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.