Wrestling with the Devil

by Lex Luger

  Finally, my lawyers advised me that it was time to get busy and take care of all the community service hours I was obligated to fulfill. I was assigned to work at an animal shelter, which was at least a forty-five minute drive from where I was living in Buckhead. Without a driver’s license, this commute was going to be a real pain, especially with Atlanta traffic. I had to go five days a week, starting in June.

  We decided it would be best to find a temporary place for me to stay that was closer to the animal shelter, like a hotel where I could pay by the week. We found the perfect spot in Kennesaw, Georgia: an extended-stay hotel right by a Gold’s Gym, the Toucan tanning salon, and Supplement Depot, a sports nutrition store. I couldn’t believe it! Everything I needed to get back on track was lined up within walking distance of the hotel. And down the street was the Town Center Mall, which had plenty of restaurants.

  I stored all my furniture and moved into the hotel. I kept it simple: I had a suitcase, a rack of clothes, and my big-screen TV.

  Getting my community service behind me was going to be harder than it looked. I woke up early every weekday morning in order to get to the animal shelter on time for my ten-hour shift. There was no such thing as slacking off; I was being closely monitored. For the rest of the summer, I picked up poop, scrubbed and hosed down dog kennels, washed food dishes, and—worst of all—cleaned out cat cages. I did wear heavy gloves to protect myself from being scratched and bitten by the cats, but they always managed to leave their marks. They were a lot meaner than the dogs, hissing when I picked them up to disinfect their cages.

  I also did the laundry and moved furniture in the offices—you name it, I did it. To make things worse, it was a beastly Hotlanta summer (no pun intended).

  I’ve never worked that hard in my entire life. I was exhausted at the end of each day. When my friend would pick me up, he’d have a huge cup of iced lemonade mixed with vodka in one cup holder and my pills in the other. I’d unwind by getting high on the way home. It was difficult not being able to get high in the morning and staying sober all day, so I would get extra-high at night to make up for it. I always looked forward to the weekends, when I could get some extra rest and work out a little bit as well. I was too tired to do that during the week.

  On top of everything else, my right hip was starting to bother me all the time. I had noticed it when I was released from jail. It seemed to get worse after a few weeks of working at the animal shelter, especially since I was on my feet all day. I kept telling myself that once things got back to normal with my regular workout routine, my hip would be fine.

  Summers had always flown by for me before, but not this one. It dragged, and so did I. By August, I did something I had never done before—I stopped going to the gym altogether. Workouts had always been an integral part of my daily life.

  At other times in my life, I had never allowed doubt and uncertainty to chip away at my confidence. I’d just push them aside.

  Not this time. I was fighting discouragement at every turn. For the first time, I questioned my ability to accomplish my goals. It was never supposed to happen this way. I had planned to be wrestling by now.

  I was becoming more and more isolated in that hotel room. My emotions were churning inside of me.

  Off the coast of Florida, a tropical storm was starting to swirl as well. Hurricane Katrina was poised to make landfall and leave unbelievable destruction in its wake.

  The television was tuned to Fox News for coverage of the hurricane. It was so depressing to watch, and the weather outside didn’t help. The rain was coming down nonstop, obviously an effect of the storm that was pummeling Florida and the Gulf Coast.

  It was a Friday night, and I was alone in Kennesaw, far away from everyone, isolated from friends and family. No one was there to hang out with me; there were no constraints. So I decided to go in really deep. I doubled up on everything.

  I sat back on the couch and eventually passed out. And the dream began.

  It was incredibly real and vivid—the colors were dazzling, the clouds were vibrantly white, with more definition than I had ever seen. The people and everything surrounding me were extremely detailed.

  I slowly realized that I was lying in a casket with the top removed, set on the grass in a cemetery. All my family and friends were circled around the casket, and I could see them clearly. I did think it was odd that I was outdoors in an open casket, but I enjoyed looking at the sun and the beautiful clouds in the blue sky above. Based on the location of the sun, I figured it must be about 11 a.m. This seemingly perfect day was the day of my funeral.

