They gave me a new face to match my identity. Well, it wasn't really a new face, but I got a spray tan, so I looked sort of different. I didn't like it.
When I got off the plane in San Antonio with the agent at my side, I told the flight attendant, "I'm in the Witness Protection Program."
I thought Marshall Martins, the short agent chick, was going to have an embolism. That would've been messy. We had a harried dash through the airport, as if maybe, just maybe that flight attendant was the one person who didn't want me to testify.
"If you do that again," she threatened me, "I'll kill you myself."
I put my nose in the air. "Maybe next time you shouldn't make me wear this hideous chartreuse sweater," I told her haughtily.
She sneered at me. 'Maybe next time you shouldn't fink on the mob."
Post a Comment