It is time, you know it. You ARE it. You saunter pompously towards the home of the league commissioner. You own the street, you own the block, you own the entire league. There is indeed no need to rush, the world works on your time-line now. A truck slams on the breaks behind you, horn honking; no matter. You own this road. Of course you do..... sidewalks hold no desirability for the lustful feet of the Racist Stereotype. You hold your hennaed hand up, and they cease their insolent racket. All accept that you now own this land, you... from parts unknown, probably an illegal immigrant, probably living off of trimmings of their very pay checks, unable to complain for fear of running foul of Canada's liberal hate crime legislation. Also: they aren't exactly clear where you hail from, so they can't figure out the proper crowd sourced racially charged epithets to hurl at you. What a conundrum!
As you arrive at Harrold the League Commissioner's home, you knock a sleazy effeminate foreign knock, in some weird incomprehensible rhythm which sounds irrelevant to our good old Western 4/4 ingrained ears. After one iteration, he arrives at the door. You look into his eyes and emit some nonsense syllables from your mouth, to which he caves immediately, tossing contracts at the perfection which is your entire persona. You sign and slink off, without having fought a match, you already OWN the NOW. Racist dollars dance through Harrold's greedy mind. Your first scheduled match takes place a week from the signing of your contract. You are asked to participate in some promo interviews. Your first adversary is "The Son of a past Canadian Politician Who Has Nicer Hair Than His Dad". Apparently he is one of the rising faces within the league, and is scripted to put some heavy beat downs upon your off-colour ass whilst the crowd cheers on the blue blooded inbred moron of auspicious birthing. It's the classic Canadian story! Harrold informs you that your character should for the time being lean more heavily upon Arab and First Nations garb, as the SOACPWHNHTHD really prefers beating up on those sorts of brown people this season. You lace on your moccasins, and get all wrapped up in your burka when Harrold enters the dressing room. "Now just remember Stereotype, after you cheat by burning smudge in his face, and blinding him before you attempt to behead him with an offensive cartoon of Jesus Christ, SOACPWHNHTHD (it's a really catchy acronym if you say it out loud) is going to come back and just mercilessly beat on you for the next 2 hours. The crowd is going to go ape-shit! Just don't forget that under NO CIRCUMSTANCES should you EVER mess with SOACPWHNHTHD's hair. He is very particular about that, I've even heard rumours that it was gifted down to him through the ancient sacred order of the Templar Knights and contains the secrets to complete and undeniable global rule. So please, do be careful with the coif!"
As Harrold pats you on the back and minces off with visions of millions dancing before his eyes, you can't help but suddenly feel the beginnings of some sort of queasy awfulness brewing within your belly.