Detroit Tigers Headquarters, Detroit, MI
DOMBROWSKI: I wasn’t invited, sir.
ILITCH: Of course not, Dan. You’re the help. If I could find your Venezuelan equivalent, he would have taken your job months ago. I was kidding.
DOMBROWSKI: It’s Dave, sir.
ILITCH: Whatever. On to business. Has the man arrived that I requested you set up an interview with?
DOMBROWSKI: Um, he has. But I have to ask you…are you serious? You can’t possibly be considering replacing Jim Leyland with this…
ILITCH: I know what I’m doing. People said I was crazy by opening a pizza franchise using only rat meat and the cheese from diseased goats. People said I was crazy when I kept Randy Smith employed for so long.
DOMBROWSKI: I’ve been meaning to ask you about that…
ILITCH: The man gave a hellova massage, my friend. A hellova massage. Point is, I know what I’m doing. Send him in!
/door flies open
ILITCH: Okay, that’s enough.
/pulls out shotgun
/shoots Rodriguez in the face
DOMBROWSKI: OH MY GOD!
ILITCH: Yep. That should’ve been done a couple years ago. My bad. Oh, and there seems to be blood spatter on your colorful sweater there.
ILITCH: Sigh. Call the janitor to clean this sh-t up. And give Randy Smith a call. Daddy’s feeling tense…