embark on her final journey. The hovercraft floats down from the sky. When its main door slides open, I hear two voices coming from inside.
“I agree with you, one hundred percent.”
“Thank you. I just wish Jennifer would see it that way.”
“She will. Keep in mind, you’re sinking your whole life savings into this restaurant. She’s bound to be a little nervous.”
“She says she’s worried about the money, but that doesn’t stop her from coming home from the mall with a new pair of shoes every week.”
“Look, just explain to her that when it’s all said and done, you’re the one who—”
The doors seal shut, and the hovercraft grabs hold of Run’s body and begins sucking it heavenward. Her body floats up, hits a tree, and falls back down. It looks like she is going to make it on the second attempt, but they drop her from even higher. She bounces off several branches on the way down, before getting snagged on a low-lying holly bush. Eventually, the hovercraft operators sweep Run’s body to the side and bury it under some leaves. Run’s time in the Hunger Games has finally come to an end. I am proud that my ally went down fighting.
I know at this moment that every single camera in Peaceland is focused on me. I smooth my hair and very stealthily unpick my wedgie.
I look up to see a tiny silver parachute bringing a gift just for me. Unlike Run’s body, it manages to steer clear of the trees. I tear away all the wrapping paper and open the box. The first thing I see is a card that reads “From District 11.” How nice, I think. When I peel back more wrapping paper, I find the gift: a ticking bomb! I have no idea how to use a bomb, but it’s the thought that counts. The kind people of District 11 sent me this bomb to thank me for being such a great ally to Run. Obviously they were hoping I’d be able to use it to kill other tributes. There is nobody else around, so I toss it into a nearby pond, where it explodes, killing thousands of fish.
All of a sudden, a voice comes bellowing from the sky. It’s Greg the Announcer. “Eh peepo cannaw winna Ooga Gehs!” he shouts.
His supervisor then comes on the mic. “Eight people can now win the Hunger Games,” he clarifies.
I count in my head. Since Run just died, there are now eight people left in the Games. Me, Archie, Mandy, Smash, Dogface, the girl from District 8, the boy from District 9, and Pita. That means that all of us will live! Yay!
“Just kidding!” the supervising announcer says, cracking up. “Not all of you can win. However, we have decided that two tributes can win the Hunger Games. Resume killing one another!”
I immediately think of Pita. I sniff the air for the scent of bread. Hm … the direction of the wind tells me I must proceed westward. Within a few minutes I come upon a trail of bread crumbs. I begin to follow them, certain they’ll lead to Pita.
My mind is consumed with one thought: How does Pita have the resources to make such amazing bread in the arena? I follow the delicious little morsels, popping each one into my mouth to confirm that yes, this is the same marble rye that has been blowing my mind all afternoon. This goes on for hours, and despite the occasional misidentified rock throwing me off his track and causing severe damage to my molars, I soon sense his sweet doughy scent growing stronger.
Suddenly, I hear a whimper coming from a clearing on my right. I peer around a tree and take in a depressing scene. It’s the female tribute from the red light district, crying softly as she uses the trunk of a young tree as a stripper pole. Dozens of parachutes are raining down around her, each containing a dollar bill. “I can’t use these here,” she weeps, giving a sad little shimmy and tucking a bill into her bra strap out of habit. “Just send me food or a weapon. Money is not helping me here.” I have to admit I feel bad for her and in a way admire her spirit. “You go, girl,” I mutter under my breath, as I pull an arrow from my quiver and release. I never thought I would be the kind of person that would kill a stripper, but this just feels right.
Right before the sad trombone sounds, I hear a loud crack behind me and turn around to see Smash glaring at me from behind a stump where a tree stood a moment ago. He pushes over several other trees and pounds his fist against his chest. He rips open his shirt and roars, pushing me to the ground and standing over me as if he’s about to body-slam me to death.
“You die now,” says Smash.
“You will die now,” I correct him, but this only makes him angrier. Smash jumps up in preparation for the fatal body slam, but then stops.
“You friends Run?”
“Some of them run. A lot do other forms of cardio,” I reply. This guy is wasting my time.
“No!” Smash explodes. Then he takes a notebook out of his pocket and consults it. “You friends … with … Run?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say.
“You try life save?” Smash asks.
“Yes, but I prefer Tic Tacs.”
“No! You try save … Run … life?”
I nod.
Smash thinks hard for a minute, then steps away from me. “Just this one time. Smash let you go. Because of Run. Now you and Smash even. Understand?” I nod vigorously.
“Cut!” A camera crew emerges from the woods, the director leading the way. “Cut. Smash, babe, unreal. Totally scary but totally tender. The thing is, Martin was getting some b-roll of birds in flight, so we’re going to need you to do that again. You good, man? You want some lemonade? We’re going to have someone touch up Kantkiss’s makeup and then we’ll try this again in five.”
After six takes, a photo shoot, Smash changing his mind, a near-death experience, Smash changing his mind again, and another take, I am free to go. I take off running toward Pita’s mouthwatering smell. Along the way I carefully gather every crumb in my mouth. There are children starving in postapocalyptic Africa, after all.
