# Chapter 2: The Neighborhood Watchdog

The sun rose higher in the sky as Boby stood on his balcony, spatula still raised. He noticed the time on his watch and realized he needed to get ready for work. Robert Pickleman couldn't be late to the office—especially on the day that Boby was born.

He hurried inside, carefully placing his spatula and chopsticks on his kitchen counter. These were no longer mere utensils. They were artifacts of justice, tools of righteousness. He'd need to find a proper place to store them later.

Boby reluctantly shed his bathrobe, hanging it with unusual reverence on the bathroom hook. For now, he needed to disguise himself as Robert Pickleman, mild-mannered accountant. But beneath the suit and tie, Boby would remain vigilant, watching for signs of evil.

He showered quickly, his mind racing with plans for his vigilante career. Every movie hero needed a proper costume. The bathrobe was temporary—a chrysalis from which his true warrior form would eventually emerge. Perhaps something in black, with red accents. And a mask. Definitely a mask.

As he combed his hair, he practiced fierce expressions in the mirror. He narrowed his eyes and jutted out his chin. "Evildoers beware," he whispered to his reflection. He tried again with a deeper voice. "EVILDOERS BEWARE."

Neither sounded quite right. He'd need to work on his intimidation techniques.

He dressed in his usual work attire: gray slacks, light blue button-up shirt, navy tie. He considered adding his chopsticks somewhere hidden in his outfit but decided against it. The great masters could use anything as a weapon. When the time came, even a pen could become lethal in Boby's hands.

At least, that's what he told himself as he packed his briefcase.

The apartment looked like a small typhoon had hit it—overturned coffee table, scattered pizza crusts, spilled soda now sticky on the floor. Boby considered cleaning up but checked his watch again. No time. Justice waited for no man, and neither did Penderson & Wicks Accounting Firm.

He left his apartment, locking the door behind him. In the hallway, he encountered Mrs. Peterson returning from her morning plant watering.

"Good morning, Mrs. Peterson," he said, trying to sound normal. "Lovely day, isn't it?"

Mrs. Peterson squinted at him through her thick glasses. "Robert? You're dressed now, thank goodness. Are you feeling better, dear? I was worried about you earlier."

"I'm perfectly fine," he assured her. "And please, call me Boby now."

"Bobby?"

"No, Boby. With a 'y' but only one 'b'."

Mrs. Peterson shook her head. "Is this some new thing with you young people? Changing your names all willy-nilly?"

"It's my true identity," Boby explained patiently. "Robert was merely the shell containing the warrior within."

"Shell? Warrior?" Mrs. Peterson leaned closer, peering at him with concern. "Did you take something last night, dear? Some kind of drug? My nephew went through a phase with those marijuana cigarettes, and he said all sorts of nonsense too."

"I assure you, Mrs. Peterson, my awakening is entirely natural. It comes from watching one thousand kung-fu films."

Mrs. Peterson's eyebrows shot up. "One thousand? Goodness, no wonder your brain's gone funny. Too much television rots your mind—that's what I always say."

Boby smiled tolerantly. "The unenlightened often misunderstand the path of the warrior."

"Well, this unenlightened old lady thinks you should get some sleep tonight instead of prancing around half-naked on your balcony." She patted his arm. "And eat something proper. Not just pizza. Warriors need vegetables, you know."

"Your wisdom is noted, Mrs. Peterson," Boby said with a small bow. The movies had taught him to respect elders, even those who didn't understand his mission.

He left Mrs. Peterson shaking her head in the hallway and made his way downstairs. Outside, the morning air felt different to him now. Every sound, every movement might be a call to action. A car horn honked—was it a distress signal? A dog barked in the distance—was it alerting him to danger?

Boby walked toward the bus stop, his senses heightened to near-supernatural levels. At least, that's how it felt to him. In reality, he was so distracted watching for potential crimes that he nearly walked into a fire hydrant.

The bus arrived precisely on schedule. Boby boarded, scanning the faces of the other passengers. Any of them could be harboring evil intentions. The businessman reading his newspaper? Possibly planning a corporate takeover that would leave hundreds jobless. The teenager with headphones? Maybe downloading music illegally at this very moment.

He took a seat near the back, keeping his back to the window so he could observe everyone. A woman noticed his intense staring and clutched her purse tighter. Boby nodded approvingly. She was right to be vigilant.

