The Hunger Pains: A Parody

by The Harvard Lampoon

  “Tell me about it. This guy got a head anywhere?”

  “Oh yeah, by the stream.”

  “Great, got it. Hey, you know any good trout recip—”

  The doors slam shut and the hovercraft floats off. Now that it’s finally safe, I undo my belt and fall thirty feet out of the tree to the ground below. When I come to, it’s midafternoon, and I’m even hungrier than before. I barely manage to choke out a message to Buttitch: “Please, send designer sushi … root beer …” I’ve given up on trying to make my own food or trying to climb ten feet to the gift of roast quail and sparkling cider that has gotten caught on a branch above me in a parachute.

  It’s time to throw myself on the mercy of the sponsors. “Please,” I beg to whoever is watching me, “please don’t let me die like this. I could die so much more violently.” A few moments pass, and I’m delighted to see a package fall right next to me. Swordfish and pomegranate spritzer! And a flamethrower. These sponsors are sharp.

  The food is delicious. By the time I’m finished, I feel great. I start preparing to find some better supplies. But oh no! I left my backpack all the way up in the branch where I slept. “Please,” I plead tearfully, “please get me another backpack. That one is way up there and I’m so tired of climbing.” Nothing happens. “Sooooooo tired.”

  A package falls out of the sky and hits me painfully on the head. It’s a rock with a message written on it. I pick it up. It says “Screw You, Kantkiss.” Sponsors can pay extra to comically whack tributes with their gifts. One year the games were won this way by a boy whose sponsor sent every other tribute a bowling ball to the head. At least I can throw the rock up at my backpack, I think. I give the rock a mighty toss and it knocks the backpack loose, exactly as planned. Then it falls to the ground and hits the flamethrower, which is a happy accident until the flamethrower goes off, making it a regular accident.

  I grab my backpack. The flamethrower is going crazy, whipping around and setting all the trees on fire. I hop over logs, branches, and the occasional camera crew with the flames licking at my back. I feel bad for the dead cameramen, but they died getting great footage. “Run!” I call out to anyone who can hear me. “The Rainmakers have started a forest fire!”

  The fire is blazing and its heat starts to burn my cheeks. The flames are closing in on me. I need a way to escape. I consider my options. If I run through the fire, like really fast, can it burn me? As I step backward to start my sprint through the roaring wall of flames, I bump into the trunk of a large tree. I decide to climb high above the flames, since only its lower branches are on fire.

  I make it to the top of the tree. Not bad, Kantkiss. My eyes and lungs are filled with smoke, but I manage to wink at a cameraman in a parallel branch and announce, “I’m all fired up!” I hope Prin is watching at home, adding this latest quip to the list I imagine she keeps. I repeat this catchphrase sporadically until the fire dies out an hour later.

  The end of the fire is not the end of the danger below. Beneath me I hear the cracking twigs and high fives of the Varsities. From the way they’re saying, “I see her in that tree,” I know they’re moments from discovering me. I try counting the Varsities but stop once I realize I’m outnumbered. Suddenly, the scent of freshly baked bread comes wafting through the air. Pita is with them! I try to make eye contact, but he avoids my gaze, so I alternate between glaring at the top of his fat head and trying to raise one eyebrow at the camera.

  Meanwhile, Archie Nemesis, the Varsities’ captain, has gotten out a small whiteboard and gathered his team into a huddle. He scribbles furiously on the board, barking commands. I gasp when I see what he has drawn. It’s a single arrow—an arrow pointing right at me. Masterful play design.

  Archie begins to climb the tree. What an idiot! His muscles are way too big and heavy to make it up this weeping willow. SNAP. I’m hoping he’s dead from the fall, but when I look down, I see he’s still clinging to the tree. CRACKLE … POP! Down below, Pita has begun eating a bowl of Rice Krispies.

  SHAZAM. Finally, the sound I’ve been waiting for. The branch gives, and Archie falls back to where he came from.

  “Here, take this, Archie,” says a well-dressed Varsity from District 7, offering his captain a silver chain saw. He must have picked it up at the Cornucrapia.

  “What? Do you want me to cut off your head or something?” says Archie, pushing away the saw. “Here’s what you need to understand: I am very angry right now!”