  Then something changed. I thought, This is weird.

  I could still see the sky, but I wasn’t in the casket anymore. I was suspended just beneath the surface of glistening, clear water.

  Once again, I thought how strange this all was. What is going on here?

  I began to drop slowly, still facing upward. Everything around me became darker and darker, colder and colder. It seemed like I was in an endless free fall. Deeper and deeper I went.

  I didn’t know what was happening to me, but I was definitely becoming frightened. It wasn’t the fall itself that was terrifying me, but how deep I was going.

  There was no sound whatsoever. I finally hit the bottom, on my back, my body settling into muck.

  It was pitch-black and freezing cold. There’s no way out of here, I thought. It’s too far up for me to swim back to the top.

  My worst nightmare was coming true—I had always felt that the worst way to die was drowning. You’d be conscious, trying to breathe. It would take time to die. Now I found myself in that exact predicament.

  That’s when it hit me. I need to breathe. But there wasn’t any air to breathe down there. I desperately tried to hold my breath as long as I could to prevent the water from rushing into my lungs. My mind was racing; fear and panic set in. What do I do? What do I do?

  Then I began reasoning with myself.

  “Lex, just lie back. Let go. Don’t fight it. Breathe in, and it will all be over. Just relax and breathe in that water.”

  In my mind, I could feel the weight of all my bad decisions—and their tragic consequences—pressing down on me.

  “Look at what your life has become,” I told myself. “Just breathe in that water, and you won’t have to struggle anymore. If you don’t fight it, everything will be over before you know it.”

  I could feel myself beginning to relax. I was starting to give in, realizing that my whole life had been nothing more than a pipe dream. Is this all there is? You’re born, you live, then you die in the darkness, all alone?

  I guessed it was true. “Lie back, Lex,” I repeated to myself again. “Breathe it in.”

  But just as I was starting to let go, all of a sudden I felt a distinct presence down there with me. I didn’t know what it was, but I instinctively knew where to look for it. It was above me and to my left.

  The presence was undeniably real. Yet I was annoyed that it had disturbed me. I just wanted to lie back. But I couldn’t let it go; I had to find out what it was.

  With one last superhuman effort, I pushed with all my might. I fought to sit up in the muck, in hopes of seeing what had gotten my attention.

  Suddenly, I saw it—a tiny white speck, the size of a pinhole in the vast darkness, giving the merest hint of the most brilliant white light I’ve ever seen. I was craning my neck toward that light, and when I did, I realized that the brilliance was outside of the darkness that was trying to engulf me.

  What is that light? I wondered.

  Whatever it was, it saved my life.

  Just then, I realized what was happening and was terrified. My mind was racing, and my heart was pounding. I’ve got to do something. I’ve got to get out of here. The light seemed to empower me to fight back against the urge to let go.

  When I awoke on the couch, I was sitting straight up, looking toward the ceiling. I had never felt such pure fear before, not even when I was in the motorcycle accident.
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  Without realizing what I was doing, I raced across the hotel room and opened the drawer of the nightstand next to the bed. I grabbed the Gideon Bible inside and stared at it for a minute. Then I opened it up and began reading a few verses. I had never read a Bible before. Then I thought, Why am I doing this? so I tossed it against the wall. Still, what I had read calmed me.

  The next day I picked up the Bible again. I read through the first four chapters but got bogged down in chapter five by who was born and how long each person lived. I couldn’t pronounce many of the names. I don’t understand this at all.

  There was something else I didn’t understand. I had always been a sound sleeper and never remembered my dreams, except on rare occasions when I would recall a quick flash of what I had just dreamed. For the first thirty seconds after I woke, I might be able to describe one thing, but never an entire dream with the kind of detail that I had just experienced.

  I am certain that I overdosed that night in the Kennesaw hotel room. I believe I went through a life-and-death struggle at the bottom of that pond and survived.

