The Hunger Pains: A Parody

by The Harvard Lampoon

  I am leaning over Pita’s sensual, convulsing body. The sad trombone hasn’t sounded yet. There is still hope. A part of me wishes I had visited the antidote station when I was at the Training Center. But I ignore my regrets and resolve to push forward, just like I learned at the proactive attitude station.

  An ambulance hovercraft lands on the ground and a team of doctors puts Pita on a stretcher and rushes him away.

  “Wait!” I yell, grabbing the hovercraft and trying to hold on as it takes off for the hospital. “Treat my injuries first!”

  I only sulk for a moment before two more ambulance hovercrafts land. “Do you want to ride in my hovercraft, Archie?” I ask suggestively.

  “Nope,” he says, grabbing a pretty nurse by the waist—I think she is his cousin—and leading her into the ambulance. I have never been this in love with anyone.

  As I walk past the severed arm of some unlucky tribute, I am reminded of home. Even amid the death and decay of the Crack, there is beauty. For every rotting carcass, there are two poppies. This thought consoles me as I pick up Run the puppy and Archie’s amazing wooden plank. Then I get in the last hovercraft, ready to return to the Capital.

  Gradually, I wake up from a deep sleep I don’t remember falling into. Everything is hazy. I dimly hear a voice—I think it belongs to Effu—saying, “Don’t resuscitate! Stop feedin’ dat girl intravenously!” I am in a white hospital room surrounded by nurses, doctors, and—sure enough—Effu Poorpeople. This part of the Hunger Games is never televised, and I feel privileged to get an exclusive, behind-the-scenes look.

  Everybody falls silent when they see I have opened my eyes. “She’s awake, mon,” Effu says after a moment. “It’s so good to see ya, darlin’!”

  I brush aside her pleasantries. Only one thing is on my mind. “Archie!” I exclaim. “Has he texted me?”

  “I’m sorry, dear,” replies Effu. “Perhaps his cell phone is outta batteries?”

  “That must be it,” I say, thinking fondly of Archie. What a good guy. “How about Pita?” I inquire absentmindedly, my mind still fixated on that awesome wooden plank Archie gave me. “Did he survive?”

  “The last time I checked, it was touch and go,” Effu says. “I’ve been busy overseeing ya medical care da past few hours.”

  “Well,” I say, rising, “I should go say hi to people. I haven’t seen Circle in ages.”

  “Naturally,” says Effu. “By da way, are ya goin’ to Colonel Srivatsa’s soiree tonight? He’s a horrid little weasel of a mon of course. Still, one feels obliged …”

  I am taken aback. Aside from that do-not-resuscitate thing, Effu is being incredibly nice to me now that I have won the Hunger Games. It’s almost like … I’m rich! Holy crap! I am so rich! I can buy all the squirrel meat I want now! The thought fills me with joy and I excitedly jump out of bed.

  “I can’t tonight,” I say, quickly adjusting to my new socioeconomic role. “I have a date with a large mouse steak. I’m going to eat it all myself. And afterward I am going to sleep on a bed … with blankets!”

  Effu scoffs. “New money …”

  As I leave the room, I feel weird. There is something weighing me down, making it difficult for me to walk upright. I gasp when I see my reflection in a mirror: my boobs are gigantic!

  “Oh yes,” Effu begins to explain, “Buttitch and I tried to stop da doctors from doing dat when dey healed you, but—”

  I stop her midsentence. “I love them, Effu.” Not many seventeen-year-olds in the Crack can compete with these bazookas. What an awesome day. I walk down the hallway to see if Pita is still alive and find Buttitch in the first room I enter.

  “Buttitch!” I greet him warmly. “How’s it hanging?”

  “Uh … good, good!” he says, hurriedly draping a sheet over his desk. “Congratulations on winning the Games.”

  “What do you have under that sheet there, buddy?” I ask.

  “Just some boring old paperwork,” he says. “Listen, I need to talk to you about something very important.”

  “Go ahead,” I say, pulling up a chair next to Buttitch’s desk of bulky paperwork.

  “Would you like some coffee?” Buttitch asks me.

  “Don’t mind if I do,” I say. He hands me a cup and I take a big, long sip.

