Day 187 in Anytown, USA. I wake up each morning hoping it was all just a terrible dream. But it isn’t. It’s all too disturbingly real.
I live in an antiseptic ranch house. My house looks like all the other houses on the street. Which looks like all the other streets in a town that looks like so many other towns.
The name I go by here, Madame Weebles, is not my real name. They stripped away my real name and identity after I testified in court. After the trial I was whisked away to my new home here, my new life—if you can call this living. Witness protection is the only way to keep you safe, they said. I don’t care, I’m ready to go home. It’s too quiet here. The Chinese food and pizza suck. And don’t get me started on those things they call “bagels.” Bread baked in the shape of a donut is not a bagel, people.
Also, I’m having a really hard time disguising my New York accent. The folks here are under the impression that the words “frog,” “log,” and “dog” rhyme. But it’s almost impossible for me to keep the word “doooawg” from falling out of my mouth. I have no idea how mob informants like Tony the Hand and Joey Baggadonuts manage in witness protection. There’s no way they can hide those accents. Fuhgeddaboutit.
It’s all HIS fault. For committing those unspeakable crimes. Crimes so heinous, so obscene, so shocking, that to this day I can’t think about them without shaking uncontrollably. I remember it all as if it happened yesterday. I was walking through Grand Central Station one afternoon. That’s when I heard it. This…squeal. It was inhuman. It was coming from one of the many passageways around the concourse area. The way the noise echoed, it sounded like it was coming from the depths of Hell.
I followed the noise until I came to a small alcove. It took my eyes a few seconds to register what they beheld. A depraved-looking man hunched over someone. Or something. It looked like—no, it couldn’t be. But it was.
I stumbled out to the concourse. I couldn’t even speak, I just gestured for the transit cops to follow me. They wrestled the monster to the ground and cuffed him. As they hauled him away, he hissed, “You’ll pay for this.”
A few months later I took the witness stand and described the diabolical acts I had seen. Two members of the jury had to be hospitalized. The judge sobbed uncontrollably. And the defense attorney clutched her rosary beads and prayed for death.
The jury deliberated for 10 minutes. “Guilty.” And with that, the U.S. Marshals escorted me from the courtroom. As I passed the defendant, he looked at me with wild eyes and yelled, “Vengeance will be mine!!” And so here I am. Because of him.
What the fuck was that??? Someone just blasted through my back door. Oh my God. He found me. I can’t believe it.
I ran as fast as I could, but they were catching up with me. They were really fast for dogs with such short legs. Dachshunds—hundreds of them—all with clown noses. They looked rabid, with a vicious, predatory look in their eyes.
Shit. I’m trapped. These fucking cul-de-sacs. Now what?
I ran through someone’s yard to try to evade those blood-thirsty little clown dogs. Then WHAM!! I slammed into someone and we both landed on the ground.
El Guapo????? What was HE doing here??
Well how do you like that. Turns out Guap was also in witness protection, living just a few streets over from me. He was running from the clown dogs too. Le Clown had ordered a hit on him. El Guapo wouldn’t even tell me what he had witnessed—he kept shaking his head and mumbling, “It’s too horrible.”
We finally reached safety after stepping over a fence that was about 18 inches high. The dogs growled at us menacingly through the chain links. El Guapo and I traded fake names to confuse the dogs, and they eventually wandered off in search of bacon.
Hotspur thought his little goon dogs would finish me off. He thought he’d heard the last of me. He’s going to be sorely disappointed. Yes. Sorely disappointed indeed.
And that’s my witness protection story. I, Madame Weebles/El Guapo, am lucky to be alive to share it with you.
Madame Weebles (better known to the clown dogs as El Guapo) is an alias. Although she is no longer in the Witness Protection program, she kept the name because she likes it. She would like to thank The Ringmistress for suggesting this topic and hopes this offering meets with her approval. If you liked this post—and even if you hated it—please click the Like button. Otherwise the terrorists win.
Join us again tomorrow for the final, epic matchup: master criminal Edward Hotspur vs Darth Vader’s hero, Le Clown.