Fatty Bobsticks

Diary

Fatty Bobsticks was not, he will remind you loudly and often, just Fat Bob with better abs and worse luck, though the beach where some nameless shouter torched his bags might beg to differ. One minute he was mid-brag about his stack, floor sweeping up nicely, sun on his belly like a rice cake left out to bloat, and the next some voice cracked across the sand like thunder and his wallet emptied faster than a sake cup at last call. He swears it was a scam, a rug, a cosmic foul, definitely not karma catching up to a man who once swore off attachment to worldly things back when he still wore the topknot and meant it. Now he retreats into the jungle, machete in one hand, half a joint in the other, muttering that Fat Bob never had the guts to vanish into green like this, never had the discipline to sit still and meditate on his losses for even five minutes before reaching for the stash. He hasn't sat still yet either, to be fair, but he insists this silence is different, this failure is his own, thank you very much, and somewhere under the vines he is almost, almost finding the calm his old masters begged him to keep.