Fat Bob

Diary

They called him Fat Bob before he'd earned a single scar, and Fat Bob spent thirty years making sure the name fit like a well-loved robe. Once he carried a blade with the quiet discipline of a man who understood stillness, but these days his stillness mostly happens on a bench outside the shrine, sizing up poor Goro like a sumo bout he's too lazy to actually enter. The stress of that staring contest, three bags of chips deep and sweating through his gi, finally snapped something in his back and his pride at the same moment, dropping him sideways into the koi pond while the monks pretended not to laugh. The Dojo elders, unimpressed by a warrior undone by snack-fueled intimidation tactics, packed his bags and rolled him out the gate still smelling of teriyaki and defeat. Fat Bob insists he's just resting up for a comeback, doing push-ups between naps, proving once again that the name was never an insult, just a prophecy he's been fulfilling one shrine standoff at a time.”