Walking up to the arena, Gerald Green happened to glance at the large, lit-up letters above the main entrance. Since when had this place been called the “Fulton Homes Center”? Shrugging, he continued his way inside the building.
Walking to the locker room, Gerald couldn’t help but notice the amount of promotional material for Fulton Homes which adorned the walls. Walking by a concession stand, he saw workers preparing corn dogs in shape of houses. Again, he shrugged. If the team was making money off these sponsors, that was just more money for his next contract.
Entering the locker room, a few of his teammates looked a little down-in-the-dumps. Figuring it was baby mamas chasing after them for support payments, like it usually was, Gerald paid them no mind. Looking into his locker where his jersey hung, he realized that maybe this was the reason they were upset.
The jersey, instead of reading “Phoenix Suns”, now said “Phoenix Fulton Homes”. The flying-basketball logo had been replaced by a full-torso picture of a newly-constructed house, and the company’s phone number was written along both sleeves, which had been lengthened to reach to the forearm.
“What is this crap?” he shouted to nobody in particular. “Fulton Homes don’t control us!”
“Actually, Gerald, we do,” came a voice from behind him. Turning around, he was met by a generic-looking man in a suit. “As the CEO of Fulton Homes, I want to welcome you to your new team. Previously, we had just owned the three point zone. Now, we own you, and all your little friends, as well.”
As Gerald stared, dumbfounded, the man began to cackle. Louder and louder grew the laughter, until the only sound that could be heard throughout the arena was the sound of his mirth.