Before long the bread trail ends in a small clearing, and the delectable smell of dough reaches its climax. I know he must be nearby, but a quick survey of the area shows no sign of Pita—tree, tree, rock, cave rock, ten-tiered wedding cake with an ornate floral design, stream, tree. Frustrated, I sit on a rock and try to think what might have happened to him. Could he have climbed a tree? He doesn’t exactly have the center of gravity for that, but in a totally masculine and desirable kind of way. Sure, he doesn’t have Carol’s height or athleticism, but that can be gross sometimes. I take another desperate look around the area when the most peculiar thing happens: the wedding cake blinks.
“Pita! You’re right here in this clearing disguised in your signature baked goods camouflage!” I scream at the top of my lungs. Someone could have heard me, but if I limit my ability to express myself, then am I really even me anymore?
The
cake smiles, and Pita rearranges his body fat back into normal boy form. “I’m so happy you found me. Did you follow the trail?”
“It was the highlight of my day! That hint of cinnamon in the bread is really something special. You have a gift.”
“Thank you, Kantkiss, that means the world to me. But that’s not bread.” He blushes. “That’s my dandruff.”
“Huh. Well, come on, let’s go kill enough teenagers to win this game.” I begin to walk away but sense that Pita isn’t following me.
“Kantkiss, I’m hurt. It’s my finger. I don’t think I can move.” I look over to him now and to my horror see that his finger is covered in blood. “Oh sorry, that’s frosting. I was experimenting with natural dyes. There are these flowers that make the most gorgeous crimson hues.” He licks the frosting off to show me the damage on his finger.
“What happened? Is it broken? Infected? Jammed?” I ask. I can’t see a thing.
“No, I think …” A single tear rolls down his cheek. “I think it’s still tender from when I cut it the other day fighting Archie. But we’re going to fight this thing.” He puts his hand on my shoulder and wipes his eyes. “Together we can get through anything.”
“Is that it? Stop being a little girl and walk it off.”
He doesn’t seem to hear me. “I know, you’re right, it is really brave of me to offer to help with the hunting and the gathering and the killing of others, but with my injury that would be foolish.” He raises his head in a dignified yet pained manner. “I’ll just let myself heal in that cave over there and you can take care of all that stuff.”
“Fine, we can make camp there for the night. Let’s go.”
I walk toward the cave but soon hear a polite little ahem. I turn around and see Pita looking at me expectantly, glancing down at his finger and sticking out his lower lip. “Ouchie, ouch!”
“Yes, dear.” I sigh as I gather Pita into my arms and roll him to the mouth of the cave. Just when I begin to relax in the knowledge that no one can find us here, a tree collapses beside me and Smash jumps in front of Pita, roaring.
“Now two die!” he declares.
“Hello,” says Pita, extending his hand, “How have the Games been treating you?”
Ignoring Pita’s good-natured small talk, Smash grabs the trunk of the tree he pushed over and prepares to club us to death with it.
“Excuse me,” pipes up Pita, “your shoelace is untied.”
Smash looks down and sees that Pita is right. “Smash could have tripped,” he reflects. After a moment he puts down the tree trunk and backs away from us. “Just this one time. Smash let you go. Because of shoelace. Now you and Smash even, understand?”
Pita begins to protest that it was his pleasure to point out that Smash’s shoelace was untied and that there is really no need to repay him, but I put my hand over his mouth until Smash walks away.
Once Smash is gone, I turn to Pita. He just saved my life. “Hey,” I say sweetly, “remember when you wanted to go to the kissing station during training and I rejected you? Well, if you want to practice here, I’d be down.”
Just when the words leave my mouth, a shower of silver parachutes fills the clearing outside the cave. Buttitch has sent us champagne, oysters, chocolate-covered strawberries, candles (unscented), candles (rustic cedar), a string quartet, a heart-shaped Jacuzzi, and a television playing the clip from The Lady and the Tramp where they eat spaghetti and kiss.
Suddenly the string quartet stops playing. The cellist leans over to me and says, “Excuse me, Kantkiss? The name’s Friedrich, huge fan. Anyway, Buttitch said that this might happen and asked me to give you this message: Kiss Pita.”
What? I think. I have never kissed a boy before. Kissing has never even entered my mind. But if Buttitch, a disgusting old pervert who clearly doesn’t have my best interests at heart, wants me to do something sexual on live television, I figure I better do as he says.
I approach Pita. I put one hand on Pita’s shoulder and give it a squeeze, raising my eyebrows high and then bringing them down low to demonstrate my interest. He places his hand on my cheek and looks deep into my eyes, stroking my skin tenderly. I swat him away because we really don’t have time for his crap. Since I’ve never kissed anybody before, I’m not entirely sure how to proceed. One thing I do know is that a good kiss involves a lot of tongue—like a ton of tongue, everywhere. Going straight for the mouth feels a little forward, so I decide to start with the cheek and drag my tongue slowly up his face and across his forehead, then back down his nose. I nibble a little because he smells really good and then lick his lips with confidence. Confidence is very important.
