Free The Hunger Pains by Harvard Lampoon

confused Pita.
    “Ah se, leh ah Gaes bega!” repeats Greg.
    A few of the tributes look at each other and shrug. Suddenly a brighter, clearer voice comes over the intercom. “Hey, great job there, Greg. This is Greg’s supervisor again, and just to reiterate, ‘Let the Seventy-Fourth Hunger Games begin!’”
    The intercom clicks off, and I begin counting down the sixty seconds until I can move. Until then, we’re bound to our starting discs by a strict honor code (the television broadcast is at a commercial break).
    I stare at the Cornucrapia and weigh my options. The Blu-ray player thirty yards in will be useful if I find any Will & Grace box sets, but a pristine pair of Hulk Hands lies twenty yards to its right. About ten yards off I spy a pot lid, glimmering in the sunlight. People tell stories in the Crack about a boy winning the Hunger Games with just a pot lid, although back then they took place in Japan and were referred to as Battle Royale.
    Past the Cornucrapia, I spot an ugly tribute from District 5, who looks a lot like a dog. I cleverly decide to nicknameher Dogface. Right now she’s staring into space absentmindedly, picking her nose.
    My best plan looks like taking the Ouija board right in the Cornucrapia. Ghosts make powerful allies. I’m all set to go for it when I see Pita waving to get my attention. “Kantkiss,” he yells, “don’t go for the Cornucrapia. Go to the woods. For God’s sake, please go to the woods. Going to the Cornucrapia is something an idiot would do.” What does he mean? Does he want me to go to the Cornucrapia or not?
    I’m still trying to figure him out when the cannon goes off, and the other tributes leave me in the dust. Stupid Pita! Why did you rush me at the listening comprehension station?
    It’s too late to snag the goods in the Cornucrapia. Gatsby has taken all the Dijon mustard, and Dogface is eating the baseball I was eyeing. There are still plenty of roast turkeys left, but after all the braised peacock I ate in the Capital, I’m not ready to go back to peasant food just yet. Everything else is being snatched up right in front of me. The tree I could hide in? Smash is hugging it. The bathroom scale I could throw? A fat tribute is standing on it. The automatic rifle I could shoot? It’s right next to me, but I’m afraid I’ll appear desperate.
    Not wanting to leave empty-handed, I grab a black backpack five feet in front of me. I know this backpack will stick out like a sore thumb against any pumpkin patches or traffic cone sculptures I run into, so I grab a can of orange paint for camouflage. I’m about to make a break for the woods when I feel something tug at my pack. It’s one of the other tributes! I knew I should have painted the bag immediately.
    “Give me that!” he shouts. He’s about to pull it clear off my back when he goes stiff, like a cow the second before you punch it.
    “What’s wrong?” I ask. He just stands there, blindly clutching for his own back. “Suddenly my backpack isn’t good enough for you?” I rail on. He stumbles sideways and starts coughing blood like a holier-than-thou jerk, mocking my equipment in what must be the traditional mockery dance of his district. He’s trying to psych me out, make me feel inadequate about my gear. He finally falls over and I see the knife sticking out of his back. I guess I wouldn’t want a backpack either if I had a knife.
    I look up and see a girl staring at me about twenty feet off, wearing a belt filled with knives. How does everyone have a knife but me? I think maybe I can barter one for some of my paint, but before I even ask her, she helpfully tosses one at my head. It misses and flies off into the woods. I toss her the grenade lying next to me as thanks, though I keep the pin for my collection. I smile as I skip over to the tree the knife is lodged in. From behind me I hear her scream, “Nooo—!” but I really don’t mind walking over to get the knife. I’m glad to have a new