Bob’s Burgers: Tina’s Cannibal Diary - Season One: Entry Five

The story you’re about to hear is an unofficial fan-made work, inspired by Bob’s Burgers. It is not endorsed by the network or creators. This is a dark, fictional reimagining—created for fun, not profit. Bob’s Burgers: Tina’s Cannibal Diaries. season one. The fog. **Entry Five** Dear Cannibal Diary, If the fog world has a heartbeat, it’s our block. Our building is the center. Bob’s Burgers refuses to die. The neon sign still glows. The paint still flakes. Kuchi Kopi sits by the register with no light inside him, but I rub his head for luck when I’m counting the line. Gene makes him tiny foil hats. Louise says if he ever glows again, we should run because it’s a fog hallucination. The front window is boarded. Teddy spent two days fitting plywood and sealing edges with tar from the docks. He cried while he worked. Not about the window. About Choo-Choo and Choo-Choo’s dad. About the horde. He hammered nails like apologies and said “For Bob” between each strike. The board is solid. Light comes through cracks. We see the line through gaps. Plastic wrap covers the gaps. On our right is Mort’s place. It’s Your Funeral Home & Crematorium. Our neighbor and now our dormitory annex. Teddy lives there. Rudy lives there. Mort says the rent is participation. Morning water runs. Battery carries. Grow room checks. Bone-soup stirs. Upstairs sweeps. It would be morbid if it weren’t also homey. On our left is the Store Next Door. Used to change names every week. Rent-A-Swag. Iced Ice Baby. Itsy Bitsy Teeny Weenie Video Bikini. Bad business plans and worse puns. Now it’s ours. The Grow House in daylight. The Energy Room at night. Five stationary bikes in the front windows from a gym that did not survive. Hand-lettered sign: RIDE TWO HOURS = GET A MEAL. In the back, under warming blankets that hum purple, we grow things that still want to be green. Scallions in jars. Onions in buckets. Thin-shouldered potatoes. One heroic basil plant that refuses to believe it’s not summer. Fischoeder stops by. He owns the buildings and the Wharf. “My domain,” he says, tipping his bone-capped cane. We humor him because he runs the town generators.