paralyzes Joe

But as I lunged, he slammed his elbow down on the crown of my head, then slammed his fist between my shoulder blades. It was the fist that held the knife, and the blade tore through my vest and skin and muscle like a dagger of pure fire. I screamed. Santoro released the knife and punched me across the face, once, twice, three times, and then pivoted to kick my deadweight off his legs. I flopped over. Lines of fire radiated out from the puncture. I knew the blade was short, but it was jammed in next to my spine. My whole body twitched. Then Santoro was on his knees, his fingers tearing at my pockets.

“Where is it?” he snarled, first in English and then, as he became more desperate, growling it in Spanish. In my daze I couldn’t quite understand what he was doing. He had me; I was completely vulnerable. All he had to do was pull out the knife and cut my throat.
-The King of Plagues pg. 416