  I had run out of pills; I had taken them all. When I called my drug supplier, I couldn’t get through to him. This is unusual, I thought. He always calls me right back. What I didn’t know was that he was in Florida and couldn’t get a signal.

  It was Sunday. I had no pills and no vodka, and I couldn’t buy any.

  I made the decision that I was going to ride things out. I wasn’t going to leave that hotel room until my head was clear and my body was completely detoxed. I had scared myself straight—at least for the moment.

  I began going to the gym twice a day and eating clean. I knew things had to change. I was determined to get in the best shape of my life.

  Don’t get me wrong: I hadn’t decided to give up drugs and alcohol forever. I just knew I had to lay off them for a while.

  Every month, I’d get my prescriptions filled and leave the newest full bottles of painkillers and muscle relaxers on display on the counter in front of an unopened bottle of vodka, to help reinforce my “mind over matter” challenge. I wasn’t an addict. I was going to prove that point to myself and anyone who might question it.

  When my drug dealer called me, I told him that I was working hard, getting ready for wrestling, and going straight for a while.

  “I’m happy to hear that, Lex,” he said. “I’ve been worried about you. You’ve been going through a lot of vodka and pills lately. I was getting concerned.”

  Okay, I did ask my dealer for some Deca and testosterone. When I combined those with my workouts over the next twelve weeks, my body exploded. I was big, muscular, and lean. I was thrilled. I felt my ninety-day extreme makeover was a rousing success.

  It was time to put myself back on display, to create a positive buzz through wrestling’s independent circuit. My first choice was an operation based out of Winnipeg, Canada, which would involve two different appearances—one in a non-wrestling capacity in late October, and the other as my return to the ring for a wrestling debut in early December. My second choice was a regional independent in Rome, Georgia, an hour outside of Atlanta, a week before Christmas.

  Everything went smoothly during my initial brief visit north of the border, and the return for my wrestling debut was greatly anticipated. It wasn’t long before the big weekend arrived. I grinned with excitement as my plane landed at Winnipeg International Airport. Once again, everything was problem-free—until I handed the customs official my passport. When he ran my name through the computer, an active warrant for my arrest popped up for Cobb County, Georgia. I didn’t see that one coming. I was promptly shuffled off to a private side room with my luggage in tow. The customs officials explained that I was going to be denied access to Canada because of my outstanding warrant. I spent the next few hours undergoing a very thorough strip search of my person and a detailed examination of all my belongings. Then I was escorted to the tarmac by two armed Canadian border patrol officers for a flight back to Atlanta, where Cobb County law enforcement would be waiting for me when I got off the plane. It wasn’t a direct flight; my plane was making a brief stopover in Minneapolis before continuing to Atlanta. There went my much-anticipated wrestling debut.

  I was extremely disappointed, but I figured that when I landed at the Atlanta airport, I’d turn myself in to the Cobb County police, then quickly bail myself out of jail before returning to the hotel to regroup.

  I never would have guessed what was about to happen next.

  When our plane rolled up to the gate in Minneapolis, I couldn’t help but notice a large fleet of law enforcement vehicles on the tarmac, with lights flashing. I wondered what all the commotion was about.

  I was seated about halfway down the aisle, in a row by myself. The passengers around me who needed to catch connecting flights began to stand up and get ready to deplane. Then the captain’s voice came over the intercom. He asked everyone to please return to their seats and remain seated.

  At that point, six of the biggest US customs agents I have ever laid eyes on boarded the plane and slowly began walking toward the back, staring straight ahead. One walked past my seat and continued on, followed by a second one who glanced over at me. I knew it right then. They were on the plane for me. A third agent walked past me. I was now surrounded—three men behind me and the other three in front of me.

  One of the agents behind me tapped me on the shoulder.

  “Is that your carry-on luggage?” he asked, pointing to the bag sitting at my feet.