Arriving at the office building that housed Penderson & Wicks, Boby strode through the lobby with new purpose. He'd walked this path hundreds of times before, but never as a kung-fu vigilante in disguise. He imagined dramatic music playing as he walked. In his mind, his footsteps echoed with significance.

"Morning, Robert," called the security guard.

"Morning, Steve," Boby replied, before quickly correcting himself. "Actually, it's Boby now. With a 'y'."

Steve glanced up from his crossword puzzle. "Whatever you say, Bob."

"No, Bo-by," he emphasized.

"Sure thing, Bobby," Steve said, already looking back down at his puzzle.

Boby decided not to press the issue. His true identity would become known in time, when his heroic deeds spread throughout the city.

He took the elevator to the fourteenth floor, standing in what he hoped was a dignified pose, hands clasped behind his back like the wise old master from movie #582. The other people in the elevator gave him curious glances but said nothing.

When the doors opened, Boby stepped into the accounting floor, surveying his domain. Rows of cubicles stretched before him, filled with coworkers typing on computers or talking on phones. None of them knew they worked alongside a great warrior.

"Robert! There you are," called his supervisor, Margaret, hurrying toward him with a stack of folders. "I need the Johnson audit by noon, and the quarterly projections for Fishman Industries are due EOD."

Boby took the folders, his mind racing to switch from vigilante mode to accountant mode. "Yes, of course. Johnson audit. Quarterly projections."

Margaret paused, looking at him strangely. "Are you alright? You look tired."

"I am beyond mere physical fatigue," Boby informed her. "My spirit burns with the fire of a thousand suns."

Margaret blinked. "Right... Just get those reports done, okay? And maybe cut back on the energy drinks."

She walked away, leaving Boby holding the folders. He made his way to his cubicle, setting down his briefcase and arranging the folders neatly on his desk. The Johnson audit was complex, requiring his full attention. But how could he focus on spreadsheets when his true calling was justice?

He opened his computer and tried to concentrate on the numbers before him. For a while, he managed to work effectively, his years of accounting training taking over. But his mind kept drifting to his new identity. What crimes might be occurring while he sat here analyzing tax deductions? What villains might be escaping justice?

Lunchtime couldn't come soon enough. As soon as the clock struck twelve, Boby saved his files and stood up. Perhaps during his break, he might encounter some wrongdoing to right.

He made his way to the small park across from his office building, carrying the sad sandwich he'd hastily made that morning before leaving his apartment. As he ate, he scanned the area, looking for signs of trouble.

The park seemed peaceful enough. Office workers sat on benches eating their lunches. A few people walked dogs along the paths. Children played on the small playground under the watchful eyes of nannies.

Boby finished his sandwich, feeling slightly disappointed. His first day as a vigilante, and not a single crime to prevent. Perhaps evil took lunch breaks too.

As he prepared to return to the office, movement caught his eye. A teenage boy walking a large dog—some kind of retriever mix—had stopped at the edge of the park, right in front of Mrs. Abernathy's house. Mrs. Abernathy was a kind elderly woman who lived in Boby's neighborhood and always gave out the best Halloween candy.

The dog squatted on Mrs. Abernathy's meticulously maintained lawn, depositing a substantial pile. The teenage boy looked around furtively, then began to walk away without cleaning up after his pet.

Boby's heart raced. This was it. His first crime to thwart. True, it wasn't as dramatic as saving a village from bandits or recovering a sacred artifact, but it was a start. All great journeys began with a single step.

He jumped to his feet, nearly knocking over the park bench in his excitement. This was his moment. This was what he had been born—or rather, reborn—to do.

"HALT, EVILDOER!" he shouted, his voice cracking slightly on "evildoer." Several people in the park turned to stare, but Boby was focused solely on his target.

The teenager, a lanky boy of perhaps sixteen with shaggy hair partially covering his eyes, looked around in confusion, trying to locate the source of the shout.

Boby closed the distance between them, adopting what he believed was a menacing stride. He tried to remember how the heroes in his movies confronted villains. They always had good opening lines.

"Your misdeeds have been witnessed by the eye of justice!" Boby declared, pointing dramatically at the boy.

The teenager stared at him, his expression a mixture of confusion and amusement. "Huh?"

Boby gestured to the pile on Mrs. Abernathy's lawn. "You have defiled the sacred ground of an innocent. Such transgressions cannot stand!"

The teenager looked at the dog poop, then back at Boby. "Dude, what is your problem?"

