Fatty Bobsticks

Diary

Fatty Bobsticks will tell anyone who stands still long enough that he is not, was never, and shall never be a mere echo of Fat Bob, thank you very much, even as Fat Bob's shadow yawns behind him like it's heard this speech a hundred times. It happened on a scorching afternoon outside a ramen stall in Shibuya, when a stranger's hand landed somewhere it had no business landing, and instead of drawing steel like a proper disgraced samurai, Fatty felt his charisma spike like a shitcoin catching a whale buy. He struts now, preening about his newfound magnetism, insisting the old Fat Bob never had this kind of aura, this kind of main-character energy, conveniently forgetting he spent that same week weeping into a bowl of miso about missing the simple honest days of cleaning up dog poop in some quiet garden that asked nothing of him but a shovel and silence. He tries, gods know he tries, to reclaim some shred of discipline, doing push-ups between bong rips, meditating for four whole minutes before checking the floor price on his phone, always failing in the exact same lovable, degenerate way his predecessor did. Still he grins through it, chest puffed, because Fatty Bobsticks would rather be gloriously ridiculous on his own terms than quietly competent in somebody else's shadow.