“Open sesame,” I order, “the captain is ready for landing.” With that I pry his mouth open with my hands and stick in as much of my face as I can manage. His delicious smell overwhelms me. This is heaven. The cellist rubs his hands together in agreement.
After another sixty seconds of this, I extract myself and take two steps back. To my delight, a dozen more parachutes fall to the ground with gifts ranging from a lame water purifier to an awesome puppy dressed in a sailor outfit.
Suddenly I understand. The sponsors like it when I kiss things. I tilt my head up to the sky and address them directly. “How about some of this”—I rub my tongue along the floor of the cave—“and this”—I lick up every last ant off a boulder—“and a little bit of this!” I shyly approach a nearby tree and give it a tender peck in the intimate spot where a branch merges with the trunk. The sponsors must have run out of money because I get nothing for these efforts. When I turn back to Pita, he seems to be reenergized.
“I’m starting to feel better, like my old athletic self. See, I used to be a ribbon dancer.” He laughs. As he sways his hips to an old routine, I can’t help but be reminded of the time Carol was not a ribbon dancer but instead single-handedly supported his family with his incredible hunting skills. He’s out there somewhere, his abdominal muscles rippling in the sunset’s glow, glistening with sweat after a hard day’s work. And here’s Pita, slipping on a bit of leftover frosting and rolling away in the cave’s slight incline. I burn with desire, but for whom?
I get the grim feeling that this impossible choice will plague me for the rest of my life and that nothing—even the political future of all Peaceland—will overshadow its importance.
Pita announces that he’s hurt himself again, and after thirty minutes of crying in my lap, he’s tuckered himself out enough to go to bed. We decide to share my sleeping bag for the body warmth but agree that kissing is far too exhausting to do more than once a day. We settle in, and before long the Peaceland emblem blazes in the sky, followed by a picture of Run. As the smooth jazz comes on, I feel a warm trickle on my leg.
“Pita, what is that?” I ask.
“What?” Pita replies.
“Did you just wet the bed?”
Pita clears his throat, “Uh … no, it’s apple juice. From a sponsor. Don’t drink it.”
Relieved, I fall asleep.
The next morning Pita insists that he’s still in pain, so I have to spend all day hunting to put food in our mouths. When I return a few hours later, exhausted and sore, I am appalled by what I find: the champagne bottles are empty, the strawberries are gone, and the sailor puppy is dead. Meanwhile Pita is lounging in the Jacuzzi and listening to the iPod that I earned yesterday with my awesome kiss.
“Well, that took a long time,” he says. “Were you planning on spending any time with me today?”
“I was getting you food. What happened to Sailor Puppy and why hasn’t he been given a proper burial?”
“So I’m your slave now? Because I can’t hunt, I have to do everything for you?”
“You know, you’re being real sassy today, Pita. Remind me again, who’s providing for us? That’s right, this gal.” I point to myself. “I work hard all day, so I expect to come home to a crackling fire and a nice foot massage and no dead puppies stinking up the place. Is that so much to ask?”
&n
bsp; Before Pita can respond, Greg the Announcer’s nearly incomprehensible voice is projected throughout the arena. After he repeats himself four times, I can understand the gist of what he says: “Remember, two tributes can both win, so if you’re arguing in a cave right now like Pita and Kantkiss, you should probably stop fighting and start being a little more in love.”
I sigh, understanding the subtle implication that the audience wants another kiss. I stick my tongue out as far as it will go, but then Greg the Announcer’s supervisor speaks, “One more thing: you’re all cordially invited to a Buffet at the Cornucrapia where you’ll each be given what you need the most. Come and get it!”
“Kantkiss, do you know what this means? They could have a Band-Aid for me, maybe even aspirin!” Before I can respond, Pita exclaims, “You’re right, though. It’s too dangerous for me. Thanks so much. It would be great if you could go get it.”
“I’m sorry, you can’t take ten minutes out of your busy schedule to get rid of the dog, but you expect me to go and risk my life for an injury you’re probably faking anyway? This is not the delicious boy that I fell in love with.”
Pita sniffs and turns away from me in shame. “Do you even find me beautiful anymore?” he asks.
“I don’t know if I ever did.” With that, I gently scoop up the puppy and walk outside looking for a good burial site. Just as I’m realizing how difficult it will be to dig a hole with my bare hands, a parachute drops down containing a metal shovel. Great, another brainteaser from Buttitch. What could it mean?
I put the shovel aside and try to think about what Buttitch wants me to do as I scoop up dirt for the puppy’s grave, but I can’t concentrate with Pita wailing in my ear. “Oh no, Kantkiss, you are not coming back into my cave when you’re covered in dirt like that.” He puts a hand on his hip and shakes a finger at me. “You’re going to mess everything up, and guess who’s going to clean it up tomorrow? Just because I don’t hunt doesn’t mean I don’t work.”
The Hunger Pains: A Parody Page 9