  “This may come as a surprise to you,” Buttitch begins. I sip even more coffee. “But when you threatened the Capital on live television and made them change the rules to their own game, they weren’t too pleased.”

  Psssshh. I spit out all my coffee. “Wha?”

  “President Bernette is watching you very closely,” Buttitch continues, “and if he thinks that you are a threat, he will have you executed.”

  “But … but … President Bernette is a merciful and benevolent ruler! Everybody knows that!” I protest, sitting up in disbelief. I still haven’t adjusted to the weight of my modified chest, and I flop forward onto the desk, pulling the sheet off in the process. “Buttitch!” I declare when I look up. “This isn’t paperwork.”

  Buttitch’s desk is full of strange items of all shapes and sizes. There are several vials of medicine, a wide assortment of weapons, some camouflage gear, and every type of food and drink you could imagine. Next to one pistol I spot a note saying “Make sure she gets this before sunset,” from Mark Zuckerberg XXIX.

  A rough-looking man wearing a leather jacket walks into the room. “I’ll give you fifty bucks for the stolen camouflage suit,” he announces. “And that’s my final offer.” Buttitch frantically shoos him away and then turns to me.

  “Oh right. Sorry, by paperwork I meant birthday present. This is all a birthday present for my, uh, mother,” Buttitch says, hastily putting the sheet back on.

  “Buttitch,” I say, taken aback. “That is very thoughtful of you!”

  “Yeah, anyway,” he continues, “I’ve got a plan to keep you alive. Just renounce your title and declare Dogface the official winner of the Hunger Games. That way all the heat will be on her, and she can take that heat because she’s dead.”

  “But how will that change what I did with the berries?” I ask.

  Buttitch doesn’t seem to hear me. “She was a sure thing!” he explodes. “Seven-to-three odds looked like easy money! And then she had to go and eat those damned rocks!” He pounds the desk with his fist, then composes himself. “Trust me, Kantkiss,” he says after a while, “declaring Dogface the winner of the Hunger Games will solve all our problems.”

  “I’ll think about it,” I promise. “By the way, do you know what happened to Pita?”

  Buttitch lowers his head solemnly. “He didn’t make it.”

  I fight back tears. “But surely with their technology, the Capital could have found an antidote for the poison!”

  “Oh, yeah,” Buttitch says, “the doctors treated that easily. No, the trouble came when they gave Pita cosmetic breast reduction surgery. There were complications and he died on the operating table. It was too bad, I had two hundred bucks on him surviving.”

  I rush out of the room, furious at the whole world. Why would a kind, loving Bernette let such a sexy man die? Does Bernette even exist? Of course he does, I reason, brushing aside my atheistic doubts, I saw him give a speech a few weeks ago. Still, I haven’t been this sad since my dad died, or at least since my father figure returned to his backpack. I wonder if I will ever experience happiness again, like that time I won the Hunger Games. That was sick.

  I run back into my room and collapse on my bed, crying harder than I have cried in years. I just wanted to live the District 12ian dream: hunt squirrels, avoid getting executed, repeat. How did things get so messed up? I always thought I might kill teenagers, but I wanted it to be on my terms. I never wanted to be a pawn in the Capital’s stupid game. And now Pita’s dead! If he had stayed in District 12, he could have lived another ten, maybe fifteen years. I cry and cry and cry.

  I look up and notice a figure sitting in a chair in the corner of the room. She must have been here the whole time
.

  “Dry ya tears, girl,” the figure says in the strange, affected accent of the Capital. “Ya learning about da big woman tings now.” It’s Effu.

  The last thing I expect from Effu is a sympathetic ear, but she walks over to my bed and strokes my hair tenderly. Effu is really nice to rich people.

  “Dis world is nutten but trouble,” she reflects. “Ya gotta obey da politicians or else ya get trown in da prison. Ya gotta look after da younguns and put ’em in da Hunger Games, but you know dey gonna get blown to bits. Dat poor boy with da jiggly man bits, Pita, I thought he was gonna make it. I shoulda known betta. All dese tings add up and make ya real sad sometimes.” She pauses for a second but then perks up. “But when ya feel dat way, ya just gotta rememba: don’t worry about a ting, ’cuz every little ting’s gonna be all right.”

