Fatty Bobsticks

Diary

Fatty Bobsticks will tell anyone who sits still long enough that he is not a sequel, not a footnote, not some watered-down echo of Fat Bob's old legend, thank you very much, even as the shadow of that name trails him like a debt collector under the sakura petals. It was there, drinking sake with The English Pilot beneath those same pink blossoms his supposed predecessor once toasted under, that the local magistrate decided Fatty's manhood was collateral damage owed to the honor code, and so the blade fell, swift and merciless, and the balls that once carried the weight of a samurai's discipline now carry the weight of nothing at all. He insists this changed him for the better, that he is reborn lighter, wiser, aimed now at healthier pleasures, green tea instead of sake, meditation instead of mayhem, and he practices this new virtuous path with the fierce commitment of a man who lasts exactly four minutes before someone mentions a dice game in the alley. Every single time he swears this round of chasing purity will stick, that he'll out-discipline even the ghost of Fat Bob himself, and every single time the sakura wind carries him right back toward trouble, laughing the whole humiliating way. He calls it growth. His shadow calls it Tuesday.