  I see the oblong, steel football clutched in his beefy hand. THUD. The whole tree shakes as he hurls it into the trunk. Sports really are a great way to relieve stress! Another Varsity picks up the ball and jogs it back to Archie. THUD. If they keep this up, I’ll never be able to sleep. They won’t be able to sleep either, I comfort myself as I drift off.

  It is evening when I wake up to the sound of rustling in a neighboring tree. Here in the arena, a sound could mean anything. For example, if the sound comes from a person, it could be words, and those words, again, could mean anything. I decide to investigate. I turn my head slowly and find myself facing a raccoon with a baby bottle in its paw. The raccoon is not alone: it’s nursing a tribute.

  Run, the baby tribute from District 11.

  How long has she been there? And how long has she had an alliance with that raccoon? The whole time probably. The raccoon burps her, slides a pacifier into her mouth, and bops her on the nose. I never would have thought to form an alliance with anything but a human. Run could have sent her raccoon hit man to kill me while I slept. Unless she has some ulterior motive, I don’t understand why she didn’t. I wish I could get inside her cute squishy head.

  I reluctantly turn my attention back to the raccoon, which twitches its whiskers and silently points its paw at the tree above me.

  I look up and see something hanging on a branch fifteen feet up. It takes me a minute to make out what it is, but after exactly sixty seconds, I get it. It’s a wasp nest, but the surface is so crazy, like it’s breathing. Whoa. It’s totally intense and beautiful. I know what made this: LSBees.

  Long stinger bees are a type of transformation, or as we in the districts call them, trannies. Trannies are artificial species genetically engineered by the Capital for use as weapons against the people. Years ago, LSBees were designed for the purpose of government mind control. Soon after their release into the districts, they proved to be too dangerous and unpredictable for official use. Just one LSBee sting will make you hallucinate. Too many can kill you. I’ve never encountered LSBees in the wild before, but I know I have to be careful. Bugs are so scary!

  At this point, I start to feel lonely. I’m in a tree surrounded by alliances. The Varsities are below me, Run and the raccoon are beside me, and the LSBees are above in their cliquey hive. Suddenly, I’m angry. This game isn’t about which tribute is the strongest or smartest or fastest. It’s a stupid popularity contest, just like school. Even doughy Pita left me. If I can’t have friends, no one should be able to. Run and the raccoon have disappeared into the darkness, so I decide to break up the alliance closest to me: the LSBees.

  I need to act quickly and quietly. I’ll cut the nest while everyone is sedated by the silky smooth tones of the evening jazz. If all goes well, the Varsities will die painful deaths from the LSBee attack and I’ll be binge-eating away my sorrows with delicious honey.

  When the emblem flashes and the DJ comes on, I shimmy toward the nest and pull a fork and knife out of my backpack. I balance tenuously on the branch, stabilizing it with my fork and cutting it with the knife. You can’t lose focus for a minute in these games, I think, drifting off to sleep.

  I wake up in the morning to the sound of the Varsities laughing and slapping each other’s butts. They think they’re so cool, but none of the other tributes really like them. I comfort myself with the thought that their home life is probably plush but unfulfilling.

  I get back to work cutting down the nest. It doesn’t take long.

  SHAZAMALAM. The branch snaps and the LS
Bee nest tumbles down with it.

  It lands right on top of the Varsities. They shake their fists at me, then start panicking and swatting at the insects. “I wouldn’t want to bee them!” I announce to the viewers back home, flashing my trademark grin.

  I feel a pinch on my hand. “Ouch!” I scream. One of the LSBees has popped out of the nest and stung me. Oh no. I begin to worry that my plan has backfired when I hear a buzzing in my ears and feel a prick on my neck. Suddenly I’m filled with an overwhelming sense of peace. Ah, that’s better. I know I shouldn’t get stung by LSBees, but it feels so good.

  The sun gets brighter, the flowers more flowery. When I look down at the Varsities, I no longer see murderers. I see friends. Then a little while later I see giant chipmunks playing catch with a giant acorn.

  I feel the insatiable desire to hug each and every one of them. I begin by hugging the tree for practice as I descend to the forest floor. When I hit the ground tail first, I realize that I too am a chipmunk. How did I never realize that I was a chipmunk before?

