Jonathan Garcia, 14, searching for street cred

Jonathan Garcia had a tragic backstory. Not in the sense that his life was a sad one full of hardships- as it was actually quite comfortable, but rather because in order to research his backstory one must read and analyze the lyrics to the song "Havana." After dedicating a full half hour to carefully breaking down the meaning of this rather repetitive pop song, one then realizes that "Havana" makes no god damn sense, and that they have wasted the last thirty minutes of their life. It is for this reason that Jonathan Garcia's backstory is the most tragic of any of the sad souls you will see in this story.

Haughty, yet servile. Angry, yet asexual. These are not the words that Jonathan Garcia would describe himself with. Instead, Jonathan Garcia, a boy who looked less like a gangster and more like Finn Wolfhard, would most likely use the word "dope," a word which is primarily defined as "a drug taken illegally for recreational purposes, especially marijuana or heroin" and secondarily defined as "a stupid person."

"Hey, you calling me stupid bro?" Jonathan asked to a wall, seemingly speaking to nobody in particular.

"Hey, I'm talking to you, bro, you wanna go?"

Jonathan most certainly did not want to "go" with anyone, unless "go" in this context meant to sob to himself as he eats the pages out of a book in order to satisfy his mild attraction to plants.

". . . hey, I, uh-"

But now deciding he was done talking at a wall, Jonathan went about his normal day.

"Six!" Jonathan suddenly exclaims, seemingly to no one in particular yet again. "That's, uh, that's a Gossamer Wormwood quote! Chapter 20, line 6! It's actually just the seventh word he says, would've been really funny if it was his sixth. . . ."

Jonathan continued to trail on for quite some time about numbers, Gossamer, and tide pods- but for the vast majority of people, memorizing the entire history of a fictional character within a fictional story withing a fictional story is not a daily activity, and so instead we will move forward to a more normal activity that Jonathan also partook in- training.

Training for the Hunger Games was Jonathan's fourth favorite hobby, only falling behind quoting random Gossamer Wormwood lines for his family and nonexistent friends, as well as his aforementioned attraction to plants that he satisfies through eating pages of any book he can find that does not contain Gossamer Wormwood quotes on it, and lastly there is his favorite hobby: writing fanfiction stories so bad they would make a reader of Careless Whisper believe themselves to be reading high literature on the level of Gossamer Wormwood's book of adventures.

Jonathan trained not for glory, nor honor, nor for "massive gains bruh," but rather for the ability to tell his nonexistent friends that he got "massive gains bruh," despite the fact that out of our characters we've so far met it's questionable whether or not Jonathan would top even Sparkles. So when Jonathan sat in the otherwise empty training room for 2 hours listening to Humble by Kendrick Lamar on loop, one would hesitate to call him a Career, in much the same way one would hesitate to call a 14 year old boy who is a self-identified Belieber and Swiftie a gangster.

Athena da Vinci, 70, way too old for this shit

It is no secret that writing Reapings are quite boring. Writing sarcastic and witty introductory paragraphs for tributes is even more tiring, and is an activity certain narrators get bored of quite quickly. So instead of dulling my poor, savage readers who have somehow managed to sit through an excruciating walkthrough of the day to day activities of a Belieber gangster Gossamer stan who is far too aware of his status as a fictional character within a fictional story within a fictional story within a possibly fictional reality, I will offer my dear readers with an alternative.

Rather than read through another terribly tragic, awfully alliterative POV of a tribute that is so horrifying that it leaves you wishing to gouge your eyeballs out with rusted plastic spoons, and forcing me to weep myself to sleep tonight after hours exhaustively researching the sorry life of this grandmotherly woman, I will instead just allow you, dear readers, to use a tool even more powerful than words: imagination.

Name: Athena da Vinci

Gender: Female

District: 3

Age: 70

Appearance: Average height and weight, curly white hair, pale wrinkled skin, light blue eyes. She always has a warm smile and uses a cane to get around.

Personality: Think "kind old grandmother" and multiply it by ten. She's always ready with a warm batch of cookies and a story to tell, and loves enchanting little ones with outrageous tales and outlandish inventions. She's famous for being able to construct an elaborate toy out of literally anything. She loves kids and would do anything for them.

Backstory: She's officially retired, but spends her time volunteering at the orphanage entertaining and tutoring the youngsters.

Family/Friends: She doesn't have any family of her own, but she considers all of the orphans her family. And a good number of children who aren't orphans. And their families. So by this point, she's the wise, friendly old grandmother to pretty much the entire district.

Reaped/Volunteered: Volunteered

Reaction/Reason: One of the orphans was reaped, and she managed to convince the escort that, because it was a Quell, *anyone* is allowed to volunteer.

Trivia/Fun facts: She's ambidextrous. And she can write with her feet. So … quadridexterous?

