[Dick Monfort walks into a room, slowly shutting the door behind him. The only sound comes from his extremely expensive shoes slowly walking across the tile. He sits down in a large, red fabric chair and leans over his desk. Slowly, he turns to all of you.]
Dick Monfort: Good evening, imbeciles. It's me, Dick Monfort, the super villain and creator of your nightmares. It's winter which means you're probably excited to see what Jeff and I have in store to improve the team and bring a winner for Denver.
[Jeff Bridich pops his head out from behind Dick Monfort.]
Jeff Bridich: Ooooh, I bet you think we're getting a pitcher!
DM: Quiet, Jeff.
JB: A real nice pitcher, too! I bet you think we're getting one that isn't made out of an—
DM: Jeff I said quiet! Don't give away the plan too soon!
[Monfort slaps Bridich. Jeff scurries away.]
DM: As I was saying, you probably have a lot of big dreams in your silly little heads. Dreams of Zack Greinke and Mike Leake. [Monfort begins to laugh loudly.] Zack Greinke?! If I signed him, how could I pay for my second party deck? The SUPER Party Deck? So SUPER that we have $9 Miller Lites, offensively loud EDM, and DOUBLE the popped collar Chads populating its concourses! Tickets will be $66! I'll even use the ticket money from the SUPER Party Deck to pay for a person to turn your alarm off every morning at 6:58 so you never wake up on time for work!
You might be asking why? Why would I do this? Why would I spend my short, precious time on Earth to ruin Rockies fans' lives?
[Dick leans back in the chair, rubbing his fingers against his temples.]
It all started when I was a small boy on the farm in Greeley, Colorado. I remember staring into a cow's eyes and telling it about the Chicago Cubs of the 1960s. I remember the sadness this cow felt as I told it about the terrible management and ownership issues the team had. I remember the emptiness in the cow's eyes. And I wanted to see that in human beings.
Making cows sad wasn't enough for me; I wanted to stare into the eyes of thousands of disappointed fans as they walked out of a stadium. I longed for the tears of children as I helped them grow attached to players only to trade them away. Finally, in 1992, I got my chance, and boy, I have not taken this chance lightly.
[Dick holds up a picture of Troy Tulowitzki.]
Remember him? Of course you do. Three-time Gold Glove Award winner, perennial MVP candidate, all around cool dude shortstop. How could you forget? Boy, did I love to trade him. [Dick rips up the picture.] And for what?! These young kids?! Don't you people understand how I develop pitchers?? I put them in a room and have them throw a bouncy ball at a brick wall as hard as they can so they can get used to balls flying at high speeds back at them! Why teach them how to get guys out? They need to learn how to dodge!
[Dick pauses to catch his breath.]
Ah, but back to my point, free agency!
Let me see ... [Dick begins to shuffle papers on the desk in front of him] ... ah ha! Here's my free agency plan!
[Dick holds up a paper with "BUILD A PLAYER OUT OF REANIMATED HUMAN BONES" written on it.]
We are in phase two of the Operation Spooky Skeleton Pitcher, and I am extremely confident we will change the sport forever once we figure out how to keep them from eating the baseballs and interns.
[Dick laughs again before turning his chair towards a fireplace.]
I've read your letters about wanting a good pitcher. I've checked your emails and tweets about them. I print them all out [gestures towards fire] and use them to warm me through the winter months while I pet my indoor miniature ponies.
But I think at this time, it's best if we have bad pitchers.
[Monfort laughs for an extended amount of time. Like, the craziest amount of time. Honestly, an awkward amount of time.]
Jeff! Come here! Bring the prototype!
[Bridich comes out from behind the corner carrying a large object.]
This [grabs large object from JB and lifts it above his head] is my prototype for learning when is the best time to trade players! It is difficult for me to find when I can pair a player with his lowest value AND his peak popularity so I've devised this machine to do it for me. Watch it work!
[Points the machine at a picture of Nolan Arenado.]
[Screen lights up: 'TRADE AFTER MAJOR INJURY.']
Ah ha! Perfect! Jeff, take notes!
[Bridich opens notepad behind Monfort and begins to scribble furiously.]
The LOSE THE TRADE 9000 machine is nearly complete, and when it is, I will finally be able to crush the dreams of Rockies fans on a broad scale, one that nobody can do anything about! Even if we get lucky and draft a couple of good players I will ship them to New York or Chicago or even Phoenix for a couple Milli Vanilli tapes and a VHS copy of Star Wars Episode I: The Phantom Menace!
JB: Oh man, I love that one.
DM: Who doesn't!? George Lucas is a personal hero of mine.
[Dick turns his chair towards the window. A crack of lightning outside reflects across his face.]
Yes, my plan has nearly come to fruition.
[A devilish smile raises from his lips.]
Now Jeff, what is on the agenda for tomorrow?
JB: Well sir, it appears from 9:00 to 10:30 you will be visiting children in the hospital to learn what the next generation of sick kids dreams about.
DM: So I can crush those dreams?
JB: Yes, of course. From 10:30 to noon I have you blacked out so you can try to fix the VCR's clock.
DM: That DAMN clock! I've pushed all the buttons, the numbers move but it won't land on the right time!
JB: I can help if you want.
DM: No, no, this is something I must accomplish on my own. Thank you though, Jeff.
JB: And from 1:00 to 3:00, you have a conference call with Dan O'Dowd to discuss how to ruin the team.
DM: Yes, I do love Danny's insight into which bad players we can sign from the free agent market.
JB: Finally, from 3:00 to 5:00, we have a nap.
DM: LOVE TO GET MY REST!! Thank you, Jeff. You may go now.
[Bridich slumps off, disappointed he could not serve Monfort longer.]
Well, mongrels, thank you for listening to my plan. I look forward to seeing your devastated faces in the seats this April!!
[Monfort turns off the only lamp still on in his office. The room is dark apart from the fire behind him. He begins to hum the worst song ever: "Freebird" by Lynyrd Skynyrd]