Summary: "And a few years ago, the boy who won the Games only received a three." – The Hunger Games, page 105. That boy was me. An overweight rich kid who apparently had no chance of surviving the Hunger Games, except I did…

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Once I read this line in The Hunger Games, I couldn't get this idea out of my head. Sorry if you wanted me to write another chapter of The 55th Hunger Games, but if it makes you feel any better, I put up chapter 5 not too long ago. (If you don't know what I'm talking about, ignore me/read The 55th Hunger Games.) Love, hate, suggestions, or comments, send it my way by reviewing. :)

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"And a few years ago, the boy who won the Games only received a three." – The Hunger Games, page 105.

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"And," the escort says, drawing out the vowel four seconds too long, "our male tribute from District Six is…" he reaches into the big glass bowl. "…Remington Cross!"

My eyes widen as everyone turns to look at me. I swallow and walk up to the elevated stage, the crowd parting easily around me. I hear sighs of relief around me, the kids who didn't get picked.

The escort is smiling until he sees me. Then the grin drops. "Well, you're an awful big one," he says distastefully. I didn't understand.

I stand awkwardly next to the female tribute, a little fourteen-year-old girl who looks like she hasn't eaten anything for two days. I'd never survive that long without food. I'm always eating. Saria always tells me I'm fat and my stomach is a bottomless pit, and I tell her to shut up and go cry about mismatched shoes to her boyfriend. Sibling rivalry is what Dad calls it.

Anyway, I head to the Justice Building and yawn at it. My dad is one of the wealthiest merchants in the district, so we always have a surplus of money, a great big house, and tons and tons of food to eat, for which I'm glad of. I can never get my hands off of food.

I say my goodbyes to Dad, who is tearing up, and Saria, which isn't much of a goodbye at all, more of like a, "Sorry, loser, you're going to die. Can I have your bedroom?" but I don't care. We always communicate with insults.

The train ride is boring, and I exchange one or two words with my mentor, who seems to have the same distaste for me as the escort does. They both seem to prefer the little mouse of a district partner I have. I don't care. I just keep shoveling everything I find into my mouth. If I'm going to die, might as well die fat and happy, right?

The chariot rides are boring. The horses go to slow. I try to slap their butts with my hand and make them go faster, but my district partner scolds me and I roll my eyes. Newsflash, district partner, but eighteen-year-olds don't take orders from measly fourteen-year-olds.

Training's stupid. I epically fail at the knives, ending up hitting one of the dummies behind me with the blade instead of the ones that were in front of me that I was actually aiming for. I accidently stuffed a nightlock berry into my mouth at the edible plants station, to which the trainer scolded me for, saying it was just my luck it wasn't real, merely a representation made from raspberries. I couldn't care less. The nightlocks taste pretty good to me.

When it's my turn to 'show the Gamemakers what I've got', according to my mentor, I just stare in open adoration at the food that's placed in front of them. Roast pig and crème brulee and giant cheese balls and a bunch of other fancy foods I can't name. My mouth waters, and the Gamemakers look on at me in disapproval for about two minutes before they ask a security guard to take me out.

I get a three, but I don't particularly care. I'm going to die, anyway—it was obvious from the beginning. My district partner gets a seven, something she's proud of, even though there were six Career tributes that got tens and elevens. I tell her so, and the glare she gives me is so hateful I'm wondering if I've gotten a new enemy. Whatever. She can kill me however she likes.

Then comes the Games. As I'm airlifted, I notice the air getting colder and colder. I get goosebumps over my skin, but it's better than my district partner, who is keeling over from the cold.

I run and hide in a tree, and count the days that cannons go off from tributes dying of frostbite.

The sixth day, I'm the victor. I've lost a good amount of weight, and my pinky finger fell off the fourth day from the cold, but I've won the Games. All because I was fat. And it was able to keep me warm.

Bet you they never saw that coming.