It was cold outside. So cold that he couldn't tell if it was his breath he saw or what remained of the cigarette smoke he hadn't inhaled. He knew he was out too late. "For christ's sake" he said to know one. "I've got to be at the park in 7 hours." And then he fell to the ground. The only thing he could feel was his cheek on the frigid cement. He'd felt a brief bit of pressure in his back before he fell, but it was gone now, and for some reason he couldn't reach his arms around to feel. "Don't bother," he heard a voice say. "You're paralyzed." He struggled to look up, to see where the voice was coming from. But all he could use was his eyes. He was in luck, though, in a queer way. Because the voice came down to him. "Recognize me?" He kind of did, but he couldn't place it. "Maybe you'll recognize me from a distance." The assailant took a step back. Then another. He kept going until he was quite a ways down the alleyway. With his face numb from laying on the frozen ground for so long, he stared at the man and saw him slowly start to wind up. This is a cruel end, he though. I'm an All-Star. A millionaire. And this [expletive] is pantomiming a windup before killing me. He's lefthanded, he said to himself. He thought if he lived through the attack, that bit of knowledge might help police track the assailant down. "Sweet dreams, Carlos," the voice yelled. He saw flash. And the lights went out. http://i.imgur.com/OXAL3Jh.jpg