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. # Entry 7 Dear Cannibal Diary, Sunday is brighter. Not bright. Just *brighter*. Like the sun remembered it’s supposed to try. On the seventh day, the fog rested. Sort of. The gray is thinner on Sundays. You can almost see where the sky should be, pale instead of charcoal, milk instead of ash. The neon sign hums differently too. Almost hopeful. Like it’s in on the secret that Sundays matter in ways the other days forgot how to. Dad is already at the grill when I come downstairs. The spatula is moving in that rhythm that means everything is normal even when it’s not. Salt going on like prayer beads. He’s prepping for the Sunday rush. People know. They always know. Sundays mean the tide came in. Linda is warming up her voice in the corner. She does scales before the big hymns. Today she’s testing a new one, something about harvest and grace and standing in line for blessings. Her voice is strong and a little off. That’s the power. Off means honest. Off means we’re still human and not already dead. Gene is at the window with his pan collection, watching the fog thin. “Sunday Shine,” he announces to nobody. “The fog’s on its best behavior. Must’ve gone to church.” “The fog doesn’t go to church. It didn’t believe in God,” Louise says from the door. She’s already in her knife-apron, bunny ears sharp against the pale morning. “That’s dark, sweetie,” Linda says, but she’s smiling. “It’s Sunday,” Louise says. “Beach run. Tide’s in.” The room goes quiet for a second. Then everybody moves. ----- Every Sunday, bodies wash up on the shore. Nobody knows why. Mort says it’s the currents. Louise says it’s the fog giving back what it took. Gene says it’s the ocean’s way of saying “you’re welcome” in a language made of corpses. Linda says it’s providence. Dad doesn’t say anything. He just preps extra patties. The fog gives back. That’s the theory. The ocean doesn’t keep everything forever. It spits some of it back on Sundays, twisted and strange, dressed in clothes from eras that don’t line up. Like the fog reached into different times and shook them loose. Bob stays at the grill. Always. That’s the rule. If Dad leaves the altar, the whole thing collapses. Linda stays to prep the dining room for the Sunday rush. Gene stays to guard and play the pan-drum welcome when we return. Jimmy Jr. is upstairs, still asleep probably, in Gene’s room. The crew for today: me, Louise, Teddy, Mort, and Rudy.