[Connor and Murphy McManus and David Goodella Roggo sit at a round kitchen table in a dimly lit apartment, drinking and smoking, while SportsCenter plays in the background.]
Neil Everett: …but unless something drastic is done, the Red Sox don’t seem like they are going anywhere but down in their division this year. In other Boston news, “Deflategate” continues to be a hot button issue. Tom Brady has remains adamant that he had nothing to do with the PSI levels in the footballs, and his smile convinced me long before he even opened his mouth…
[Connor mutes the TV.]
Roggo: Can you believe this? I am getting so much heat over this. The bosses set me up! I know it!
Murphy: You’re lucky this whole Rice situation has blown over. I thought that was going to be the end of you.
Roggo: It was handled so poorly from the start! I’m not any good at this! I’m basically just a package boy! I follow what the bosses tells me to do, try to tell a few jokes and deny everything! But you guys, you guys are the real deal! What’s your plan? You’re going after anybody you think is evil?
Roggo: Don’t you think that’s a little psycho? A little weird?
Connor: Weird, huh? Know what I think is weird? Decent men with loving families come home every day after work. They turn on ESPN and see rapists…
and child abusers…
all playing in the NFL.
Murphy: Players get caught beating their girlfriends and throwing them onto a couch with 20 guns on it. Then they’re walkin’ back onto the practice field the same day.
Connor: And everyone all thinks the same thing. Someone should just go ban those motherfuckers.
Murphy: Ban ’em all. Admit it, even you’ve thought about it.
[Roggo ponders this as the brothers each take a drink.]
Roggo: You guys should be in every major city. This is some heavy shit. This is like Lone Ranger heavy man. Fuck it! There’s so much shit that pisses me off. You guys should recruit, ’cause I am so sick and tired of walking down the street waiting for one of these weed-smoking, ass-wiping, motherless gangster players to come and get me, you know?
Murphy: Hallelujah, Ginger.
Roggio: So you’re not just talking about practice squad guys. You’re talking about anyone, right? Even like coaches, Pro Bowlers, MVP’s and all that shit?
[The brothers nod, then glance back at the muted TV.]
Roggio: Brady, that smug motherfucker. Belichick’s right hand man. He’s the one who caused me all this trouble. Then he went around shooting his mouth off, telling everyone that he didn’t do anything. The media thought I was good as dead.
Roggio: So?! So let’s ban the motherfucker! I mean, that’s your new thing right?
Connor: Yeah, well…
Roggio: Oh what the fuck!? How do you guys decide who you’re… I mean, who makes the cut? Is there a raffle or something?
Connor: I guess we don’t really have a system of deciding yet.
Roggio: MEEE! ME! I’M THE GUY! I know everyone, their habits, where they hang out, who they talk to. I know where they fucking live! We could ban everyone!
Murphy: What do you think?
Connor: I’m strangely comfortable with it.
[To be continued…]