  “Yes, sir,” I said.

  “Do you have anything else?”

  “No, sir.”

  They asked me to get up and began walking me down the aisle toward the exit. It must have been quite a sight for the other passengers to see a guy my size, wearing a sleeveless shirt, being slowly escorted off the plane by customs agents. I’m sure some of the other passengers were wondering if I was some kind of axe murderer being taken away.

  Just outside the exit door, they stopped and handcuffed my hands and feet, then added one-piece reinforced cuffs on top of the standard cuffs to further restrain me. Now it was impossible for me to walk.

  They had to carry me down the steps. It was frigid in Minneapolis, something like six below zero. When we got to the ground, they quickly shoved me into the back of a waiting black Suburban.

  Once again, I had inadvertently created a scene. Passengers were peering out of the plane, and spectators inside the terminal were crowded by the windows, pointing in our direction. Inside, I was whisked off to a remote area of the airport, where the customs agents conducted a strip search on me and went through my bags thoroughly.

  When the agents had finished combing through everything, they uncuffed me and turned me over to local authorities. The Hennepin County police handcuffed me once again and took me to the county jail, located beside the Target Center in Minneapolis, a place where I had wrestled many times before.

  On the way to the jail, the local police officers told me they were surprised that the customs agents had taken me off the plane for a nonviolent criminal offense. As it turned out, the feds were practicing how to respond to a terrorism threat in an airport. They had taken the opportunity to use me as their guinea pig. Since I had an active warrant, they had every right to do so.

  I arrived at the Hennepin County Jail and was placed in isolation for the first day. I asked to be placed in the general population the following day and immediately began “banking” so I could get extra food. I was detained in Minneapolis for two weeks before I was extradited back to Cobb County on December 21, 2005. I wanted to get back home as fast as I could to straighten this whole thing out. I figured I would definitely be out before Christmas.

  It was already early evening by the time we landed in Atlanta. Once again, I had a welcoming committee ready to take me to the Cobb County Jail. By now, I certainly knew the drill. I learned that my arrest warrant was for not checking in with my probation officer. It hadn’t been intentional. I was so bus
y getting ready for my debut in Canada that it had simply slipped my mind.

  Because I had been up and traveling since 4 a.m., I wasn’t in a cheery mood. I was exhausted. I was taken to my cell inside the infirmary for my routine physical. Just as the medical staff walked out and shut the door, I noticed a tall man walking up to the Plexiglas window of my cell.

  He was carrying something.

  “I’d like to speak with you for a moment,” he said to me.

  “What do you want?” I responded curtly. “I’m really not in the mood to talk to anybody.” All I wanted to do was lie down.

  “It will only take a moment. My name’s Steve. I’m one of the jail chaplains.”

  “I don’t care who you are,” I replied. “I don’t feel like talking right now.”

  “Well, can I at least give you this?” He started to hand me something through the food slot in the door, where the trays are passed through.

  For a fleeting moment, I actually thought about slamming the slot door down on the guy’s fingers, but I didn’t. I snatched his gift without looking at it, threw it on the floor, then went back to my bed.

  I didn’t care that he was trying to be nice to me. And as for the gift? I didn’t realize it was a Bible until the next morning.

  I was transferred from the jail infirmary into a general population pod.

  A few days later I appeared before the same Cobb County judge who had sentenced me originally. I was hoping to get home for the holidays. Unfortunately, it didn’t go down that way. The judge showed me no leniency whatsoever. He explained that it was my responsibility to make all my monthly appointments with my probation officer; I had missed my last two. He also explained that as part of my probation, any time I left the state—or especially the country—I needed to have all my paperwork done properly, which I had not done for my trip to Canada. “Probation is a privilege, not a given,” he sternly lectured me. “I’m going to give you four months in the Cobb County Jail with one month taken off for time served in Minneapolis. If I see you again, you will spend the remainder of your five-year sentence in our state prison system. Am I clear on that?”