I pulled my first job back when I was ten. It wasn’t much, just a friendly little shakedown that resulted in a pair of nosebleed seats for Paul McCartney. But it was the first step of a long illustrious career.

By the time I was twelve I was runnin’ numbers for the local concert bookie, relaying bets from suckers who thought they could call the gross for The Rolling Stones or beat the spread on R.E.M. Yeah, there’s one born every minute.

I had my own operation when I was 18 – hijacking ticket trucks coming in from Jersey carrying fresh ducats for The Dead and David Lee Roth. Heck, no matter who you wanted to see – Heart, James Taylor or Peter Gabriel – I was the man. I was the Concert King.

Women, money, concerts, you name it, I had it all. But I broke the number one rule when it comes to ticket gangsters. That’s right. One day I started sampling my own product, and before I knew it, I was hooked. I had to see every show that came to town, including Dave Matthews Band, Phish and Pearl Jam. Profits began to slide. The vig disappeared. I was out of control. I had become my own best customer.

You can guess the rest. I was trying to move a semi full of Yanni tickets when the feds nabbed me. Seems that they had been following me for years and not only did they know about the Neil Young caper back in ’85, but they also wanted to nail me for that big Fleetwood Mac job out at the airport. I was lookin’ at some serious time.

So I cut a deal. I told them about the time the Deep Purple Gang knocked over five Ticketmasters in one day and snatched all the Eagles tickets on the East Coast. I snitched on the counterfeiting going on in the back room down at Rosa’s Deli, where they printed tickets for Mark Knopfler and Lollapalooza that looked so real they even fooled the local promoter. But they wanted more. So I gave up Fat Paulie and his hidden stash of tickets for Boston, Ozzfest and Red Hot Chili Peppers. Yeah, I sang like a bird. A real stool pigeon.

Now I’m in the Secret Witness program, where, due to security, I’m not allowed to see any concerts, such as Avril Lavigne or matchbox twenty. Instead, I’m forced to spend my days playing tennis, riding horses and spending the last few hours of each day’s sunlight lounging by the pool, drowning my sorrows in a perfectly mixed martini as I think back about the past and curse my own future.

Gosh, my life sucks.