LEAD

Paul shut the front door, groaning as he stooped down slowly to remove his boots. His knees were stiff and sore. Standing back up just as slowly and painfully, he stumbled through the living room to the kitchen, gently massaging the small of his back as he went. Grabbing a beer from the fridge, he went back to the couch, lowering himself down onto his back at an angle which required minimal use of the knees.
Sitting up slightly so he could take a drink, he reached down behind the cushions for the remote. Work was hell. As always, he was completely drained of energy after nine hours of heavy lifting. By 9:00 PM, he felt like lead. It was as though gravity had focused all of its attention on him, dragging him down until there was no hope of getting back up. After work, all he wanted was his couch and a beer and the comfort that he wouldn't have to get back up again until morning. He clicked on the TV just in time to see Chris Jericho coming down to the ring.
He knew professional wrestling was stupid and sophomoric, but it was nevertheless entertaining, and he watched it every Monday night. Maybe ten years ago, when he'd had a smaller gut and a lot more hair, he might have pursued a career in wrestling. Paul had imagined himself in the ring a thousand times before, as he'd lain heavy and motionless on the couch. He had heard the crowd cheering for him as he approached the ring. He had seen their awe-stricken faces as he got back to his feet after being slammed. He had been blinded by the flashbulbs of cameras as he'd climbed to the top turnbuckle and leapt off, soaring through the air like a real-life superhero, performing his trademark Flipping Elbow.
But he'd missed his chance, opting to pursue a career in product distribution instead. Every night for the past ten years he had come home after work to a couch, a beer, and unbeatable exhaustion. Paul glanced over to his brother's old word processor. Maybe he could still get a job in wrestling: not as a performer, but as a scriptwriter. Wrestlers were a lot like superheroes, so maybe he could alter his comic book characters to fit in the wrestling world.
Paul had come up with the idea for his superhero team, The Fallout Brigade, in high school, and had been imagining the adventures of his creations ever since. He had always meant to write down the stories he came up with and send them in to a publisher, but had never gathered up the willpower to actually do it. Every night, on the bus ride home from work, he had promised himself that tonight would be the night. He would fire up the word processor and begin documenting The Fallout Brigade's never-ending struggle against the Order of the Grey Cloak. But every night, the beer, the couch, and the unbearable heaviness had defeated him.
He looked back to the word processor again, its blank screen dark and lifeless. The beer had become an unliftable burden, and his head refused to leave the pillow. His writing would have to wait; he would start tomorrow. Glancing back to the television, he watched as Jericho locked in a Boston Crab submission hold onto his opponent. Paul shut his eyes, sinking deeper into the cushions, and in a few moments was gone, dreaming of suplexes and powerbombs.