Interior: Phillies Front Office, Ruben Amaro, Jr's Office.
Time: 6:15 AM, May 17, 2013
Ruben sits on a telephone, speaking at a low, intense volume. An ashtray, overflowing with cigarettes, smolders and Amaro takes a drag off of a freshly lit Marlboro Red. He takes a sip of coffee from a Styrofoam cup. He stops for a moment to think about how powerfully gritty he's acting. He continues to talk.
Well yeah, yes, sure look. I get that it's unconventional. I get that there's a risk involved. But we're up against the damn wall here! Yes, I said it. Now, wait...just you...you son of a b...now listen! I heard enough of your garbage over the last fifteen minutes to last me the rest of Ryan Howard's contract, so just plug up and tune in to what Uncle Ruben is telling you.
We're losing ground here. I don't know the record, and to be honest, skip, I don't really feel like checking. I could, too -- I'm running six blackberries at once, and just like me, they don't sleep. But the record of the team, how many runs we scored, how many we let up -- garbage, pure garbage. That's loser justification for the press if we don't win. But for me? I got cojones the size of Cadillacs, buddy, and it ain't because I like their aesthetics. It's because if you're going to drive this bus, you gotta make decisions based on what you feel, not what you know.
And yeah, I know it's risky. I know it's bold. But f**k that and f**k you too, because I'm pushing the button. Pick up the red phone Sally, because it's ringing right now, and it's ringing for you. We're at High Alert, and last time I looked up, I had the Braves and the Nationals teabagging me, while the national media laughs it up about the end of our window. Ruben don't play that game, friend; when Ruben feels disrespected, people's heads roll. When Ruben feels the Phillies getting disrespected? Then it's time for s**t to really go down.
So buckle up, Petunia, and get ready because I'm overriding everyone. Monty, Wade, Charlie, Dubee -- hell, call Gillick and see if he can stop me! I'm 100% Testosterone, baby, and I'm ready to kill. So it's not like you have a choice, see? I'm saving this season, and the only you can stop me is if you put me in a bodybag. And I counted your shots; you're wondering, did I fire five or six? And now you have to be asking yourself...
Oh, uh, yeah, you still there? Yeah, so like I was saying. We're going to save this season. You with me? You want to be the guy who saved 2013 or the chump who let it burn? That's what I thought. Put the order through.
We've ascended Heaven and spit in the face of God, friend. I'll see you in Philly in two hours; we're getting steaks.
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