The process is fairly simple. I get a call from my man on the inside AKA The Golden Bear and we meet secretly. He gives me the important details and files that I need, we hit balls at the driving range for a few minutes, and then I’m off to make sure that justice is served. The most recent bounty that I was given had the appearance of a tough one. Some time over the weekend, an illegal alien had smuggled his way into central Ohio via an intricate system of coyotes (those are people that help illegals gain entry into this great nation). No one knew where he was staying or what his intentions exactly were, but The Golden Bear was quite adamant that they were evil. He had to be apprehended. It didn’t say why and I didn’t ask. That is not my job. The file given to me had plenty of details surrounding the perpetrator’s past, but nothing that could help me now. All of his past acquaintances and cohorts lived along Lake Erie. The only thing that I knew was that he was pitching for the Columbus Clippers on Tuesday at 12:05 pm.
Damn. The Businessman’s Special always made things difficult. It’s very hard to step away from the internet during the day so I was going to need some help. I reached out to one of my peers in the hunting industry—American hero Sergeant Slaughter—who was at Huntington Park this past Saturday to see if he was still around and could assist with my mission. He was not. I was on my own with this. I would have to wait to stalk my prey much like Uncle T at a YMCA.
The groundwork was in place. I had a rough outline for how I would go about this. In a few short hours, once the final comments of the day were published, it would be time to pounce. Roberto Hernandez, the former Fausto Carmona and International Man of Mystery and Deceit, was mine.
My search started last night with a trip downtown to Huntington Park. No one was there as the game had ended six hours earlier. I probably should have expected that but a good bounty hunter always starts his chase at the perp’s last known whereabouts. I had a contact not too far away down in nearby German Village but alas Mr. Ace had recently moved. Mrs. Ace had left some underwear in the vacant property so I took a quick sniff and went back out on the streets.
In order to catch Fausto, I had to think like Fausto. If I were a legendary Latino identity thief, where would I go after pitching in a baseball game? All of a sudden, I realized that there was lucha libre wrestling at the State Fair. It seemed like a decent start for this case. I hopped on I-71, drove the 10 minutes north, and after flashing a fake badge that certified me as a Female Body Inspector, I was in the luchadors’ locker room preparing to interrogate the high flyers. I knew that none of them were Fausto because they were all 5’4” and Carmona is a man of many identities, but he isn’t good enough to change heights. After conducting multiple interviews with guys that I couldn’t understand and who could not figure out why I kept calling all of them Rey Mysterio, I left the wrestling show once it became obvious that nobody there could help or had decent information or habla’d ingles.
Since today is my anniversary and I didn’t want to spend the day fighting about how I forgot, I decided to stop off at a local fruit stand to pick up a bushel of something that is an obvious horrible gift but at least is something. Maybe if I bought enough of it, quantity would pass quality and She$ would somehow approve of such a half-assed “present”. The old Mexican that works the joint, Carlos, knows me from prior cases so I just half-heartedly asked if he had seen anyone that day that looked suspicious. He did not reply. He handed me my three bags of berries and shuffled away with a look of concern and fear. This was getting interesting now. Carlos knew something that would help. I could feel it.
BAERGA, GET BACK HERE! I WANT TO TALK TO YOU!
His reply nearly floored me. “Senor, I placed a banana in one of those bags. Look at it closely and you will find your clue, esse. Viva la raza.”
The old Chicano migrant worker was right. Wrapped around the banana was 5 inch long pubic hair. The smell was repugnant; like it hadn’t been washed in a fortnight. The only way to describe the stench was if a Steelers fan gave birth to a skunk out of her ass. After a quick DNA taste test, I knew that it belonged to the man that I was tracking. He had the personal grooming habits that would revolt even the most disgusting person on the planet but it was a start. The once cold trail had finally heated up. I was on the right path. This thief was proving to be as slippery as his back, but he had made a mistake. I was closing in on him now. It wouldn’t be long before he was back where he belonged: south of the Rio Grande.
Time is not on my side though. I am against the clock. I’ve only got 24 hours to find this fugitive and bring him to justice for once Big Brother airs tonight at 8; I’m going to stop caring about this guy. I must apprehend Fausto Carmona. He is a menace to society. The identity thief is likely underground for the night so it is time to head home. I’ll pick up the chase first thing in the morning. I already know my first stop. Where do all illegal aliens go at sunrise?
The front doors of Home Depot…I will get you tomorrow, Fausto Carmona/Roberto Hernandez. Sleep tight, rag arm, because shortly you will be sent back from whence you came.