On the Fritz

Chapter 1 - Part 2

The pain in his ribs was healing poorly. Rafael knew this because, every time he hung out with his friend Christian, he'd laugh and his entire chest would ache. He knew this was bad because Christian was not even remotely funny.

"Don't know why you let him do it," Christian said to Rafael's laptop screen, clicking through his newest edits to Hung Up. "Just stop showing up, then you won't get your head kicked in. Easy."

"But then he wins," Rafael countered. This was a real issue for him; the thought of Fritz's smug face walking off without so much as a kick to the shins was unbearable.

"You couldn't pay someone to beat him up on your behalf?" Christian asked. "Vinny Anahera would probably do it for a 12 pack of Heinekens. Least then Fritz would get some real damage."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence," Rafael said back, grabbing the screen of his laptop to turn it back towards him. "I'll get him, Christian. I'll get him."

"No, Rafael, you will not get him. I don't even know how he gets off so easy!" Christian enthused. "You're the same height, too. You'd think you'd have so much pent-up rage that you could manage a good kick to the gonads, but apparently not, eh?" Rafael shot Christian a withering look, which Christian was far beyond desensitised too, so Rafael narrowed his eyes and paused the playing video.

"We're not the same size," he said. "Fritz is massive. Way taller than me."

"He definitely isn't," Christian concluded, pressing play again. "Nah. Definitely not."

Rafael chose to let the conversation end there. Christian was totally being unsupportive, but the grim thing was, Rafael could see why. He was fighting an uphill battle that was horribly unsustainable in his own life despite only being a minor inconvenience in Fritz's. Something had to give.

But maybe, if he could win a fight, the dynamic would shift. "Winning" was always a vague concept - if you were both sustaining damages, was there truly a winner? Perhaps, though, if he could get Fritz in the nuts like Christian suggested, Rafael could be on top for once. Besides, Rafael liked the idea of Fritz looking at his crotch and thinking of him.

He thought hard about it for the rest of his filmmaking class and continued on this train of thought through lunch. While Christian and their mutual friend Thomas talked a mile a minute about some TV show Rafael had been too busy to get into, he pensively studied the bulgur wheat in his container of tabbouleh and wondered how he'd tip the scales in his favour.

His physique wasn't impressive enough to rely on strength alone - Fritz was a huge six feet of muscle mass, and Rafael was a microscopic 5'11". It would never work.

But believe it or not, Rafael had other qualities. Unfortunately, most of them involved Premiere Pro or Photoshop, and while the idea of Photoshopping Fritz into a compromising situation was certainly laughable, he doubted it would hit hard enough.

He could always pull a total 180 on Fritz, crying to the school principal about how Fritz had made his life a living hell, but that was a complete cop out and would only make it worse. Fritz had an impressive collection of friends far more buff than he was, and Rafael had a hard enough time stomaching the bruises he was already getting.

If it isn't broke, he thought to himself as he forked another mouthful of tabbouleh, don't get his 200-pound friends on the rugby team involved.

"Someone's watching you," Rafael heard, and he looked up to find Christian and Thomas glaring across the pavilion. He followed their gaze and ended up looking at Fritz, who stood at the edge of his group of friends and rocked back and forth on his heels, and the two of them locked eyes almost instantly. Rafael inevitably panicked, dropping his fork and scattering tabbouleh over his shorts.