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!

My Witness Protection Saga: It Keeps You Running

You don’t get to where I’ve gotten in life without having to bend the truth once in a while. Like the time I called Rush Limbaugh’s show and identified myself as Audry from Kansas City (the Missouri one). See, I’ve never been to Missouri. So that’s one lie I can’t take back. There’re more. There always re. If I wasn’t who I am, if I was somebody else – which I have experience with too, well, maybe I’d just run for office. I could do it. I spend every day of my life now running from this shadow, that familiar haircut, the dreams… I could win an election, I bet, since I’m so good at hiding my past.

And that’s what got me recognized. Funny, huh? I’ve changed my face, my hair color, my walk, my taste in wardrobe, and I still got the call.

The first one took place a few years ago. Fella in the FBI was sitting in my car one morning. Of course, I saw him there before I got in. This isn’t a life where you can ever let your guard down. I’m not the person to see somebody in my backseat for the first time through my rearview mirror. I have a system and it works. This FBI fella learned part of my system real fast. When he awoke, he rubbed the knot on his skull and identified himself as a fella from the FBI, which I’d already known from plunging my hand into his wallet and seeing his ID badge and ribbed (unused) prophylactic. He was there to ask me, well, tell me, our government had requested my services. I told him no. Last time I’d helped the government, I had to get a nose job three hours later. He told me I was one of the few in this country (the rest termed as “in an overseas capacity”) who was qualified. So I said ask the other two. He had. They weren’t available. Something about loose stool. I was the only one left.

It’s hard to be the best at something. A-Rod has the pressure of $250 million expectations. Hanks has to win an Oscar every time. As for me, I have to live with the fact that I’m only alive because I’m good – no, the best – at hiding my identity, eluding my adversaries, and covering my tracks.

So how did this FBI fella find me if I’m so good? I keep in touch with my sponsor, who today we’ll call Sting. As independent as I’ve become, I hate to admit that I still have to trust someone other than myself. Sting knows how and where to pay me. (Part of my original deal is I get a monthly stipend, handed to me, by Sting, once a quarter.) It took some time for Sting to gain my trust (hours of therapy and one unforgettable team-building exercise in the wilds of Detroit), but it’s worked out so far. Seeing my breath every October morning is proof enough for me.


I couldn’t believe my ears while hearing the request from the FBI fella: Infiltrate a drug-peddling, violence-prone gang that was creeping westward (suburban sprawl was to blame) and determine the gang’s leaders. There was reason to believe they were becoming more organized and setting their sights on gaining more power and expanding from small-time drug thuggery into arms smuggling and, eventually, domestic terrorist activity.

I lifted my jaw off of the ground and reattached it to my upper mandible. Then I reminded the man that I was, and probably still am, a glorified tattle tale who’s spent the last X number of years running away every time I heard someone clear their throat in a crowded movie theater.

Plus, that there was just too much to do – grow my hair long and dye it, diet, brush up on my 2nd generation Americanized Spanish, learn how to play soccer and care about the World Cup, become a cocaine addict, experience the fun of going cold turkey, and get a few skull and crossbones tattoos from a large man named Diko who currently thinks I’m dead. I was the wrong guy for the job.

“It pays $500,000,” the FBI fella said.

In my next post, I’ll describe how I tricked Diko into thinking I was former Tampa Bay Devil Rays shortstop Julio Lugo.

Birthday Boys

I will never be caught by the bad people. I’m too good. Not at doing bad things. No, if I was good at that, I’d still be doing them (except in self defense, which I still get to do every so often). I’m good at not being found, at being “dead on arrival,” at being “missing at sea,” at being one of the “there were no survivors.” I won’t apologize for my abilities. They’re what I’m best at. It’s genetic, I think, like good abs on actors or being able to memorize the manual 4-digit code on your garage door opener. Call me Slick. Call me Invisible. But you better hurry, because I’ll be gone before you dial 411 for my number.

So why do I boast today? It’s my birthday. When you turn a certain age and you’re alive while doing so, it’s only human to look back on your accomplishments.

Some of my former associates in the trade used to become upset at turning this certain age. I’ve heard lots of “I’ve accomplished so little outside of prison” and “If I hadn’t taken that duffle bag full of hundreds I’d still be with my friends today.” Today is just a milestone. There’s still time to catch up, I tell them.

But that’s me, Mr. (or Mrs.) Optometrist. The wine glass isn’t half full, it’s overflowing with Cabernet.

It’s been difficult to keep up with therapy. There’s so little consistency when you need to change therapists as often as I do; when they keep dying by accident or disappearing again or I have to move for the third time in a month because the custodian’s eyebrows look remarkably similar to those of someone who wants to drag my armless carcass behind an RV near the Grant Tee tons. So instead of therapy, I meditate, do yoga, or stare at the sun until my eyes water.

It’s overrated. Therapy, I mean. But maybe just for me. I like to think that’s why I’m so hotly pursued. Not for retribution. Out of jealousy. I’m totally content with my life right now. They aren’t, so they try to off me. Hey, when Jesus was born, that king guy had all the baby boys killed so he (the king) could keep hold of his power. Same thing with me. I’m the baby Jesus and my antagonists, out of fear for their standing in their communities, want me dead. Hey, I can live with that. I’m perfectly fine, thank you very much. But what about them?

Happy birthday to me.

Reader Mail

Sorry for the abrupt ending to my previous post. I’m afraid my position at the time had been compromised and it was best for me to leave the house I’d, uh, found.

Let me now reprint a letter that would have been published in Witness Protection Weekly, Issue 9, Vol 37, had I not run into an old “friend” accidentally in that godforsaken pit of a Pennsylvania town I may or may not have been living in.

Dear Dean,
Oops. I never should have been so honest on my Facebook and MySpace pages. I definitely shouldn’t have uploaded my picture. Now I’m on the run. What should I do?
Yours,
Larry Angelo
Boise, Idaho

Larry – Interesting pickle you’ve brined for yourself, and I think there are a few lessons here for all of us:

I. Nobody picks up girls on the web using their real name and picture.
II. If it’s best for you to keep kind of a low public profile, maybe social networking sites are something to avoid if you’re a member of the Witness Protection Program, kind of like how drug dealers should stay away from drug free school zones.
III. By now, Larry isn’t alive anymore.

Quick story. When I first enrolled in The Program, my U.S. Marshal “handler” Moesha (or was it Joel?), suggested I avoid the old “haunts” and, by all means, raise my hand when the teacher called my (new) name at attendance. Well, I got to wondering, what if I used my old name for things like internet porn or call-ahead restaurant reservations? I mean, I don’t exist anymore, so what harm could it do?

There’s a Chili’s on Route 46 in West Paterson, New Jersey that still hasn’t reopened since that Citris Fire Chicken & Shrimp fajita blew up.

U-Hauling Ass

Before we move forward together, let’s take a few steps back. This blog is taking the place of the former Witness Protection Weekly (WPW), a semi-annual magazine written, edited and published by myself for a period of time leading up to now. Needless to say, it was a lot of work, what with my moving from this place to that place as often as I need to. I’ve found that typing a blog and the instant gratification of one-click-publishing to be considerably easier than pulling a printing press around in a U-Haul (assuming I use a U-haul; maybe that was just a metaphor for something). I’m hoping some of you, my fellow members in The Program, will take care to translate this into the 128 languages I occasioned to print the WPW in (U-Haul rents out an 18—wheeler – you can look it up). If those in our shared predicaments don’t work with each other, who can we work with?
The format of this blog should be familiar to my loyal WPW readers. I’ll print and answer your questions when you need advice, I’ll share my own concerns and anecdotes, and –