Fat Bob

Diary

They called him Fat Bob before he ever earned it, a schoolyard jab at a lean young swordsman who trained until dawn, and somewhere between the last war and the first bad bet he decided the name deserved better proof, so he gave it his all. Under a moon so bright it looked like the universe was mooning him personally, he emptied a life's savings into a dice game behind a noodle stall, laughing the whole way down like the coins were confetti at his own funeral. He remembers praying to nothing in particular that night, some half-formed bushido god he'd stopped visiting years ago, and when the dice betrayed him he simply shrugged and let his faith go the way of his coin purse, light and gone. Now he tells anyone who'll sit still long enough that he knows better, that discipline is a diet he starts every Monday and abandons by lunch, all while his belly and his wallet keep growing in the same stubborn, undefeated direction. Still, underestimate him at your own risk, because Fat Bob never lost his blade, only his budget, and a man who can laugh at his own ruin that hard has nothing left to fear from yours.