# Chapter 1: The Birth of Boby

The blue glow of the television washed over Robert Pickleman's face as he leaned forward on his worn couch. His eyes burned from exhaustion, but he couldn't look away. On screen, a man in white robes floated through the air, his leg extended in a perfect kick that sent six opponents flying backward.

"Amazing," Robert whispered to himself, the word barely audible over the dramatic music swelling as the hero landed gracefully on a rooftop.

He glanced at his phone. 2:47 AM. He had work tomorrow—technically today—but this moment was too important to miss. This wasn't just any kung-fu film. This was his one-thousandth.

The journey had begun almost exactly ten years ago when his college roommate had shown him "Enter the Dragon." Something about the grace, the justice, the absolute certainty of the heroes had spoken to Robert. Since then, he'd dedicated himself to watching every kung-fu film he could find, from the classics to obscure titles he had to special order with questionable subtitles.

He ticked off the final bullet point in his meticulously kept spreadsheet. One thousand films. Ten years. And what did he have to show for it? A job as an accountant at Penderson & Wicks, a studio apartment with beige walls he'd never bothered to personalize, and a collection of kung-fu movie posters he kept rolled up under his bed because he worried hanging them might damage the paint.

On the television, the final battle reached its climax. The hero, vastly outnumbered, closed his eyes and found his inner peace. His movements became fluid, like water. Like poetry.

"Ancient masters say: when student watches one thousand battles, student becomes the battle," the hero announced before demolishing the evil warlord's entire army.

Robert blinked. Had he heard that correctly? He rewound the scene.

"Ancient masters say: when student watches one thousand battles, student becomes the battle."

His heart pounded against his ribcage. The hero wasn't just speaking to his enemies. He was speaking to Robert. After one thousand films, the knowledge had been transferred. The wisdom had been imparted.

The credits rolled, but Robert didn't move. He sat perfectly still as a strange energy built inside him. It started in his chest and spread outward to his fingertips. He stood up slowly, his legs tingling with a newfound power.

"I am the battle," he whispered.

He stared at the empty space between his television and his coffee table. In his mind, it transformed into a palace courtyard filled with ninjas. He took a deep breath and jumped into the air, his right leg extended in what he imagined was a perfect flying kick.

Reality came crashing back as his foot caught the edge of the coffee table. Pain shot through his toe as the table flipped, sending his half-empty can of Mountain Dew and three pizza crusts flying through the air. He landed with a heavy thud on the carpet, his elbow smacking against the floor.

"Ow," he groaned, rolling onto his back.

But physical pain couldn't dampen what was happening inside his mind. The transformation had begun. He wasn't Robert Pickleman anymore, the mild-mannered accountant who apologized when people bumped into him. No, he was someone else entirely.

He struggled to his feet, noticing how his bathrobe had twisted around him during the fall. He caught a glimpse of himself in the decorative mirror his mother had given him last Christmas—the only decoration in his apartment. The robe's belt had somehow wrapped around his forehead.

He pulled it tighter, admiring how it looked like the headbands worn by kung-fu masters. With the belt gone, his robe hung open, revealing his Avengers boxers and pale chest. But even this seemed right. The heroes in his films often fought bare-chested, their physical prowess on full display.

"Robert Pickleman is dead," he announced to his reflection. "From now on, I am... Boby."

He'd always hated how formal "Robert" sounded, and "Bob" seemed too ordinary for a kung-fu vigilante. But "Boby"—with that unexpected 'y'—that had character. That had mystique.

Boby turned from the mirror and surveyed his apartment with new eyes. What once seemed like a boring, under-furnished space now looked like a training ground, a headquarters for justice.

His kitchen caught his attention. The butcher block of knives gleamed under the fluorescent light. He grabbed the largest one and swung it through the air, making what he believed was an authentic "whoosh" sound with his mouth.

"Too dangerous," he decided, replacing it. His mission was justice, not bloodshed.

