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 -

Official Witness Protection Program Reader Mail

Let's take a break from my true story of how the government asked me to find and identify members of a domestic terrorist gang for some reader mail. This comes from somebody we'll call Name Withheld Upon Request:

Dear Loui-,

I've heard about the Witness Protection Program, and it sounds like something I'd like to do. I'm in my second year of college, but I'm wondering if there are any schools that specialize in Witness Protection? Is witnessing a crime absolutely necessary? I am a bit of a tattle-tale, but up to now, not much has happened. Can you help me?

Yours,
Name Withheld Upon Request

It's hard to find the schools that offer Witness Protection as a major because, like all things surrounding the program, they are cloaked in secrecy. While it helps to have witnessed somebody doing something illegal, like littering or speeding, many of the everyday law-breaking citizens of this country don't have the inner need to kill the witness. What you need to do, if you really want to study Witness Protection, is to immerse yourself in the lifestyle - get yourself involved in organized crime, find out where the heroin in your neighborhood comes from and engage the ultimate source in a dialog. Let these people know you'd like to see them in action, actually breaking the law, so that you can testify against them. Then hide. I think you'll get the support you need if you make a game plan and stick to it.

Lord knows, there were days when I didn't want to gather evidence against the people who now want me dead (they used to be my friends - we watched football on Sundays together!), but I knew the Witness Protection Program was for me, and I let that passion fuel my actions.

Study hard, Name Withheld Upon Request, and let us know how everything turns out for you!

My Witness Protection Saga: The Continuing Story of Bungalow Julio Lugo

If you recall, my government had asked me to use my Witness Protection Program undercover skills and infiltrate a domestic gang with terrorist aspirations. This amazingly true and vivid encounter continues...

"I am Julio Lugo, shortstop, Tampa Bay Devil Rays."

"Say it again."

"I am Julio Lugo, shortstop, Tampa Bay Devil Rays."

"Say it again."

"I am..."

We'd been doing this for hours, and I was exhausted. But Julio pushed me to keep going, to keep practicing his timbre, his nuances, his inflexions. He was a great teacher.

By now, my charm had completely won over Julio Lugo, then shortstop of the Tampa Bay Devil Rays. He suffered from a terrible case of Stockholm Syndrome, a psychological response sometimes seen in an abducted hostage, in which the hostage shows signs of loyalty to the hostage-taker, regardless of the danger (or at least risk) in which the hostage has been placed. I was giddy with how my skills at causing this response were still in top form (a shout out to a certain bank manager and his staff in Paris, Texas should be included right about now). Julio Lugo proved his mettle by preparing French Toast for me one morning. It was over that meal that I told him I would be leaving for a while and he'd have to get along without me for a while. He wept as I chained his ankle to the steel radiator in the rear of the room at the back of the house. "Don't worry," I said, "I'll be fine. Keep an eye on your rations and pray the battery doesn't die on the TV remote." He said he'd be strong for me. I nodded and looked away. His breath smelled of rancid maple syrup.

My FBI fella had told me where I could find a member of the would-be terrorist gang, whom we'll dub the CHiPs (after my second favorite Erik Estrada soap opera). His name was X-Lax and he worked a corner over by the Potsdam section of Corning, NY.

"You X-Lax?" I said, coming upon him like a dog would upon a strange scent in the grass.

X-Lax looked at me like he knew me. He did, but only from TV. "You're Julio Lugo," he said, a little spit accidentally striking me under my right eye. I gently rubbed.

"Si," I said. "I'm Julio Lugo, shortstop, Tampa Bay Devil Rays." My first test. I had the look. But could I do the sound?

"Sup?"

Yes, I could. "Is off season. Looking for an outlet for my energy. Ju guys have any openings?"

X-Lax smiled. He'd just had his lower molars removed and he liked to show off his orthodontist's work, so he smiled frequently. "Your timing's good. We just gonna put something up on Craig's List."

"Soy tu hombre," I said without making eye contact.

"You mean 'ombre. You tryin' to be funny, pronouncing the H?"

