Lux Slowings, most likely in his late 40s, Head Gamemaker

Lux was nervous. Of course, he was always nervous about things, like whether or not one should actually study when on a study date, but this was a different kind of nervous. This was a kind of nervous that was like when a president of a dystopian country named after an ancient roman saying calls you into his office with the likely intent of locking you in a room with a bowl of tide pods. So when Lux was called into the office of a president of a dystopian country named after an ancient roman saying with the likely intent of locking him in a room with a bowl of tide pods, you can understand that his nervousness was not like that of a study date, but rather like that of when one is called into the office of a president of a dystopian country named after an ancient roman saying with the likely intent of locking you in a room with a bowl of tide pods.

So now you can see why Lux was nervous.

"Come in," called a voice that sounded oddly like the voice of Donald Sutherland.

"You called for me president, uh. . ."

"President Snow."

"Right, you. . . wait, Snow?"

"Yes."

"This is the 4674th Hunger Games, how are you still president?"

"Poison," Snow answers with a twisted smile and a cackle that's cut off by a disturbingly bloody cough.

"Yeah, but like. . . how are you alive?"

"Cardio, a healthy diet, and a gallon of rose perfume every day to mask the stench of the blood of my enemies."

"Oh, that makes. . . wait, blood of your enemies?"

Snow frowns, and Lux is suddenly aware of just how sharp two of the president's teeth are. "I think we should move onto the matter at hand."

"I agree," Lux quickly agrees, suddenly unable to ignore the extremely strong smell of bloody roses.

"I hear that you entire budget was used up in last year's Games, is this correct?"

"Uh, not our entire budget?"

"Oh, so you won't be needing any more funds in order to set up the quell?" Snow asked, and Lux could swear that the room suddenly smelled of dish-detergent wrapped into tasty plastic wrapping.

"Nope, none at all!"

"So you have everything you need?"

"Yup, everything we need is in the Gamemaker room, right now."

"Really?"

"Totally."

"Well then, I'm sure you have a job to do," Snow smiled, those two teeth suddenly looking even sharper than before.

"Oh yeah, I do, I should go work on that arena that will fit the quell twist. . . the one that you announced. . . ." Lux trailed off, looking awkwardly at the president.

"Yes, I'm sure you should."

"Yup, that quell twist, I uh, totally got that under contro-"

"Head Gamemaker Lux, it is your job to know the quell twist, so surely I don't have to remind you of it."

"Of course not," Lux laughs, in much the similar way as a man who fears he is going to be force-fed tide pods if he does not laugh would laugh.

"Good, then I'll leave that up to you."

So with that Lux left, determined to save himself from his fate of death by tide pods, setting of a series of events that one New York critic stated to be "what the hell is a quell?" while another Washington Post reporter described it more aptly as "who the hell is this man? Somebody call security." But regardless of how critics, judges, or my cell mate may describe this story, in the end there is no one word to correctly summarize this story. There is in fact 73 words that summarize this story, and they go as followed:

Due to an accounting error the Gamemaking team used up their entire budget on the 4674th Games. But the show must go on and now the team has to put together a quell with just a couple dozen blindfolds, a baton, a 50-year-old street performer, 100 dollars worth of couch cushion and ashtray pennies, twenty gallons of rose-scented perfume, and a CD of 'Careless Whisper' by George Michael. This is the Budget Quell.

But there is more to this story than just that short summary, otherwise this story would only be 73 words and would be in that case easy to summarize in one single word, that word being: bad. In this epic you will be dazzled by the ingenuity of the Gamemaking team, confused by the obscure references made by an un-creative author, and brought to tears by the tales of love so horribly cringe-inducing that the only reasonable reaction is to weep in horror at the poor choices that led you to read this tale. While there are many things this story will undoubtedly do to you, and I could attempt to list them out for you now, the only way to truly experience the horrors and sadness that awaits is to read on.

So because of that, I will beg of you now to close the tab, go back to browsing other stories, and submit your well thought out characters to another story. One that does not involve a romantically uninspiring Head Gamemaker with an oddly familiar name, one that absolutely does not tolerate the sponsorship of tide pods and nerf bazookas to the poor characters, and most certainly one that does not contain a tribute named Insert Self.

I plead with you to please not click on the profile link that will lead you to a world of horrors in which you will read a set of rules, copy and paste a submission form, and send your unfortunate characters in a PM aptly titled "Careless Whisper Tribute."

With great displeasure,

~The Narrator