Instead, he opened his utensil drawer. Spoons, forks, a ladle... his fingers closed around a pair of cooking chopsticks his mother had included in a care package years ago. He'd never used them for cooking, but now they seemed perfect. He tucked them into his makeshift headband.

His eyes landed on the spatula. He picked it up, testing its weight and balance. Perfect. A non-lethal weapon, like the fan used by that warrior woman in film #437.

Armed with his spatula, Boby practiced a few moves in his living room. He spun around, slashing the air with his new weapon, occasionally making "hi-ya" noises. During a particularly enthusiastic turn, he accidentally knocked his lamp off the end table. The crash seemed to echo in his small apartment.

"Sorry," he whispered to the lamp, before remembering that kung-fu masters didn't apologize to inanimate objects.

Boby glanced at his watch. 3:15 AM. The world of evil never slept, and neither would he. At least not tonight. Tonight was for transformation. Tonight was for becoming.

He moved to his balcony door and slid it open. The cool night air rushed in, bringing with it the sounds of the sleeping city. Six floors below, the street was empty except for a few parked cars. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked.

Boby stepped onto his small balcony, his bare feet cold against the concrete. He surveyed the landscape of his domain—apartment buildings, a convenience store, the park where teenagers sometimes smoked what he strongly suspected wasn't just cigarettes. So much potential for wrongdoing. So much need for a protector.

He gripped his spatula tighter. The time had come to make a vow, to dedicate himself to his new path.

"I, Boby, formerly known as Robert Pickleman, do solemnly swear to bring justice to this world," he announced to the night. "Evil-doers beware! The Dragon of Apartment 6B has awoken!"

He raised his spatula high, striking a pose he'd seen countless times on screen. The moment called for something more—a demonstration of his new abilities. Boby eyed the railing of his balcony. In the movies, masters often balanced on narrow surfaces to prove their superior control.

He carefully climbed onto the railing, wobbling slightly as he tried to find his balance. For one glorious moment, he stood tall, his bathrobe billowing slightly in the breeze. Then his foot slipped.

Boby flailed, his arms spinning like windmills as he teetered on the edge. With a desperate lunge, he threw himself back onto the safety of his balcony, landing hard on his backside.

"The concrete disrupts my chi," he explained to no one, rubbing his bruised dignity and backside.

As Boby picked himself up, he noticed movement in the balcony across from his. Mrs. Peterson, his elderly neighbor, had emerged with her watering can. She wore a floral nightgown and curlers in her hair, and she squinted at him through thick glasses.

"Robert? Is that you?" she called over. "Are you feeling well, dear?"

Boby straightened, assuming what he imagined was an imposing stance. "I am Boby now, Mrs. Peterson. Defender of the innocent, vanquisher of evil."

Mrs. Peterson adjusted her glasses. "Are those chopsticks in your hair? And why are you wearing your bathrobe open like that? You'll catch your death."

Boby refused to be deterred by her lack of understanding. "This is the uniform of a warrior, Mrs. Peterson."

"Well, warrior or not, you should put on some pants," she said, turning her attention to her withered geraniums. "And maybe get some sleep. Don't you have work in the morning?"

Work. The thought pierced through Boby's newfound identity like an arrow. Penderson & Wicks expected Robert Pickleman at his desk by 8:30 AM, spreadsheets ready, calculator primed. How would they react to Boby?

He couldn't abandon his job—a warrior needed funds for his crusade. Perhaps, like the heroes in the films, he needed a dual identity. Robert by day, Boby by night. Yes, that would work perfectly.

"Your concern is appreciated, Mrs. Peterson, but a master of kung-fu requires little sleep," he informed her, trying to sound wise and mysterious.

Mrs. Peterson shook her head. "If you say so, dear. But maybe keep the noise down? Some of us are light sleepers."

She continued watering her plants, clearly dismissing the significance of the moment. Boby wasn't offended. The path of the warrior was often a lonely one, misunderstood by ordinary people.

He returned to his apartment, sliding the door closed behind him. The mess from his earlier mishap still littered the floor—the overturned coffee table, the spilled soda, the scattered pizza crusts. A normal person might clean it up, but Boby now saw it as an obstacle course, a training ground.

