Fatty Bobsticks

Diary

Fatty Bobsticks will tell you, loudly and often, that he is not Fat Bob's shadow, he is the main event, thank you very much, and he proved it under the red glow of the Nagasaki Lantern Festival by pulling off a blackmail scheme so gloriously stupid that his own nipples started bleeding from the chafing of his victory sprint through the paper lanterns. Once he trained under masters who taught restraint, breath control, the quiet honor of a blade sheathed before it was drawn, now he trains under the neon math of leverage, extorting a childhood friend over a gambling debt photo while insisting this was strategy, not desperation, and definitely not something Fat Bob would ever be clever enough to pull off. The old discipline flickered in him for one shining second, right before the festival crowd, when he almost apologized, almost folded his hands and bowed the way his sensei taught him, but the thrill of the shakedown and the crunch of yen in his fist rugged that impulse instantly. He limped home shirtless, lanterns bobbing behind him like tiny mocking suns, nipples raw, wallet fatter, dignity somewhere on the cobblestones he refuses to go back for. Say what you want about Fat Bob's legacy, Fatty Bobsticks bled for this win, literally, and he wants that on the record as entirely, gloriously his own.