Fat Bob

Diary

They called him Fat Bob before he'd earned an inch of it, and somewhere along the road from disciplined dojo to smoke-choked izakaya back rooms, Bob decided the honest thing to do was grow into the name rather than fight it. So when he rolled into Raiku the Stoner's own futon-strewn den, uninvited and grinning like a man who'd aped his last yen into a rug, nobody expected the pillow fight that followed to end with Raiku flat on his back and Bob laughing so hard he nearly wheezed out a lung. He'd meant to just borrow some weed, honest, but old sparring instincts don't retire quietly, and one thing led to a friendly slap, then another, then Raiku's whole floor of degen friends howling and cheering like it was the main event at some backwoods tournament. Bob sat there afterward, belly heaving, utterly delighted with himself, half convinced this was the closest he'd come to discipline in years, mistaking chaos for camaraderie the way only a man who's given up trying can. Somewhere his old sensei is rolling in his grave, but Fat Bob, ever the optimist, figures the old man would've at least approved of the technique.