He leaped over the table, attempting to land in a fighting stance. His foot slipped on a pizza crust, sending him stumbling into the wall.

"Deceptive enemy tactics," he muttered, righting himself.

Boby spent the next hour practicing moves he'd seen in countless films. He tried roundhouse kicks that nearly knocked over his television. He attempted to balance on one leg while holding his other foot above his head, achieving a pose that looked less like a crane and more like a flamingo with a muscle cramp.

Each failure only strengthened his resolve. The masters in his films had trained for years in remote mountaintop temples. Boby had the disadvantage of starting his training in a studio apartment with neighbors who complained about noise. But he wouldn't let that stop him.

As he practiced, he caught glimpses of himself in the mirror. The bathrobe had started to come loose again, and the chopsticks in his headband were sliding out with every energetic movement. He didn't look like the heroes from his films. Not yet. But he would. With practice and dedication, he would become what he was meant to be.

By 4:30 AM, exhaustion began to creep in. Even warriors needed rest. Boby decided to meditate, as he'd seen masters do before battle. He sat cross-legged on the floor, closed his eyes, and tried to clear his mind.

Instead, his thoughts raced with plans. First, he needed a proper uniform. The bathrobe was a good start, but it lacked durability and gravitas. Perhaps he could modify it, add some symbols, make it more... warrior-like. And weapons. The spatula was fine for now, but eventually, he'd need something more impressive. Nunchucks, maybe, or a staff.

And most importantly, he needed a mission. The warriors in his films always had specific wrongs to right—evil emperors to overthrow, villages to protect, ancient artifacts to retrieve. Boby needed to identify the injustices in his own world and confront them head-on.

He opened his eyes as the first light of dawn began to filter through his blinds. A new day was beginning—his first day as Boby.

He stood and walked back to the balcony, sliding the door open once more. The sky had turned a pale blue-gray, with streaks of pink appearing on the horizon. Below, the city was beginning to wake up. A few cars moved along the streets, and a jogger ran through the park, oblivious to the watchful protector six floors above.

Mrs. Peterson had returned to her balcony, still in her nightgown and curlers. She methodically watered each of her plants, moving her watering can from pot to pot with careful attention.

Boby stepped onto his balcony again, straightening his robe and adjusting his chopstick headband. The morning air felt different somehow—charged with possibility and purpose.

He took a deep breath and raised his spatula toward the rising sun. "The world cries out for justice," he declared, his voice carrying in the quiet morning. "And I, Boby, answer that call. Evildoers beware—your time of reckoning has come!"

Mrs. Peterson looked up from her plants, staring at him with an expression of pure bewilderment. "Robert, honey, are you still out there in your underwear? Did you get any sleep at all?"

Boby ignored her questions, maintaining his dramatic pose as the sun continued to rise. In his mind, he was no longer standing on a small concrete balcony in his bathrobe and boxers. He was a warrior on a mountaintop, his silhouette cutting an impressive figure against the dawn sky, his spirit as strong and unyielding as the ancient masters who had come before him.

"The Dynasty of Darkness will fall before me," he continued, sweeping his spatula through the air. "For I have witnessed the thousand battles and absorbed their wisdom!"

Mrs. Peterson shook her head and muttered something about calling his mother. But Boby's conviction remained unshaken. The movies had taught him that all great heroes faced doubt and ridicule at the beginning of their journeys. It only made their eventual triumph more satisfying.

As the sun cleared the horizon, bathing the city in golden light, Boby made his final vow of the morning: "By the setting of today's sun, the world will know justice. The world will know peace. The world will know... Boby!"

Mrs. Peterson sighed deeply, returning to her watering. "What these young people watch on television these days... it's not healthy," she murmured to her geraniums.

But nothing could diminish Boby's resolve as he stood on his balcony, spatula raised high, bathrobe flapping in the morning breeze, ready to bring justice to a world that didn't yet know it needed him.