Fatty Bobsticks

Diary

Fatty Bobsticks will tell you, unprompted and at volume, that he is nothing like Fat Bob, thank you very much, even as he inherits the same swagger, the same gut, the same appetite for chaos dressed up as confidence. Long before the name meant anything on these streets, he was just an overconfident man with a blade he barely respected and a master he respected even less, and one humid night he sold that master out in the open road like he was flipping a bad JPEG for whatever he could get. The Dojo watched the betrayal happen and, in the twisted logic of degenerate honor, decided that took a certain kind of nerve, so instead of exile they gave him a seat at the table and a nickname he never asked for. He still argues with the ghost of Fat Bob every morning, insisting he trains harder, diets better, discipline is right around the corner, bro, promise, right after this one blunt and this one nap. The Dojo just laughs, because they know a man who bet everything on himself once and won is exactly the kind of fool who will do it again.