You wake the next morning on a bed of straw. You blink your weary eyes. The world is all monochrome. You struggle to your feet--all four of them. This cannot be happening. You let out a squeal.
"Good morning, sleepy head. I thought I'd let you sleep in since it's your last day and all. I thought you might like to know that you're going to be put to good use."
You raise your head and look at him inquisitively. "last day?" "good use?"
"Thought that might get your attention. Well, when they slaughter you, your body will be ground up and made into foot longs for sale at the ball park, and your hide will be used to make official footballs for use on the field."
You cringe recalling the fortune telling machine at Pleasure Island on the day you arrived. The slip of paper the machine handed you simply had said, "You are destined for professional football."