There is no place for conscience in the mind of the aspiring heel wrestler. Your only goal is to provide a punching bag for the poor beleaguered masses to heap their woes upon. You shall be ceremonially burned in effigy for all those foreign aid tax dollars pilfered from the public purse. The day of the match, your insides continue to squirm like a rotten worm drowning in a downpour. You make frequent trips to the horrendous arena locker room toilet. You wish you had done more research into your character's complex ethnic back story, as you would really appreciate having a direct line to a medicine man of any cultural lineage. The spicy scent of your porcelain leavings inspires you to at least be aware of a foul foreign stench you can use to your advantage in the ring. "Kayfabe forward!" you cry as you deliriously race towards the ring, chanting "Ala la la la la la's" like some long forgotten racist cartoon taught you to do. It majestically morphs into a native "HI hi hi hi HI hi hi hi" almost without your conscious input. It is all flowing manically together at light speed. SOACPWHNHTHD stands before you already in the ring, combing his hair and posing for the cameras around. He blows kisses to the audience, you leap through the ropes and throw henna in his eyes. The bell dings as you use your burka to strangle him. The audience boos and roars in disapproval. All across the vast ocean of plebeians, the down-turned thumbs emanate radiantly towards your eye-sockets. They swirl up in an energy swell seen only by you, they are in fact thumbed-hearts aimed directly at your efforts as the Racist Stereotype. You have embodied in the ring all that they ever needed to feel fulfilled in their miserable worthless lives. All as one, their hatred of you coalesces into a giant orgy of love, purpose, meaning, life on Earth! All! You raise your hands into the air and feel the fuzzy frill of joy eternal. No wait, that's SOACPWHNHTHD's hair! Oh no! His plethora of body guards descend upon you from the wings, billy clubs, tazers, and some paper his father wrote that tastes like swiss cheese is jammed in your mouth. SOACPWHNHTHD sobs in the corner, his doo undone, as you slowly suffocate to the cheers of the useless crowd.