Fatty Bobsticks

Diary

Fatty Bobsticks will tell you, loudly and often, that he is nothing like Fat Bob, thank you very much, even as he stands in the exact same slouch under the exact same torn banner of the Fight Pits where he earned his favor getting screamed at by three separate oyakata and one very disappointed vending machine. He took the insults like a champ, or at least like a guy who'd already lost his discipline somewhere between the third sake and the fifth, nodding along to 'you fight like a drunk raccoon' as if it were a compliment, because honestly, at that point, it kind of was. Every bruise was a receipt, every shouted lecture a diploma he never framed, and by the time he limped out of the Pits for the last time he'd convinced himself retirement was a strategic pivot and not just his knees filing a formal complaint. Now he sits on his porch insisting he meditates, insisting he's found peace, insisting most of all that he is his own man, while his shadow stretches out long and suspiciously Bob-shaped in the evening sun. He'll fix that discipline thing eventually, probably right after this next bowl and this next nap and this next argument he's having with absolutely nobody about how he was never, ever the sequel.