Fatty Bobsticks

Diary

Fatty Bobsticks will tell anyone who lingers long enough that he is nothing like Fat Bob, that the resemblance ends at the belly and the last name, thank you very much, before he goes and proves the family tree correct all over again. It happened the night he tried to shake down his own bunkmates for their floor-priced NFT scrolls, robbing degens in his own quarters like some rookie who never studied the bushido of not fumbling the bag in your own house. He lost his temper somewhere between the third insult and the second stolen sake cup, flipped a table that had survived three wars and one very bad gambling streak, and got tackled by four men holding weed and grudges in equal measure. Ever since, the Dojo elders have politely suggested he stay inside its walls, and Fatty tells himself it is a strategic retreat, a disciplined cooldown period, very much unlike his old man's chaos, even as he white-knuckles the doorframe every evening like a man negotiating with his own worst instincts. Somewhere in the shadows, Fat Bob is laughing, and Fatty, muttering that this is his story now, slams the door on him anyway, mostly to prove a point he keeps losing.