Fatty Bobsticks

Diary

Fatty Bobsticks will tell you, unprompted and often mid-sentence, that he is not a sequel, not a remix, not Fat Bob's leftover katana with a worse haircut, thank you very much. But the night he betrayed his family inside the Dojo, folding under pressure like a lawn chair at a summer barbecue, even he had to admit the ghost of Fat Bob was standing right behind him, arms crossed, unimpressed. His nerve left him first, then his appetite, which for a man of his proportions was practically a religious event, and for three days he sat in the corner of the training hall whispering apologies to rice bowls that could not forgive him. Discipline, he swore, discipline was the comeback arc, he would meditate at dawn, drink nothing stronger than tea, become a new legend entirely his own. He lasted one dawn, one cup of tea, and one aggressive nap before he was back on the sake and the floor was rugged out from under his resolve yet again. Still, somehow, the Dojo forgave him, respect crawling back into his corner like a stray cat that knows a soft touch when it smells one, and Fatty Bobsticks, sequel or not, wore that respect like a belt two sizes too tight and twice as proud.