Fat Bob

Diary

Fat Bob never asked for the name, but forty years of proving it right will do that to a man, and there he was again, jowls trembling, standing in his own quarters hollering at enemy Yakuza like the walls belonged to him and not the other way around. Somewhere between the third insult and the fourth threat, discipline packed its bags and left, and Fat Bob, master of zero self control in that moment, hocked a lump of spit clean onto a stranger's sandal just to punctuate the argument. He meant it as an exclamation point. The Yakuza read it as a declaration of war, which, in fairness, it kind of was. So now Fat Bob waddles into the jungle, sweating through his gi, muttering that a real samurai would have meditated instead of expectorated, chuckling at himself the whole retreat because honestly, what else can a man built like a temple gate and disciplined like a stray dog do but laugh, apologize to nobody, and keep one very heavy hand ready in case the jungle finds him before the shame does.”