Paralysis Through Analysis

I can’t feel my legs.

I’m awake and in bed and I’m looking down past my reflexively erect pecker and I see my legs, but I can’t feel my legs.

I can feel my arms, though, and my shoulders, and my ribs because all of them hurt like a motherfucker, but goddamn if I can’t feel anything below my waist.

I reach over to grab a handful of CBD gummies on the nightstand and shove them in my mouth. Chew chew chew, then swallow. It’s become part of my morning ritual since I’ve been in training: something to dull the pain enough to get me up and moving so I can work out the kinks in my body.

The lack of sensation south of the equator, though? That’s new.

I try moving my legs. Nnnnope. They stay dormant. Not even a twitch. Panic grips me. What if I’m paralyzed? What if I did something to my spine working out? I did feel something pop during sparring. Could this be some kind of delayed reaction? Is that possible? Where’s my phone?

Damn, it’s in the loo.

I rock my hips back and forth. That let’s me know I’m not paralyzed, because I feel that. The pain lances through my body, but I keep at it until I’m able to flop over onto my belly. My raging tumescence stabs at the mattress, and yeah, that hurts too. But I soldier on, pushing my way down the bed until my feet touch the floor. My lower torso is cocooned in satin sheets, which makes it even harder to raise myself to a vertical base. I finally do though, and, slowly, sort of half hopping and half shuffling, I cross my bedroom towards the bathroom door. I get cocky and try to take a step but I’m caught up in my sheets and I hit the ground with my knees taking the brunt of the impact.

I feel that too.

“Aiiiggh!”

Deciding it’s going to be easier to crawl than try to stand, I inch myself forward. Shag carpet becomes cold linoleum. My weight bears down on my knees against the hard surface, and I twist my frame so it’s my haunch that’s resting against the floor. That helps with the pain a little, but it’s very awkward to move. I reach out and grab the rim of the toilet and pull myself towards the vanity. The commode shudders and groans from the burden of me using it for leverage. I wince, expecting to be doused by a torrent of water as a result of me ripping the head clean from it’s plumbing, but it holds fast. First bit of good luck I’ve had all day.

I’m close to my goal. I reach up from the floor, fingers blindly grasping for my phone. I knock it into the basin of the sink, forcing me to strain further upward until I can firmly get hold of it. Success! I bring the object of my search down, fully prepared to open my browser and pull up Web MD from my Bookmarks.

Then I see the time.

12:49!

I’ve slept past lunch. My still raging morning wood would have gotten me through a nooner! Where has the day gone? Why are my legs still not working? How can I expect to make it as a wrestler fighting some of the deadliest people on Earth (seriously, fucking Church is in this tournament?!? Church?!) if I need fourteen hours of comatose recovery for grappling drills?

Max, you have done stepped in it now.

Well, slithered maybe.

My phone starts buzzing. It plays “Throw it on Me”, letting me know my old friend Baker is calling for our scheduled phone interview.

Baker Barnum, the only person in all of Las Vegas who I’ve paid more money to than Wives Numbers Two and Three (Four’s status as the largest financial sinkhole is pending in the only break the pandemic has given me, as the need to social distance has put a kibosh on all divorce court proceedings). The man whose career I helped make. I was his biggest sponsor back when he was doing overnights on KNXT and endlessly speculating about Area 51 and the New World Order. Now he’s got the biggest soapbox in town, and I can’t afford his ad rates.

Still, there’s enough comity between us I can call in a favor, and appear on his show as a guest. And Baker’s smart enough to know they’ll be interest in Tuxedo Max, Sin City’s most storied Liveryman, signing on with Black Pyramid Wrestling.

Whoops. Better answer the phone before it goes to voicemail.

Max: Hello! Aaapex Livery Service: Where Luxury is Economy.

Producer of ‘Not Leaving Las Vegas’: Max? This is Reese. Sorry we’re calling early. Baker’s got an interview lined up with Q-Shaman’s dietician and it can only be done at 2pm. You ok to go?

I sink back onto to the floor,letting the cool tiles provide some relief for my aching back.

Max: Sure! One of our old mottos was “We get you to the Good Time on Your Time”. Kind of clunky, but it got the point across.

Producer of ‘Not Leaving Las Vegas’: Right. I’m putting you on hold. When it picks up, it’ll be Baker.

Max: Understood lovey.

The line disconnects. I listen to Baker’s broadcast for a bit. He’s banging on about the Vegas office of the EPA is looking into quarantining Zombie McMorris because he is an ambulatory environmental hazard, and how that’s an abuse of Executive power since ZMAC’s status as a metadimensional refugee from beyond the Fourth Wall puts him out of their jurisdiction. It’s all over my head frankly, though I suppose if I’m going to have any success in BPW (read: survive) I better learn to adapt. Suddenly there’s a click, and we’re live, pal!

Baker Barnum: Tuxedo Max! What’s driving you today?

Max: You know me, Double B: I run on piss and vinegar.

Baker Barnum: Hahaha! That’s a fact. You ready for the show Wednesday?

Max: Hell, yeah.

Baker Barnum: First time you’ve wrassled since when?

Max: It’s been eight years since I’ve had a match.

Baker Barnum: Jeez. I’m going to be straight with you, Tux: I think you are out of your mind.

Max: Yeah, I’m taking a risk here, I know.

Baker Barnum: This ain’t your old fed and you ain’t going to be fighting some local who owes his livelihood to you. There are stone cold killers in Black Pyramid. This Julian Mercury guy, he’s legit.

From what I’ve heard, Baker’s right. Mercury’s an enforcer from New York, brought in to help somebody stake their claim to Las Vegas while chaos reigns. You’d think that would be enough to keep him busy, but who knows, maybe exchanging knife-edge chops is how he unwinds. I make with the trash talk.

Max: Yeah, Julei Murk from Noo Yawk Citay. Coming to plant HIS Flag in MY Town. I’ll treat him like I do all the tourists, Baker: I’ll show him a good time- at a cost.

Baker Barnum: Yeah, well, best of luck to you, Tux. I know you need this.

I do. Jokes aside, my business runs on tourism. The quarantine ended that. This city, my HOME, has been walled off from the rest of the world. It was hard enough to keep running in competition with Uber and Lyft, now we’re all competing in a shrinking market. Baker doesn’t need to hear that, though. No need to review Microeconomics 101. He wants a sound bite, and I give him one that happens to be the truth.

Max: I do, Baker. This isn’t just about me, though. It’s about representing where you’re from. I was born in Las Vegas. I helped build it. I’ll likely die here. But that’s a long time coming, and it won’t be at the hands of Julie Murk. I’m gonna beat him, move past him, and keep moving on until I win Black Pyramid’s tourney, and collect that cool million for my troubles.

Baker says his goodbyes and hangs up. I do the same. The feeling has returned in my legs enough so that I can stand. I wobble to my feet and take a look at myself in the vanity’s mirror.

Usually when I do this I don’t recognize myself. I was a handsome guy back in the day. But the years have not been kind. My hairline’s receded, and what strands are left are brittle and sallow from too much peroxide. My nose is flat and crooked. My skin’s patchy and rashy as a result of tanning. So, yeah, I’m not turning heads anymore. But this morning, I do see a fighter; even if his latest victory was nothing more than getting out of bed.