The Life & Death of Christofer Phitzgerald

The Life & Death of Christofer Phitzgerald

The Life & Death of Christofer Phitzgerald

On the day of his death, Chris Fit stood with his chest puffed and a cow femur behind his back facing down a 50-man squad of the Mexican army.

The Mexican army men stood shoulder to shoulder with their guns drawn, fanning out from either side of a large tank.

“My name is Chris Fit! I’m leading a resistance force against the Vegans in the East and the West. My forces are strong, but I insist that the great country of Mexico lend me that tank.”

“What do we do here, General?” a soldier asked.

“Hold fire. I’ll go talk him down,” General Castillo said and approached Chris Fit.

The Mexican soldiers lowered their weapons.

“Sir, I only plan to tell you once. Stand down,” General Castillo said. “You are trespassing on Mexican military property. I’m authorized to use deadly force if you don’t comply.”

“I’m not leaving here without that tank,” Chris Fit said.

Chris Fit had grown used to not taking no for an answer. And while it’s possible had the rookie soldier not mistaken the cow femur in Chris Fit’s hand for a rifle and began to shoot that Chris may have walked away from this alive, however, it’s more likely that Chris Fit was destined for a death like his from the very beginning. Though, he wasn’t always as stubborn and his ego wasn’t always as big.

Chris Fit was born Christofer Phitzgerald to poor, uneducated, lazy, mean parents in a Southern California trailer park. His father spent most of his time watching daytime television and drinking cheap beer. He’d been living on fraudulent disability checks for the past twenty years. His mother spent most of her time sunbathing on the patch of AstroTurf outside the trailer wearing a swimsuit that should have been retired long ago. She didn’t work nor do anything productive a single day of her life. Both of their lives were a culmination of their bad choices. They ended up poor and uneducated because they were lazy. Their meanness, however, that was genetic.

Christofer was the fat kid growing up. It was likely the result of the combination of the family’s consistent diet of fast or frozen food and his parent’s disinterest and neglect.

Growing up, “no” was a word Christofer became used to. It seemed to be the answer to all of his questions.

“Can we go play at the park?”

“NO!!!”

“Can we go on a vacation this summer?”

“NO!!!”

“Are we going to play board games together tonight?”

NO!!!”

“Do you love me?”

Naturally, Christofer felt sad and lonely. At school, he was the easy target. The only thing the other kids wanted to do with him was laugh. With nothing but time to himself, Christofer did well in school and eventually was offered a full-ride scholarship to college.

As he grew up, he promised himself he wouldn’t end up like his parents. The laziness was something he knew had full control over. In college, Christofer decided to work hard. He studied nutrition and kinesiology. He started exercising and eating healthy. By the time graduation rolled around he was in excellent shape.

He had a good education, a steady job at the college gym, and high hopes for his future. He was making friends, going on dates with attractive girls. He’d finally felt like he had rid himself of all the painful ties he had to his family but his given name.

“So your name, Chistofer with an F and Phitzgerald with a PH,” his roommate said one day. “It’s like your folks dropped all the letters on the ground and came real close to putting them back in the right order.”

His roommate started laughing. It all brought back a rush of memories and feelings that Christofer thought he had escaped.

“FUCK YOU! You hear me?” Christofer said. “FUCK YOU!”

“Wo man, settle down. It was just a joke. Didn’t mean anything by it. Sorry, dude.”

“No, fuck you. You’re not my friend. I’ve only kept you around this long for your car anyways. You’re a short, ugly annoying fuck and I can’t stand it anymore.”

The Phitzgerald meanness, after all, was genetic. But, after he calmed down and kicked his roommate out, Christofer realized he did have a point – his name was sort of weird. So after finding a passion for Crossfit and uncovering some old notes from a marketing course, Chrisofer Phitzgerald legally changed his name to Chris Fit with the hopes of opening a CrossFit gym of his own some day.

Chris Fit found a job at a local CrossFit gym. His main duties were selling memberships and cleaning up the gym. It wasn’t exactly his dream, but it seemed like he was well on his way to it.