  She stays by my bed for a while, stroking my hair, and I start to feel better. Then a nurse carries Run the puppy into my room. Somebody gave her a puppy sweater that is way too big for her, and it slips off as she chases her little tail around. I start feeling downright awesome.

  “Dat’s a real cute puppy,” Effu says.

  I play with Run the puppy until Cinnabon enters my room and pushes everybody else out. He is here to dress me for my post-Games interview with Jaesar Lenoman, which is my big chance to prove to everybody that I am on the Capital’s side. I can’t wait!

  “Where’s your team?” I ask. It is unusual to be dressed by Cinnabon before meeting with Flabbiest and Venereal first.

  “In jail, thank God!” he says. “Kantkiss, I am so sorry about how they ‘prepped’ you. If I had any idea, I would never have hired them. It makes me sick to the stomach!”

  “Huh,” I say. “So what dress do you have for me this time?”

  “Say what?” Cinnabon asks, his expression blank for a moment. Then he explodes in frustration. “Oh dammit!”

  “What’s the matter?” I ask.

  “Nothing, nothing,” he says. “I’m, uh … still upset about what happened to Pita, that’s all. Close your eyes and I’ll go get your dress.”

  I do as he says. I hear somebody leave my room and close the door. Then, after a very long time, the door opens again and footsteps hurriedly enter my room. I hear somebody shout, “Hey! That belongs to the optometry department!” from the hallway, before the door is slammed shut and locked.

  “There,” Cinnabon says at last. “You can look now.”

  I open my eyes, but something is different. I have a narrow range of vision on my left side, and my depth perception is way off. When I look in the mirror, I see I am wearing an eye patch. No. Way. Cinnabon has transformed me into a lady pirate!

  “Oh, Cinnabon,” I gasp, “you’ve outdone yourself!” Ghosts and warrior mummies are scary, but a lady pirate is something else. A lady pirate is … is … adventurous, and cunning, and … “Beautiful!” I mouth, my eyes still glued to the mirror.

  “Yeah, uh, since you have, uh, steered the ship of … er, the Hunger Games, now you are a, uh, pirate,” Cinnabon orates. This blows my mind. Cinnabon is a genius.

  “Aye, aye,” I agree. Now I am ready for anything the Capital throws at me.

  It is time for the post-Games interview. A hovercraft takes me to the studio, and I mentally prepare myself for what is to come: Jaesar Lenoman jokes. I can hear him warming up the audience from backstage. “So get this. I was watching the end of the Hunger Games, and a telemarketer called. He just wanted to celebrate!” I grit my teeth, wishing I had died in the Hunger Games.

  My name is finally called, and I walk onstage. Archie Nemesis emerges from the other curtain. I love that dude! “Let’s get out of here,” I say to him, but he keeps walking to the love seat next to Jaesar Lenoman, and I join him, cuddling up close. He gets up and sits in another chair.

  After a few more torturous jokes, Jaesar introduces this year’s highlight reel. Given the amount of footage from which to choose, it’s up to whoever puts the reel together to determine what tale to tell. One year, the footage told the story of a small group of freedom fighters who roam the far reaches of the galaxy in hopes of destroying an evil empire, and another year the film took the form of a homage to silent cinema, with all the tributes replaced by title cards.

  This year the highlight reel has an upbeat tone, much like a circus picture. As the opening credits fade out, the sound of a piano and tenor saxophone fill the room. “Yakety Sax.” What a beautiful theme to watch my competitors die to.

  With the song playing, footage of Pita, Archie, and the others getting attacked by the LSBees comes on the screen. Pita, I muse as he appears on the screen, swatting away a particularly nasty-looking bug. Will he make it out alive? I hope so. Soon after, the camera finds a girl Varsity tribute who slips on honey. The noise of a whoopee cushion accompanies her error. The audience laughs, and I can’t help laughing myself. That girl was a bitch.

  After the LSBees incident, more blooper footage occupies the screen. A boy from District 2 pees himself as Smash approaches with a blood-rusted hammer. A girl from District 6 slips out of a tree and onto a remote mine. It’s a good time.

  Then Jaesar Lenoman begins the interview. “As we all know, every year the Hunger Games can be won by finding a flag hidden somewhere around the Cornucrapia, resulting in the release of all tributes. But you two have survived this year’s competition by finding a flag hidden in each other. Kantkiss, when did you know Archie was the one?”

