My Witness Protection Saga: The Kidnapping of Julio Lugo

Those terrible California wildfires? They're an opportunity to a person like me. How better to evade pursuit than in an uncontrolled environment that promotes smoker's cough. Plus, it's the perfect place to fake your own death. All you need is a motive ("I think I left my lighter on the dining room table.") and a great big fireball. One witness and a well hidden escape map are good aides as well.

An escape plan was exactly what I needed when I agreed to help my government stop a localized gang with international ambitions. Suppose, at any point, I was on the verge of being discovered? How would I get the hell out of there without, oh, losing my life's ambition to not die? There was only one way: Kidnap then Tampa Bay Devil Rays shortstop Julio Lugo and assume his identity.

Lugo, while a well-paid shortstop, wasn't a very good one. I figured nobody would miss him. And since I would assume his identity for a little while, in effect, he wouldn't really be missing. If anyone asked why I - Julio Lugo - was messing around in a gang, I could always say it was a well deserved vacation with friends after a long and hard fought baseball season. And once I acquired the information the government needed, I could relocate the real Julio Lugo back into society, change my identity again, and revel in the win/win/win situation I'd created.

Gangs around the world love and admire Julio Lugo. It's a known fact. Read any gang member's blog or bridge graffiti. They respect the man and want his autograph. If I was Julio Lugo, I could give one gang in particular "his" autograph, while simultaneously learning all about the gang's hierarchy and possibly even obtaining its mission statement. Hell, while I was at it, I could probably even get their email addresses and a pamphlet on their health care providers. All on the strength of international Julio Lugomania.

My opportunity to get to Lugo came after a drubbing in Tampa by the New York Yankees. After the game, I followed a downtrodden Lugo to his favorite nightclub, Yo! There, I, dressed like Mercedes Ruhl, was to lure him into a toilet stall, drug him, and wait for the club to close. Then I'd haul him to my car and start my transformation. Only, I mistakenly lured Derek Jeter into the stall. It was days later, when I removed the duct tape to feed him some solid food, that he announced, "No one does this to the Derek Jeter." Uh oh. I knocked him unconscious with my alligator purse and dragged him back to the stall. The papers later reported he'd taken a few days off before the playoffs to "recharge his batteries," but I knew it was his fondness for a certain Oscar-winning actress.

I still had to abduct Lugo, and time was running out. Luckily for me, I literally bumped into him at Disney's new Everglades Theme Park. It was at the Alligator vs. Man exhibit that we bumped. He was laughing at the futile attempt of an unlucky Sarosota man to run faster than alligator mississippiensis. In his jovial state, he didn't realize that I'd just injected a combination insecticide/bromicide into his bum. Minutes later, he was in the trunk of my car and I was pulling out of a very crowded parking lot.

Once in captivity, I could copy Julio Lugo's every feature: the space between his eyes, the curl in his jet black hair, the difference in skin tint between the palm of his hand and his thick .242-hitting forearms. I had to be perfect, and I knew there was only one way to test that I was right - infiltrate my original life.

Diko's Tattoo Parlor (not its real name) sits at a busy intersection of Stuyvesant and Jay streets in a little town called Main Street, USA. Diko used to know me pretty well. Mine was the first stomach onto which he drew his now infamous Kathy Lee Gifford (not her maiden name) tattoo. Long since removed, I was curious if he'd recognize my once-familiar abdomen. For his sake, I hoped he wouldn't. He'd be a dead man if he did.

My fears were quickly allayed. "Tampa Bay Devil Rays shortstop Julio Lugo! It's really you!"

I had to use my best Lugo voice to make this work. "Mmm hmm."

"Oh my gosh!"

It worked. Almost. Next was the stomach.

"Do you want a tat?"

"Mmm."

"On your stomach?"

"Mmm."

"Let's see."

Here goes, I thought. I lifted my Van Huesen (not his real name).

"Perfect," Diko said, cigarette dangling from his lower lip like a man hanging onto a suspension bridge with one hand (been there, done that). "You want a Venezuela or a Costa Rica?" He looked up and made eye contact. I winked as only Julio Lugo can. "Ahh," he said, "Costa Rica."

I was elated. "Si."

His smile disappeared. My God, I thought, he knew it was me. But how? Did he think I said "C," the third letter of the American alphabet, and not "Si," the Spanish affirmative? Or was it Costa Rica, with its third world, low wage children who were famous for mending the hems of Kathy Lee's Wal Mart skirts?

"You're not Tampa Bay Devil Rays shortstop Julio Lugo," Diko said. His scalding hot ink pen was aimed straight for my belly.

I didn't answer.

"You're -"

I didn't let him finish.

Diko's Tattoo Parlor closed early that day. I've heard that most of his former customers now go to Jaime's House of Body Piercings & Skin Colorings, but that's all hearsay. I didn't have time to find out more. My government needed me. And I needed those 500 big ones.

Coming Soon: The story continues... And more reader mail!