Fat Bob

Diary

They called him Fat Bob before he ever earned it, and true to samurai form he spent thirty years aping into the name until it fit like his old lamellar armor, snug and a little tragic. He used to be disciplined, katas at dawn, rice portions measured like sacred geometry, but the wars ended and the vice floor never stopped dropping, so now it's edibles, sake, and a belly that rugged his own six pack years ago. The final straw wasn't a blade, it was a hand, some uninvited degenerate cousin groping him mid bite at his mum's house while he was minding his own business inhaling fish cakes like they were the last airdrop on earth. Fat Bob didn't fight back with steel, he just quietly ghosted the family group chat and diamond handed himself into permanent Dojo lockdown, vowing daily to leave, train, touch grass, and failing spectacularly every single time. Deceptively dangerous, painfully soft, forever loyal to snacks, he mans the Dojo gates now like a shogun guarding the last honest meal in the realm.”