fox. capitol.

First thing you should know about me--

no, the second thing you should know about me,

is that I can cook a bomb-ass meal.

The first thing you should know about me is that I'm an idiot. I don't actually think I'm stupid or anything - I've survived this long, that's gotta count for something - but lots of people like to tell me I'm an idiot so it must be half-true. I think it's something to do with the fact I'm always in the wrong place at the wrong time or someone's always chasing me or I'm always chasing them. It just comes with the job. The other job, not the chef's apprentice one. Big boss upstairs pays him twice my hourly rate to skip a few nights off here and there when I need to run some shit, he grumbles but I see him countin' the cash in his office. I'd love to cook all fuckin night and not have to worry about the Fenwicks but! some things you can't get rid of.

Like family. Well, they're dead, so I guess I can get rid of them. But I can't shake their debts. Thanks for everything, Pops! Nothing like getting pulled into a cart on the wrong train station platform just as the doors are about to close, fifteen and bawling your fuckin eyes out because both your parents are dead, to be told your soul is now the legal property of some Coppernickle Douche-wick.

So yeah, that's how I sold my soul to the devil without even trying. And to be honest he's not a bad dude, that Cop. He's pretty patient with me. As patient as you can get with someone like me, at least. Lets me run around and do things my way, and he's wicked smart. I might even like him if he didn't have a gun to my head. Gave me a ten year service, I'm only three years out from freeeeeeeeedom! But I'll miss the fucker. Like how you miss the baby crying in the apartment upstairs or a head cold. You don't, but you do miss having something to complain about.

I got one of those faces that people want to punch. A punchable mug, I think someone slurred at me in the kitchens when I hadn't been kicked out of culinary school yet. Apparently my neck is also extremely wringable. It is abnormally long, I'll give the thugs that much. But having a fist wrapped around it isn't really the nicest thing. Not in an alley, at least. In the bedroom? Well.....

See this is probably why people say I a) have a punchable face and b) am an idiot. Because I can't stop talking shit! It's a reflex, can't stop it. Shit just pours out of my mouth. That's why I'm good at being a rat, I don't mind telling other people's secrets if I get something out of it. And right now, I get a few more months to live for every secret I give Cop. A great trade-off, if I do say so myself. I keep tryna weasel somethin' out of him but he's tight-lipped, that Fenwick. Can't ever get a read off of him except when he's pissed off. He for sure lets me know when he's not happy. Got a dead rat in my locker at work once - or maybe that was one of my coworkers, they all kinda hate me. But I make damn good food and I keep boss happy so they can't get rid of me that easily. Ha!

Suppose I should tell you about Mom and Dad. We didn't have much, at least not to Capitol standards. Think that's why they got in with Cop and the Fenwicks, because they wanted more than they had. Me too, although I was just a kid, I didn't know any better. I liked watchin' the Hunger Games at friends houses because they had bigger televisions and nice snacks and we had, well, a small television and sandwiches. At these fancy apartments I got to taste food, real food, salmon from Four and peaches from Eleven and bacon from Ten. Gobbled it all up and my friends parents would just laugh - maybe they were amused at how grateful I was for a meal, maybe they were making fun of me, probably the latter. But once I get a taste for something I can't stop until I get my hands on it - like my parents. I'm just smarter about it all. I haven't gotten myself killed - yet.

See I'm smart, but I'm an idiot. Bit of an oxymoron, or just a moron. Is that even the right word? Fuck knows, words don't pay the bills save for waiters reading me out orders from customers and me following Fenwick's hand-written letters. It's why he got me a babysitter. Coal's alright, tidies up after me and keeps me company and always eats the food I cook. Sometimes he even cuts my hair, tired of complaining about it and hearing me complain about the price of a barber. He's a good guy I guess, Cop coulda shacked me up with worse. But he's like, twice my age and kinda boring and doesn't take kindly to me getting blood on the carpet. I say, 'Well I'd rather handle a bottle of bleach - trade?' and he rolls his eyes and I laugh and pass out, bruise swelling to the size of a kiwifruit above a half-shaven eyebrow.

I'm smart, but I'm an idiot, gettin' around shit with instinct and Plan B, C, D, Z when Plan A goes wrong, using my fists and spitting up someone else's blood in my teeth. Goofy ass smile, nobody suspects a skinny kid to stab them in the dark or slip something into their drink. But you gotta do what you gotta do to survive, even in this glamorous place. On my off days I sometimes do go to the barber, or buy a new eyeliner, or get a tattoo. The clothes are cool - not that I get to wear 'em much, but they look cool in my closet and I can lounge around the house in 'em. Sometimes I even get to dress up at those fancy galas and tours and parties Cop hosts, pretend I'm made of money and I'm not just a chewed up piece of tasteless gum under his shiny new boots.

Nah wait, scratch that, I have taste! Still a sticky, stringy, germ-filled piece of gum under his boot no less, but I have taste at the very least. If I couldn't cook or dress like a Victor's stylist or at least find a way to crack a smile when I've got a gun to my head maybe I would let 'em pull the trigger, but somehow I pull a reason to live out my ass every time. Like how I get out of knife-fights and can out-hide the Keepers, crawl back into Fenwick's office with a gunshot wound and the ability to take down his enemies on my split lips, crack a crazed grin before I collapse and bleed out on his shaggy fur rug. 

He says something about bleach, and I try and mutter something about all you fucking spies and your fucking bleach, but all that slurs out is a "Fuuuuuhginnnnn bllllllllshhhhhhhh" -

but hey, at least I've got another three months up my sleeve. Three down, thirty-something to go.