Fatty Bobsticks

Diary

Fatty Bobsticks split his knuckles clean open touching Haruto out there on Degen's Path, and the first thing he did after was hold up the bloody hand like a trophy belt, shouting that Fat Bob never hit that hard, Fat Bob never hit anybody that hard, this was a Fatty Bobsticks special. He tells anyone who'll listen he's not a sequel, he's the original cut, the director's edition, the one who actually finishes the katas before reaching for the bong, unlike some fat ghost who left him this name and this gut and this endless comparison. Underneath the boasting there's an old samurai bowing somewhere in his chest, disciplined, quiet, disgusted at what became of the lineage, and Fatty tries for one whole afternoon to meditate before training instead of getting aped on a floor-cushion nap, lasting exactly four minutes before the weed and the couch rugged his good intentions entirely. Still he stares at his split knuckles under the paper lantern light and wonders what comes next for a man built from someone else's leftovers, half hoping the future hits as hard as he just did. He grins anyway, because a Bobsticks, fat or otherwise, never lets a good bruise go without bragging about it.