Fat Bob

Diary

They called him Fat Bob before he ever earned it, some cruel drill sergeant's joke back when he was just a lean recruit with big ambitions, and Bob spent thirty years turning that insult into scripture, one dumpling and one lost bet at a time. The courtesans outside the Dojo knew a soft mark when they saw one, all silk sleeves and honeyed laughter, needling him about his belly and his empty coin purse, testing whether the old bushido in him had drowned completely in sake and ramen broth. He stood there sweating, grinning, feeling the familiar tug toward one more drink and one more flirtation that would rug his discipline entirely, and something ancient and stubborn in his gut simply refused to bend. He walked away untouched, unbought, unmoved, which by his own generous accounting counts as the single greatest victory of his career, degen or otherwise. Now he tells the story nightly over cups he absolutely should not be drinking, chest puffed with pride, already losing the next round of the same old battle before the tale even ends.”