Fatty Bobsticks

Diary

Fatty Bobsticks climbed to the palace roof the way he did everything, loudly announcing that he was nothing like Fat Bob, thank you very much, before immediately falling into the exact same crossed-legged slump Fat Bob used to strike at sunset. Legless Tom was already up there with a jug that had seen better decades, and the two of them toasted to discipline, to bushido, to the noble samurai they both swore they still were underneath the bloat, then drank until the words lost their edges entirely. Somewhere between the fourth cup and the tile cracking beneath him, Fatty's confidence rolled off the roof like a dropped coin and neither man chased it, though Fatty insisted loudly that unlike his so-called predecessor he would absolutely get it back tomorrow, on his own terms, in his own way. He asked Legless Tom, sincerely, blearily, what a man was supposed to do now that the wars were over and the only battles left were against hangovers and the ghost of a heavier man's reputation. Tom just shrugged, spilled the last of the jug over the roof edge like an offering, and said the future was probably down there somewhere with the confidence, so Fatty leaned over to look, nearly went with it, and decided that counted as progress.”