"My problem," Boby said, drawing himself up to his full height of five feet nine inches, "is lawbreakers who think they can operate with impunity."

A small audience had begun to gather at a safe distance. Boby was aware of their presence but kept his focus on the teenage miscreant before him. This was his chance to demonstrate his authority, to make an example that would spread throughout the neighborhood.

"I am Boby," he announced, striking what he hoped was an impressive pose. "Defender of the innocent, protector of lawns, bringer of justice!" He tried to remember some Chinese phrases from his movies. "Wǒ... uh... shì... um... justice man!"

The teenager pulled out his phone and began recording. "This is gold," he muttered, a grin spreading across his face.

Boby didn't mind being recorded. In fact, it was perfect. His first act of justice would be documented for posterity. Future disciples would study this moment, analyzing his technique and wisdom.

"In accordance with municipal code section... um... something-something about dog waste removal," he continued, wishing he'd actually looked up the specific ordinance, "I command you to clean up after your canine companion!"

The teenager looked at his friends who'd been walking ahead and were now returning to see what the commotion was about. "Guys, check out this crazy dude!"

Boby wasn't deterred by the boy's disrespect. He'd seen many movies where the villain mocked the hero before ultimately being defeated. It was all part of the standard narrative.

"Perhaps you think this is amusing," Boby said, narrowing his eyes in what he hoped was a penetrating gaze. "But the path of disrespect leads only to dishonor." He tried another Chinese phrase: "Bù... uh... respect... bù... honor!"

The teenager's friends had joined him now, three boys about the same age, all watching with delighted expressions as their friend continued filming.

"Dude, say something else in Chinese!" one of them urged.

Boby felt a momentary flash of annoyance. They weren't taking him seriously. But then again, neither did the corrupt officials take the young hero seriously in "Dragon's Vengeance" (movie #749) until he defeated all twelve of the emperor's guards using only a pair of chopsticks.

Boby didn't have his chopsticks or spatula with him, but he did have his righteousness. And according to movie #317, "The righteous man needs no weapon but his conviction."

"Your mockery only strengthens my resolve," Boby informed the teenagers. "Now, clean up your dog's waste or face the consequences!"

"What consequences?" asked the teen with the phone, still recording. "Are you gonna kung-fu us or something?"

Boby hadn't actually thought this far ahead. What were the consequences? In his movies, the consequences usually involved elaborate fight scenes with many injuries. But he couldn't very well beat up a group of teenagers for failing to pick up dog poop.

"The... the consequences of shame!" he improvised. "The shame of knowing you violated the sacred covenant between man and community!"

This sent the teenagers into fits of laughter. The dog, seemingly confused by all the commotion, began barking, pulling on its leash.

Boby decided it was time for action rather than words. The heroes in his movies always knew when to stop talking and start demonstrating their physical prowess. He would show these disrespectful youths the power of his kung-fu training, or rather, his kung-fu watching.

He took a deep breath and centered himself, just like Master Wu in "Temple of the Jade Dragon" (movie #205). In his mind, he could hear the dramatic music swelling.

"Behold the ancient art of... Flying Justice Kick!" he declared, making up the name on the spot.

Boby took three running steps forward and launched himself into the air, his right leg extended in what he hoped was a perfect flying kick. For a split second, he felt powerful, graceful, like he was truly flying through the air toward his target.

Reality intervened when his foot caught in the dog's extended leash. The momentum of his attempted kick sent him spinning, the leash wrapping around his ankle. The startled dog yelped and darted in the opposite direction, pulling the leash taut.

Boby felt himself being yanked off-balance. He flailed his arms desperately, trying to regain his equilibrium, but it was too late. He pitched forward, arms windmilling wildly, and landed face-first directly in the pile he'd been so intent on having cleaned up.

The impact knocked the wind out of him. For a moment, he lay there, stunned, his cheek pressed against Mrs. Abernathy's lawn and something warm and unpleasantly soft squishing against his nose and mouth.

The teenagers' laughter echoed in his ears as the horrible realization of what had just happened sank in. He pushed himself up on his elbows, feeling the mess sticking to his face. His tie dangled in it as well, the navy blue silk now decorated with brown smears.

"Oh my god, did you get that?" one of the teens gasped between fits of laughter.

"Every second!" confirmed the boy with the phone. "This is so going viral!"

Boby got to his knees, trying to wipe the dog waste off his face with his sleeve. This only succeeded in spreading it further and staining his light blue shirt.

