My Witness Protection Saga: Here's Where The Story Ends

I've been tortured before. I know what it is and isn't. It isn't memorable. Since I've got tremendous mind control, I can make myself black out at the earliest sign of potential pain. That's why I never go to baseball games. Just the sight of baseball bats and the foul balls they create is enough to make me fall off the upper deck into the arms of an unsuspecting cotton candy vendor.

With me, torture is a waste of time. I've been to Guantanamo (Gitmo for those of you who don't speak Spanish). I know from experience that eventually your oppressor is going to stop forcing small Cuban people under your fingernails if you're sleeping through the whole event.

So when I woke up with X-Lax's tire chains tied around my body and my lungs slowly emptying of pool water, I quickly deduced that Chevy, Sancho Panza and X-lax had attempted to roll me down a highway at 65 miles per hour. After I'd caught on fire, they'd thrown me into their swimming pool. Only, the pool, being empty, needed to be filled with water, so each man took turns stealing water from the Jensen's pool next door with the one bucket they had between them. By the time I'd awakened, coughing yet refreshed, my antagonists were exhausted.

"I thought you were dead," Chevy, my half-brother, said between breaths. "Yes, you," he said, responding to my 'Who me?' hangdog look.

Upset that my cover had been blown and disappointed in myself for allowing my pride and ego to be squashed like an engorged deer tick under a Stanley-brand ergonomic-handled hammer, I admitted that I was still alive. "But only until I can get away to safety. Then, I'll be dead again."

X-Lax smiled, showing off his dental work. Sancho Panza looked at him the way a car's headlights shine at a buck on a midnight highway.

"So, brother," I said, a little bit of phlegm drying at one corner of my mouth, "you run this racket? And if so, who writes your monthly newsletter?"

Chevy borrowed Sancho's pistola and shoved its handle up my right nostril. "We hire freelancers," he said.

"Oh," said I, sounding a little off kilter, gun in my nose and all. "Well, I'm happy that you've found your life's calling. You're a natural born leader for somebody who's the spawn of Satan."

"Was Dad not a jerk?"

"There you go again with that 28 AD style of speaking. Can you update it a little to, say, 1980? At least they had microwave ovens by then."

Chevy removed the gun from my now deviated septum. It (the gun) looked disgusting. "What'd you do with Julio Lugo?"

I suddenly remembered the respect and admiration these people had for then Tampa Bay Devil Rays shortstop Julio Lugo, who was currently chained to an exposed radiator in my safehouse. Now was my chance. "If you want to see Tampa Bay Devil Rays shortstop Julia Lugo ever swing a bat again, you'll listen to my instructions." They didn't interrupt. I began to whisper. "Number one, let me go."

"Can't hear you," said X-Lax, spittle striking Sancho, Chevy and me in our respective right eyes. I wiped my eye and ignored his comment. This was my show now.

"Where was I?"

"You just asked us to let you go," Sancho Panza said.

"He didn't ask," Chevy said.

I nodded. "Number two, stay here. I will have Julio Lugo call you when he's free."

"Is he not a friend of mine?" Chevy said. I didn't dispute this comment, even though Julio never said one word about Chevy or his big, swirly pants while I'd induced him into a drug-addled semi-coma one night while watching Letterman.

"That's where you went wrong," I said. "People like us can't afford friends. They eat too much and want to sleep in your spare room at the most inopportune times."


Ten minutes later, I was driving X-Lax's car, scraping off the dried food particles on the inside of his front windshield. The man obviously liked to whistle while driving. At the first public phone I could find, I dialed the number given to me by that FBI fella days before. Then I put in some change and dialed again (pay phone dyslexia on my part).

The CHiPs were captured shortly thereafter, along with enough computers, personnel and arms to pantie raid a large sorority house.

As for Julio Lugo, he was set free and, after a trade to the Los Angeles Dodgers, eventually became a free agent, signing with the team that was to become the 2007 World Champion Boston Red Sox.

Me? I invested my $229,447.63 (the $500,000 was not a tax-free offer - always read the fine print) into a well-performing mutual fund. Last year, my principal compounded by nearly .03%!
Since then, I've performed other jobs for my government. One day I'll write about them. But for now, I think I'll just put on my uniform and head out to the field. You see, today I look like San Francisco Giants outfielder Barry Bonds. What have I done with him? Let's just say he's safe. And if he follows his ration schedule, he'll be safe for another day or two. By then, I should be done with my work here. I'm looking for where the steroids come from.

More Witness Protection Program (WitProPro) Reader Mail

I'm getting so much reader mail, it's time to air it out a bit today before going back to my intriguing story.

Our first letter comes from Witchitawe (not it's real name), Kansas:

Dear Whoever You Are,

I just joined a band and we plan on playing out a lot. A major record company wants to sign us as well. Should I be concerned for my safety? I'm the bass player, so I'm pretty sure nobody notices me. Suggestions?

Yours,
Anonymous Bass Player From Wichita, KS

Dear Anonymous,

Since compact disc sales are in the tank, nobody's going to release your music in that format, which means no need to concern yourself with your face plastered (potentially) over millions of CD covers throughout the world. I'd be more concerned with people illegally downloading your music. Illegal downloading is unethical and against the law. Those who participate in this activity should be sued and have their toenails forcibly removed. A good job for you would be to bootleg your own music. Since your "fans" don't know who you are, take the master recordings your band creates, burn them onto discs, and sell them on a table in front of record stores and hat shops. The money you earn can be siphoned toward purchasing arms or drugs, two growth industries that can be a backup career for you should the band breakup or all get shot execution style when your pursuers find you.

