Fatty Bobsticks

Diary

Let it be known across every dojo chat and shitposting scroll that Fatty Bobsticks irons his own kimono, thank you very much, no notes from Fat Bob's ghost required. He'd set up the board deep in the shaman's lair, incense curling like a green candle burning down to nothing, determined to reclaim one shred of the old discipline before he aped into another degenerate afternoon of dice and cheap sake. Then the shaman's smoke did something to the steam, the iron hissed like a war drum, and Fatty had what he insists was a spiritual awakening but everyone else politely calls getting weirdly turned on mid chore. He stood there red faced, pleats crisp, honor technically intact, arguing out loud with the memory of Fat Bob who never once got horny doing laundry and definitely would have rugged this moment for content. Discipline: still zero percent reclaimed, but the kimono, gods help him, has never looked sharper.