The dog, now free of the leash that had wrapped around Boby's ankle, ran in excited circles around his owner, barking happily as if it had all been a wonderful game.

"You should thank us," said the teen with the phone, still filming Boby's humiliation. "We just made you internet famous!"

Boby stumbled to his feet, his face burning with embarrassment beneath the smears of dog excrement. This was not how it was supposed to go. In the movies, the hero sometimes suffered setbacks, but they were always dignified, always somehow noble. There was nothing noble about having dog poop on your face.

"The path of justice is... is fraught with..." he began, trying to salvage some dignity, but found he couldn't finish the sentence. The smell was overwhelming, and he felt sick to his stomach.

Without another word, he turned and walked away as quickly as possible, the teenagers' laughter following him down the street. He couldn't go back to the office like this. He needed to go home, to regroup, to clean himself up and reconsider his approach.

As he hurried down the street, passersby gave him a wide berth, some covering their noses, others averting their eyes. Boby kept his gaze fixed on the sidewalk ahead, burning with humiliation. A city bus passed him, and he raised his hand to hail it, but it didn't stop. The driver took one look at him through the windshield and kept going.

By the time Boby reached his apartment building, he'd had to dodge countless horrified looks and several unkind comments. The security guard in his lobby actually stood up and blocked his path.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," said the guard, waving his hand in front of his nose. "What happened to you, buddy?"

"Training accident," Boby muttered.

"Well, you can't go through the lobby like that. Use the service entrance and for god's sake, take the service elevator."

Boby trudged around to the back of the building, snuck in through the service entrance, and rode up in the small, cramped service elevator that smelled of garbage and cleaning products. Even so, his own odor dominated the small space.

When he finally made it to his apartment, he stripped off his ruined clothes in the hallway, not wanting to track the mess any further than necessary. Clad only in his underwear, he bundled up the soiled clothing and stuffed it into a plastic bag, which he immediately took to the trash chute.

In the shower, he scrubbed his face until his skin was red and raw, using half a bottle of soap in the process. The water swirled down the drain, carrying away the physical evidence of his humiliation, but the memory remained vivid and painful.

As he dried off and put on clean clothes—sweatpants and an old t-shirt—he caught sight of his reflection in the bathroom mirror. He looked exactly like what he was: an ordinary man with wet hair and a red, scrubbed face. Not a kung-fu master. Not a vigilante. Just Robert Pickleman, accountant, who had made a fool of himself in public.

Boby slumped onto his couch, the same spot where just last night he'd had his epiphany while watching his one-thousandth kung-fu film. The television was still on, paused on the final frame of the movie—the hero standing triumphant, enemies defeated, honor restored.

Unlike that hero, Boby had been defeated by a dog leash and a pile of poop. His first mission had been a catastrophic failure.

He buried his face in his hands. What had he been thinking? He wasn't a kung-fu master. He was just a guy who watched a lot of movies. Watching wasn't the same as doing. Knowledge wasn't the same as experience.

For a moment, doubt crept in. Maybe Mrs. Peterson was right. Maybe he had lost his mind a little bit. Maybe he should just go back to being plain old Robert Pickleman, apologize to his boss for disappearing after lunch, and forget this whole Boby business.

But then his gaze fell on the spatula and chopsticks he'd left on the kitchen counter that morning—his makeshift weapons. Beside them lay his bathrobe, which he'd hastily thrown there after it fell off its hook in the bathroom.

He walked over to the counter and picked up the spatula, turning it over in his hands. It was a cheap utensil, flimsy and not at all intimidating. No wonder the teenagers had laughed at him. How could he expect to command respect with such inadequate equipment?

The heroes in his movies always had proper weapons—swords handed down through generations, staffs carved from ancient trees, chains forged by legendary blacksmiths. Boby had... kitchen utensils.

That was the problem. Not his lack of actual kung-fu training, not his fundamental misunderstanding of how fighting worked in real life, but his equipment. He needed proper tools for the job.

His resolve returned, stronger than before. This setback was just part of his hero's journey. All great warriors faced humiliation and defeat before rising to greatness. His failure today wasn't the end of his story—it was merely the obstacle he needed to overcome in Act One.

Boby placed the spatula back on the counter with new determination. He would acquire better equipment. He would train harder. And next time, he would be prepared.

The internet might laugh at him today, but soon they would speak his name with respect and awe. Boby, former accountant, now warrior of justice, would rise from this defeat and claim his destiny.

All he needed was more authentic equipment.