Anything Else: She would ally with absolutely *anyone*. The more, the merrier.

. . . .

After the merrily miraculous, zanily zamboni story that was just finished, I'm sure that my dear readers are cautiously curiositing what will come next in this serendipitous story written my a dictionariless dolt.

Angel Markianas arrived to the reaping late, while Paris Hilton insisted she had taken a shortcut. Paris Hilton attempted to park her Bentley on the stage, but much to her dismal dismay the tired tires did not cwickly climb the stairs, and instead drove straight through them and left behind a path of destruction which left the mayor and only living victors dead.

Angel Markianas cared little for this, however, quickly hopping out and hustling to the stage, pointing at the first boy she saw and screaming, "you, skinny white boy!"

"Uh, shit, I, uh, I volunteer!" Jonathan Garcia confidently called out to the cwhyit crowd.

This was of course, an odd move to make, considering Jonathan Garcia had already been reaped, but Jonathan Garcia thought that veraciously volunteering would make him seem ludicrously legit, when in real reality all it did was make every everybody think he was legit ludicrous.

Angel Markianas didn't care about this either though at this point, just wanting to get her tributes into the Capitol by tomorrow morning, when the Games were officially scheduled to start.

The narrator thought momentarily of going on to describe the volunteering process of Athena da Vinci, before realizing that all that information had been given to his readers just moments ago and that if they were really that curious they could go read the form instead of being a lazy bum.

"Wow, that was a crazy volunteering process, I'm sure glad I didn't miss that!" Angel exclaimed, her moods being lifted slightly through the realization that she had both a male and female tribute this time around, not paying any mind to the fact that one of her tributes was seventy years old. "How did you even convince the escort to let you do that when we can't even afford any? Man, that was wild."

"Aren't you gonna like, you know, hype us up for the crowd, I gotta uphold my rep." Jonathan Garcia grandiosely grammered.

"Yeah, sure, I give to you your District Two trib-"

"This is District Three!" A voice calls out from the crowd.

". . . what?"

"There's literally a District Three banner right behind you."

Angel looked behind her and shrugged, not surprised that Paris Hilton's shortcut was not quite as grandly grandiose as she had promised, while Jonathan Garcia shook his head and laughed. "Naw bruh, y'all are straight fooling. I've lived in District Two my whole life, my parents are even the mayors, ma and pop, tell 'em."

It is an unfortunate event that this narrator sadly forgot while writing this chapter that Jonathan Garcia's parents were mayors, and were meant to follow Jonathan Garcia into the Games and provide many humorous moments, and instead wrote in a meaningless and cheap line that made little sense and even littler laughter that the mayor for this district, which in fact is District Three, was murdered.

It is almost as unfortunate an event as the moment when Jonathan Garcia auditioned for this story, and misread his characters homeplace as being from District Two, leading to much confusion and a trust issue complex that lead to numerous fights in the coming chapters that may or may not ever be written.

But perhaps the most unfortunate event of the evening was the immediate reaction Jonathan Garcia had to the revelation that he was indeed not from District Two, and his parents had both been murdered in a freak car accident involving stairs and an epic scene that cannot be replayed due to a shrinking VFX budget. Jonathan Garcia, letting out a scream akin to that of a shrieking mole rat, wailed his arms in the air, striking Athena da Vinci in the chest, knocking her backwards into the same pit in the stage that held Jonathan's parents, and snapping her neck on the rotted remains.

"Shit," Jonathan Garcia said, quickly turning up to the sky. "Sorry, I, uh, wasn't supposed to do that yet, was I- should I, uh, go down there and like, uh, get her or something?"

Jonathan Garcia did no such thing though, boarding the car with Paris Hilton and Angel Markianas-

"No, I, uh, think I should probably go down there, I mean, my parents are down there too and I kinda wanna say goodbye and-"

And after many more rambunctiously ridiculous courageously cowardly chapters, jaded Jonathan Garcia grew to tremendously terrific lewd levels of orthopedic-

"Dude, what the fuck, she's still alive, I see her breathing, she needs an ambulance or some shit-"

Thus continues our story, one of heartache and pain, and untimely and poorly written deaths. It is a story which is rapidly deteriorating in quality, and steadily growing in laziness of writing, to the point that there will most likely not be more than 4 more chapters that get finished. It is not a funny story, nor is it a happy or even sad one. I previously stated that you could not sum this story up in one word, but my mind has been changed, as this story can now quite easily be summarized by any number of single words, such as garbage, terrible, atrocious, disgusting, worthless, and bad.

I must only assume that after this chapter, no warning is needed for my dear readers who have had the brevity to bravely read through this story, as any sad soul who has managed to make it this far must be a masochist, and therefore must get much thrill from the pain and suffering reading this awfully alliterative authorial account atrociously allocates.

With woeful worry,

~The Narrator