  My furry fellows are scurrying about, swatting LSBees with their tails and talking their high-pitched chipmunk talk. I do not understand the language yet, but I am eager to learn more about my chipmunk heritage. I casually lean against a pinecone while surveying my surroundings.

  I notice one chipmunk slumped over in the middle of the clearing. I instinctively look both ways before getting closer. When I safely bridge the gap, my worst fear is realized: road kill. What car did this? And why did my friend have to go so soon? I let out a long squeal of anguish.

  I reach down to stroke his shoulder with my tail, but I can’t feel anything. I gasp as my tail vanishes into thin air. Everything begins to swirl out of focus around me, until I realize that it was all a hallucination. When I regain my sight, I am standing over the dead body of the male tribute from District 7.

  I hear footsteps coming toward me. I run and duck behind a bush for cover, surprising a real family of chipmunks and feeling a bit jealous. I take another step and realize that something is caught on my ankle. It’s a bow and arrow!

  “Good find,” I say, congratulating my ankle.

  “Anytime, Kantkiss,” my ankle replies. Maybe this LSBee venom hasn’t completely worn off yet.

  I load an arrow in the bow and shoot right into the middle of the ground so the cameras can see how good I am. I’m about to shoot an apple off my own head with a tricky backward shot when I see something out of the corner of my eye. It’s Archie scribbling furiously on his whiteboard with a murderous grin on his face.

  I know absolutely nothing about football, but whatever Archie is planning looks like a pyramid play, a three-man defensive play banned by the NCAA upon the conclusion of the 1933 season. Whatever it is, it’s certainly designed to kill me. He’s about to draw one last line when we both look up, smelling a familiar doughy scent.

  Pita—that traitor—comes charging into view. Great. Now this will be a two-on-one kill, I think. At least it will happen faster this way. I begin to ready myself for death by changing into a pair of clean underpants that a sponsor sends, but then something amazing happens. Pita violently jerks the dry-erase marker from Archie’s hand, draws a huge X through the play, and tries to break the whiteboard in two.

  Unable to achieve this feat of strength, Pita resorts to sitting on the board so Archie cannot see any of the play.

  Before I can run, Archie gets out his steel football. He drops back to pass, but accidentally slams into Pita. Archie lands hard on his head and lies motionless on the ground.

  “Pita, I’m going to live!” I scream joyfully. Silence. “Pita, aren’t you going to say something?” More silence. “P-i-i-i-t-a-a-a-,” I whine. I think something happened to Pita.

  I approach his soft, curvy figure slumped over the whiteboard. His pointer finger is bleeding a little bit. “Oh Pita!” I cry, stooping to the ground and cradling his wounded finger. He wakes up to my touch.

  “Kantkiss, I’ll be okay,” he says, promptly fainting again at the sight of his finger blood. His large head thuds down on my lap. It’s so heavy that my legs immediately begin losing circulation. Is this just another plot to kill me? Didn’t he just save my life? I’m not sure if Pita is a friend or an enemy or an enemy with benefits, but he definitely looks peaceful with his eyes closed. He even looks kind of cute.

  Whoosh. I look up as the metallic football whizzes over my head. Archie’s back on his feet, and his team is with him. They have us surrounded. They’re playing a friendly game of catch to warm up before killing us.

  “Pita, save me again!” I shriek, but by this point he’s too far gone. Looks like this is it. I prepare to die in disgrace.

  Suddenly the earth shakes and a very unusual creature comes galloping into the clearing.

  “Oh no!” exclaims one of the Varsity tributes. “It’s a shart!”

  The shart is one of the Capital’s most chilling trannies. Part great white shark, part Siberian tiger, the shart combines the most terrifying parts of land and sea. Sharts were originally created to be pets for young children in the Capital, but that went horribly, so they were exiled to the districts. I didn’t know there were any sharts still alive today, but then again I don’t read the news much.

  “Let’s get out of here, bra,” Archie says to the rest of his team. They bounce, leaving me with the shart.

  ROARGLUB! The shart turns on me, brandishing its rows of mismatched teeth and flopping its dorsal fin. It’s too bad I am going to die now, but I have to admit this thing is awesome.