I obviously needed to concentrate harder. "Si."

"Come on with me," X-Lax said, smiling. "I'll take you to some people." I wiped some spittle off my forehead and followed.

We drove for more than two hours. X-Lax didn't say much, and I certainly wasn't going to stick my foot in my mouth again voluntarily. So our early-autumn journey was one mostly of silence, aside from the hum of the highway underneath the chains (a careful driver, X-Lax kept chains on his tires year round "just in case"). Occasionally, X-Lax would turn to me and pose an innocuous question like, "You know the Tampa Bay Devil Rays suck, right, Julio Lugo?" I'd nod my head and sigh, letting my body answer the question so my oration wouldn't have to. "You should be one a dose free agent guys. Go to a team dat's good." Nod, sigh, wipe spit off my chin. "Team sucks with you, they can suck without you." He never stopped smiling.

"Yo!" A tall, skinny, bespectacled man, who looked more Apache than Puerto Rican or African-American, looked at X-Lax with a menacing glare. Clearly, we had come at the wrong time. Steam filled the air. The mirror was fogged up. The man removed his shower cap and replaced it with a baseball cap - Montreal Expos. "You caught me with my pants down." X-Lax handed the man a towel. He dried off his glasses first. "I"m Sancho Panza. Sorry I don' have no Devil Rays hat."

I shrugged.

"Julio Lugo don' wanna talk too much," X-Lax said.

I laughed as Sancho wiped the spit off of his glasses. X-Lax looked at me. I silently wished for a large window pane to separate the two of us. "Know why they call him Sancho Panza?" I shrugged again, eager to find out but not wanted to give myself away, and brushed away the damp touch of moisture that had landed onto my lower lip.

"Don Quixote was crazy," Sancho said. "Sancho Panza wasn't." He pulled on a pair of MC Hammer-style big pants. They had splashes of yellow, black and red swirling about. Terrible. "Like my pants?"

"Si," I said, hoping to God I hadn't said "C" or "See."

"We cool," Sancho said.

X-Lax nodded, smiled, and said, "Sancho hook you up, Julio Lugo. He knows people in da CHiPs, you know?"

X and Sancho high-fived before X-Lax left. I felt a little uncomfortable alone with Sancho Panza. It was a small bathroom.

"What chu wanna do?" Sancho said to me. He'd begun to shave his armpits without any shaving cream.

"Get to da top," I said. I needed to find out where Sancho Panza stood in the CHiPs hierarchy, and I needed to do it quickly. I'd only given the real Julio Lugo enough packets of Instant Quaker Oats (apple & cinnamon flavor) and prune juice to last two days. In other words, I now had less than 48 hours to get back before his Depends (athletic fit) became uncomfortable.

Sancho pulled the razor horizontally, cutting himself. He was a dyslexic shaver. "I get you there. Now a good time?"

Fifteen minutes later, I was sitting alone in the middle of an empty swimming pool, shallow end, when I met with the King Fish, the Grand Dragon, the Pizzeria Uno.

Only there was one problem - I already knew who he was. And he knew me. I was going to have to dig deep into my bag of tricks to make this all work out.

You see, the man sitting down across from me was my brother.

Coming Soon: Hopefully, I get to the sex scene.

Elvis

It just hit me today. Elvis is really dead. I think. Yes, it happened 30 years ago, but we all know how the subconscious can sweep things like this under the rug to protect the conscious mind. He was an inspiration to me, especially how he tried to convince Nixon to let him become a "Federal Agent-at-Large" in the Bureau of Narcotics and Dangerous Drugs, how he changed his identity so well (from thin country sex symbol to Hollywood movie star to Vegas showman), and how he may or may not be dead. (I thought I saw him in a Carlisle, PA Sheets store back in '01, but I was running pretty fast from someone so didn't have time to go back and double-check. It was probably my mind playing a practical joke on me as I dodged a handful of .38 caliber slugs and sprinted into the stock room. )

Nah, he’s really gone, isn't he? I’m a mess. Thank God I still have John Lennon and his music to help me through this.