  “Huh?” I ask. “You don’t want to talk about the rebellion?”

  Jaesar pulls on his collar, gesturing for me to shut up. “Let’s just focus on you and Archie.” He laughs nervously.

  But I know the truth, and I think, Jaesar, how naïve you are. Rebellion is all we’ll be talking about. Love is revolution, a kind of coup d’état and cultural reprogramming in its own little way.

  “I realized Archie was my soul mate the moment he gave me that wooden plank,” I say, taking it out of my purse to show the audience. “Isn’t it beautiful?”

  “True romance,” Jaesar says. “And you, Archie?”

  “Ditto,” Archie says, texting on his cell phone. He doesn’t seem in love with me, but I guess everyone has a different way of expressing feelings.

  “Brilliant. And about that little berry incident …,” Jaesar says gingerly.

  This is it. This is when I sink or swim. I speak slowly. “I wanted to know what those berries tasted like.”

  Archie nods his head in agreement. “We all did.”

  “Great!” Jaesar says. I look over at President Bernette in the audience, who gives me a big thumbs-up. I breathe a sigh of relief. I have overcome the obstacle of the final interview. I endure a few minutes of horrible pirate jokes before Jaesar signs off to the viewers across Peaceland and I go backstage with Archie. Finally, some time alone with Mr. Perfect.

  “I don’t love you, Kantkiss,” he says, when I try to kiss him.

  “Because you can’t love me?” I ask. “Because you’re afraid that if you love me too much, it might hurt you? Because it hurts to be in love, which is what you actually are?”

  “Nah.”

  With that, he walks away. I wonder if I’ll ever see him again. Perhaps in the sequel to this book, The Adventures of Kantkiss and Archie, but one can never be sure.

  Back in my room, I consider what Archie told me backstage. His words didn’t suggest that he loved me, but he must love me. “I have a really good feeling about this relationship,” I tell Run the puppy.

  As I pack my bow and squirrel bodies into my suitcase, I consider how far I’ve come since Super Fun Day. Back then I hadn’t even kissed a boy, let alone killed one! I made so many friends during the Hunger Games, friends that remembered me until the day they died. The Hunger Games were the best days of my life.

  “Hurry up, mon,” Effu calls from the hallway. “Ya train is here.”

  I wonder what the future will hold. Maybe I will stay in District 12 and refuse to help the rebellion because I am so obses
sed with boys. Maybe I will move to Canada or some other normal democracy. Either way, I’m rich. Yay! There is only one thing making me sad: the Boy with the Head. I miss Pita.

  I hear my door creak open. “I’m coming, Effu,” I say. “Chill out.”

  But Effu isn’t standing in the door. At first I think nobody is there, but then I hear the sound. Woof! Woof! Standing on the floor is a very chubby puppy wearing a bagel around his neck. He sheepishly totters over to me and whines impatiently until I put Run the puppy in my purse and give him affection instead. As I scratch the puppy’s head, I notice it is completely round and smells like cinnamon.

  “Pita!” I hug him. “Let’s get back to District Twelve.”

  Board of Editors

  Charles A. Sull, ’12, President

  Jonathan D. Adler, ’12, Ibis

  Jonathan P. Finn-Gamiño, ’12, Narthex

  Allison L. Averill, ’12, Treasurer

  K. P. Bartley, ’10–’12

  K. A. Escobedo, ’12–’13

  B. W. K. Smith, ’12

  I. V. Pierre, ’12

  C. K. Goodwin, ’12

  N. J. Madoff, ’12

  J. O. Masterman, ’12

  T. B. Faux, ’13

  R. E. Rober, ’13

  F. K. O’Hanlon, ’12

  K. C. V. Damm, ’13

  C. D. Frugé, ’13

  S. L. Sansovich, ’13

  E. R. Brewster, ’14

  S. H. Rashba, ’14

  E. W. von Stackelberg, ’14

  Andrew R. Dubbin, ’12, Sackbut

  Kevin M. Neylan, ’12, Sackbut

  Zachariah P. Hughes, ’12, Hautbois

  William D. Goulston, ’13, Hautbois

  Damilare K. Sonoiki, ’13, Sanctnave