  I begin reciting my last words to a terrified cameraman. “Tell my mom she looks fat no matter what clothes she wears,” I say. Just then I hear a big thump and see the shart has collapsed on the ground.

  Glopglopglopgrowl … The shart frantically gasps for water, its gills completely dry. After a few moments it goes still, and a special shart trombone sounds to signify its death. Poor shart. I consider giving it a burial, but in the end I decide to just cremate it. After the ceremony I get really tired. “Later, Pita,” I say, climbing up a nearby tree. I would give anything for a hit of LSBee right now, I think, as I doze off.

  I awake in a haze. I am exhausted, dehydrated, and in grave danger (duh!).

  A haze is another of the Capital’s transformations, a tree designed to produce hazelnut-flavored coffee from a spout along its trunk. It is indistinguishable from a normal hazelnut tree except for its branches, which are huge pillows. I must have been caught in its snares while falling out of a very tall tree. I sit up and smell the Capital’s bitter coffee.

  I’m a few yards away when I hear a big noise. I remember a thing my father always said: “When you hear a big noise, remember my advice.” Oh man, then what did he say?

  I shrug and prepare for danger. I strike my best “hiding behind a tree” pose and arrange my face into my finest “scared and waiting for an unknown assailant” expression. I hope the cameras are getting this, because now I’m doing a very convincing “peaceful acceptance of death’s imminence” face.

  I hear the noise again. It is coming from the direction of the haze. I look into the branches and see an adorable baby curled up on a very fluffy pillow. Run is still alive! The noise I heard was her cute baby snoring.

  Since she and the raccoon saved me from the LSBees, I feel myself wanting to protect Run. Right now, she’s sleeping like an angel, but all I can envision is her death. Any second now a big noisy tribute is going to emerge from the haze to tear her limbs off and eat them one by one. Then he’ll come for me with her blood still dripping from his jaws. When he eats me, our bloods will commingle in his stomach, and Run will become my blood sister, just like Prin. The thought fills me with peace.

  “Run! Run!” I yell, inadvertently causing Dogface to reveal her hiding place in the middle of a treeless field and sprint screaming into the forest.

  Run stretches her little arms upward to show that she is awake and unarmed. It seems like a symbolic gesture of peace, but I’m no fool
.

  “Prepare to die,” I say, calmly raising my bow.

  My arrow pierces the ripe young flesh of a nearby salamander. I must make offerings of food if I hope to gain Run’s trust. I approach her cautiously. She could easily be concealing weapons inside that lumpy diaper of hers. Besides, she is strategically positioned on high ground. I cook the salamander using a lighter I found in the Cornucrapia. I hope the scent of delicious food will lure Run from her perch.

  “Run, would you like to form an alliance with me?” I ask.

  Run opens her mouth as if to begin speaking, but no words come out. She is left speechless by my magnanimous proposition.

  “I know what you’re thinking. Why would a high-scoring tribute like me, a seventeen-year-old—not quite a girl, not yet a woman, possibly a man—want to form an alliance with a helpless baby like yourself?”

  Run nods her head in agreement in the uncoordinated way babies do when drifting off to sleep.

  “Stop that, Run. Quit that attitude. It is a bad attitude. You are not just a helpless baby. You are a very clever baby. You are the best baby in these Games. Someday you too may blossom into a woman.”

  Run begins to giggle. She’s tough to crack, but I can tell I am beginning to break through her icy veneer. On an unrelated note, in the tree behind me, a squirrel has just fallen out of a tiny hammock.

  “Yes, that is a good point, Run, only one of us can survive the Hunger Games and become a woman. Why should you trust me? Well, let me reveal to you my deepest, darkest secret: I could never kill a baby! Babies like you remind me of myself, peeing and slobbering all over the place. You’re just like me!”

  Run rolls onto her stomach and skeptically buries her face in the pillow.

  “Even if the Hunger Games come down to the two of us, I will not kill you. I can’t, at least not until you reach the late stages of your toddler years. Think how much fun we could have. The arena would be our playground. You could live freely and play amongst the cuddly animals until I slaughter them for our food.”