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 Six** Dear Cannibal Diary, Saturday Rounds (with Mr. F— and the Unromantic Ocean) Saturdays used to mean cartoons and chores and a burger special with a pun that made Dad chuckle in a way that said he hated it but also loved that he hated it. Now Saturdays mean something stranger and more official: Occupancy Rounds with Mr. Fischoeder—Ocean Avenue’s landlord, amusement-park owner, cape enthusiast, and part-time weather system in a white suit. He calls it “checking on my holdings.” I call it “riding shotgun in a cartoon villain’s golf cart while the fog sniffs my bangs and decides if they’re edible.” He really does own Wonder Wharf, and a terrifying number of properties, including our building. The wharf sits right across from Ocean Avenue like a haunted mirror. It used to be a place for first dates and bad corn dogs. Now it’s where we get salt and the wind forgets our names and gives them back out of order. Today is five years into the fog, and I am eighteen. I keep telling you that because it helps me remember that time still moves even when the sun is shy. My job on Saturdays: fill the jugs. Mr. F pulls up in his golf cart like he’s making an entrance on an invisible stage. The horn quacks. He leans on his bone-handled cane. The fog curls around his ankles like a white cat that finally got the supervillain it ordered. He winks with his eye that isn’t wearing an eyepatch and says, “Miss Belcher, are we prepared to plunder Poseidon?” He likes alliteration because it sounds like money. He actually does the golf cart thing around town and throws firecrackers for punctuation, old world trivia that still fits him like his cape. In the new world, the firecrackers are just a way to tell the fog: look over there.