Fatty Bobsticks

Diary

Fatty Bobsticks knelt at midnight in the temple yard, hands folded, doing the one disciplined thing left in his repertoire, a prayer for a steadier tomorrow, when a blade found his ribs like it had a grudge against sequels. He didn't scream, because Fat Bob never screamed, and Fatty Bobsticks will remind you until the sun comes up that he is nothing like Fat Bob, thank you very much, even as he clutches the same wound in the same spot his old man's shadow always clutched in the legends. Bleeding onto the shrine steps, he made a vow to meditate on the mystery of who stabbed him, to sit with the pain like a true bushi, and instead reached for the sake gourd tucked in his sash before the vow even finished leaving his mouth. He toasted the moon, the wound, and the ghost of Fat Bob looming behind him with arms crossed, insisting this is a completely original tragedy, unrelated, thank you, and please stop smirking. By dawn the prayer beads had rolled into a puddle of rice wine, discipline officially rugged again, and Fatty Bobsticks grinned through the pain like a man who'd just proven, spectacularly, that he is absolutely his own disaster.