“I’ve met plenty like him. Living off family cash, buying purses, sipping tea, chasing women all day. Not like me, I opened a shop at twenty using my own craft.”
He let out an exaggerated sigh, “What a shame. No matter how an old guy struggles, he’s still the same, long hated by his wife.”
“Next time I’ll stream something even crazier, just wait and see me teach this kind of kept pretty-boy how to act.”
The video stopped.
I actually laughed from anger.
Fritz Porter.
A name I gave him myself.
Five years earlier, during a charity school visit to the hills, I found him inside a leaking mud hut.
A sixteen-year-old boy curled on straw bedding, skin bruised deep purple from beatings.
Face sallow and thin, eyes packed with shame and despair, he couldn’t hide.
Back then, he didn’t even have a name.
He grabbed my sleeve and said, “Brother, I want to learn.”
I took him back to Nashville and named him Fritz, meaning “proud under the wide sky.”
I sent him to the finest art school and opened his tattoo shop with a ribbon cut when he finished.
Now he used the skill paid for by my money to carve these words into my skin, shame me online, and even set his sights on my woman.