The owner of the gym was a mentor to Chris Fit. He taught him the in’s and out’s of running a gym and everything he knew about Crossfit and the Paleo diet. Chris Fit listened and observed and took it all in.

“You think you’d ever let me run the gym?” Chris Fit asked his mentor.

The mentor smiled and patted Chris on the back.

“It’d be my pleasure, but I’ve promised the gym to my son,” he said. “Let me tell you, if I had no children, the gym would be all yours.”

The news devastated Chris Fit, but his devastation quickly turned to rage. He knew there was nothing more his mentor could teach him. And there was no chance he could ever redeem himself in Chris’s eyes.

“Think you could spot me on the bench? I’m going to try some heavy weight.” The mentor asked Chris Fit as they were closing up one afternoon.

Chris Fit followed him to the bench press.

“Alright, I’m going for five here,” the mentor said. “You ready?”

The mentor hoisted the bar off the rack, lowered it to his chest and heaved it back up. One.

He lowered it and raised it again with a bit more strain. Two.

He lowered it and raised it again, slower still. Three.

He lowered the bar and began to press it back up for a fourth rep. He was frozen at the midpoint, veins popping out of his arms. He was gritting his teeth. His face was growing red.

“Chris! Up!” he grunted.

Chris Fit stood over him with his hands clasped behind his back, silent and staring.

“Chris- ple—!”

The mentor’s arms gave out and the heavy bar crashed down on his chest and rolled back, crushing his neck almost instantly.

Chris Fit slowly walked to the gym’s phone and called the ambulance. His mentor was declared dead on the scene.

“Stand down or my men will shoot,” General Castillo said.

“You can’t shoot me! No one can!” Chris said. “I’m unstoppable. The tank – it’s best you hand it over before I shoot all of you.”

General Castillo headed back to his men.

“Stay alert, everyone. He may be armed,” Castillo said. “Keep an eye on this guy. Something’s not right with him.”

Chris Fit’s mentor’s son came in to run the gym shortly after his father’s death. Chris Fit hated him. The two didn’t talk much.

He wasn’t as interested in Crossfit as his father was. Most of his time was spent in the back office crunching numbers and trying to figure out how to increase membership sales.

Chris Fit’s rage increased with each passing day. He wanted the gym so badly. He was willing to go to any lengths to get it.

And finally, one day, the mentor’s son emerged from his back office and asked Chris Fit for a spot. It was like a dream come true for him.

“I’m not trying for anything crazy heavy here. Just not used to the bench press. Better to play it safe, right?” the mentor’s son said and got onto the bench.

He lowered the bar and raised it. One.

He lowered and raised it again. Two.

He continued for ten reps, racked the bar, and sat up.

“Give me a minute, I think I’ll do another set,” he said.

After a short rest he laid back down and raised the bar. Chris Fit stood behind him, his fury growing. The mentor’s son knocked out the first seven reps with ease. On the eighth he began to struggle. He was stuck trying to raise the bar. His breathing was heavy and he pushed it up a bit, but not far.

“Okay, Chris. Think I need a hand now,” he said.

Chris Fit stood there with his hands behind his back waiting for him to drop the bar.

He did and it hit his chest with a thud and rolled to his neck. He coughed and pleaded for help. He squirmed under the weight of the bar and some of the plates fell off to the ground. The bar was still on his neck, but it wasn’t heavy enough to kill him. Chris Fit realized this. He grabbed the bar with both hands and pressed down. The son gurgled and choked. His face grew blue and eyes bulged until the last breath left him. Chris Fit didn’t call an ambulance this time. He simply left the building.

“You fucks listen to me!” Chris Fit yelled to the Mexican army. “No one leaves here until I’m on my way to San Francisco with that fucking tank!”

He stomped his foot and raised the cow femur high above his head.

“He’s got a gun!” one of the soldiers shouted.

A rookie soldier fired and it started a chain reaction. Bullets flew towards Chris Fit. He held onto the cow bone above his head, which was mistaken for a rifle, until he collapsed to the ground in a bloody heap.

General Castillo made his way to the body. Chris Fit was dead. He was covered in blood and bullet holes. The cow bone had fallen on top of his head.

“Whoops,” Castillo said. “What a bone head.”