The next letter comes from somewhere (I can't disclose it) in the original 13 colonies (American):

Dear Ted (or whoever you are),

I'm a heavy drinker and I want to join AA. Do I risk exposing myself if I do?

Thank you,
Angelo
Tuxedo, NY

Dear Angelo,

Personally, I've been to a number of AA meetings and, quite frankly, they're not as fun as AAA meetings. AAA can save you money and time and hassle, so I suggest you join today. Plus, if you're ever being followed and your car breaks down, AAA will send a tow truck out AT NO COST (other than your annual membership fee); a tow truck you can ultimately hijack and use to drive yourself to safety.

If you elect to continue attending AA meetings, I don't suggest exposing yourself. That is a derogatory act and might not be appreciated by the female attendees.

More to come soon!

My Witness Protection Saga: Power of Brotherly Love

Sorry about earlier. I swear I've been followed the last few days. I think I've thrown my pursuer off track by pre-ordering the Spice Girls Greatest Hits CD at Victoria's Secret. Where I come from, my people only like Scary Spice.

Thus, we may move forward.

Previously on The Witness Protection Saga:

I'm the best the Federal Witness Protection Program has to offer. I can hide better than a salamander. (Did you know they can grow back their limbs?) In a former life, I probably invented the anagram for CIA. Because of this, my government offered to pay me $500,000 to locate and identify the hierarchy of one of the most notorious gangs (the CHiPs) in the country before they reverted to domestic terrorism. Kidnapping then Tampa Bay Devil Rays shortstop Julio Lugo and assuming his identity, I'd made it to the top of the CHiPs food chain. There I was, dumbfounded and sitting across from their leader.

My brother.

The story continues...

I believe in family connections as strongly as I believe in a reliable wireless connection. If you have one, you're loyal for life.

Unless they want to kill you.

The man sitting across from me looked almost exactly like me, although I hadn't looked like "me" in a long time. Currently, I looked like Julio Lugo, from hair to skin to Chinny Chin Chin (which is also a great Chinese takeout joint in Cedar Rapids). To be frank, we weren't full brothers. Only half of our genes were shared, from the paternal side. A full seven years older than me, "Chevy" (not his real name) was one of three illegitimate children my father had from a previous marriage. Chevy and I hadn't spoken in years, the main reason being he didn't think I was alive anymore. Faking one's death can really cut off the inflow of Christmas day phone calls.

Chevy hadn't always been a bad seed. But he was a latent bed wetter, and I can remember our father (who's not in heaven) pelting Chevy with rolls of toilet paper while the teen slept, hoping the boy would subconsciously get the connection and correct his socially unacceptable behavior. It didn't work. Instead, Chevy fought back and left home, never to be seen or heard from again, until two weeks later when he returned to steal my baseball card collection and sell them for some magic beans.

I couldn't tell if he knew I was still angry with him for that, or if he thought I'd fallen forward, my hands clutching his throat and squeezing purely by coincidence. He reminded me, "Julio Lugo," of a rogue baseball agent who had sold Lugo's contract off to Fannie May.

Sancho Panza and X-Lax, neither of whom apparently had left, helped me back to my seat. They were nice enough to only strike me twice cross the bridge of my nose with the handles of their guns. (Twice each, I should state clearly for the record. I don't want you to think I'd lie about details.) I leaned backwards to try to slow the bleeding while my brother, Chevy, dressed me down (verbally).

"Why would you attack me, Julio Lugo? Am I not your biggest fan? Did we not break bread in the Tampa Bay area but two weeks ago?" (Chevy liked to speak like it was 21 AD, hence, his sandals.)

Was he telling the truth or bluffing? Julio Lugo, under a controlled narcotic I'd slipped into his waffles au gratin, had told me everything I thought I needed to know about his personal life. But he never mentioned eating anything other than the pesce his mother had made him bob for as a child in Venezuela. Still, it was possible he and Chevy had eaten together. But what had they chewed? And where? Judging by Chevy's thin stature, it couldn't have been anything high in carbs or fat. Maybe they'd met at a Steak 'N' Ale and simply dumped oil & vinegar on the menu. Rather than commit a response either way, I decided to change the subject altogether.

"I like your pants. Did you buy them at full retail?"

"No. Wal Mart has everyday low prices."

Chevy was wearing the same swirly-designed big pants as Sancho Panza. They looked ridiculous on grown men with legs. But their appearance led to some key information: The CHiPs shopped at large retail chains and had bad taste in clothing. The FBI was going to eat this up.

"Tell me something," Chevy, my brother, said. "How come when you bleed, you hold your nose the same way my long-lost, dear-departed brother did?"

If I'd had my old trusty air guitar with me, I would have smashed it over Chevy's head right then and there. Only it was probably sitting in some Oakland-area pawn shop, right next to the baseball card collection I'd never see again.

I had to think fast before I wasn't allowed to think anymore.

Next Post: Honestly, the soft-core pornographic sex scene is, uh, coming.

On The Run

Literally. There was a knock on the door this morning, and it wasn't UPS. As good as I am at hiding, there are others just as good at look -