Mort From Bob's Burgers Novels & Stories

I leave for one day, and something terrible happens. "A dead body was found on your property." He said. My property? Who died? "The forest." He clarified. "A dead body was found in the sea. The body of Bob the bartender, was found in the sea, most likely to have drowned." "Bob? I don't know who that is. May his soul rest in peace. How was this any of my business? He wasn't found in the forest was he?" I wasn't going to involve myself with a murder case. It had nothing to do with me.

Maybe even confused. “Burgers,” she clarified. “Unhealthy, heart-rotting, artery-clogging burgers. This country does them best, because we’re not afraid to die eating something as long as it tastes good. American cattle, special cuts - burgers are iconic here, aren’t they? And this restaurant does them especially well. So I’m sure Ms. Munson would have enjoyed them in her childhood before being whisked off abroad. This isn’t a terrible welcome back to the States, in my opinion...Sir.”

BOB The food at this hospital was a joke. “I said I was hungry, Ícaro... not keen on getting poisoned by this slop,” I grumbled, pushing the tray aside. If it were me, I would've smuggled a sandwich for him. You're on my enemy list, Ícaro. “It tastes like wet cardboard.” Ícaro, as usual, didn't move a muscle except to raise an eyebrow. “It's better than nothing, Bob. You were shot five days ago. What did you want? A feijoada?”

During this period, “burrito” became an unspeakable word among the players. Because the moment someone said that word, a boss would immediately appear at their door. On the player forum, every post revolved around burritos. "Who on earth kidnapped this woman! The entire horror game can’t eat burritos anymore!" "Because of this woman, all the bosses entered berserk mode, and the player survival rate dropped below 10%!" "Please! Hurry and find this woman and end this!"

she asks, and we shake our head no. We eat our burgers and something on the TV planted on the wall catches my eyes. Reporting live from the Brown household, the well-known businessman Chad Brown just lost his mother, Lira Brown hours ago. The reporter says and I gasp. I haven't spoken to Chad since the day I went to his house when I was drunk. He must hate me for not telling him that I got home safe.

It had taken much more than a new coat of paint and new front door. He had completely gutted the place and practically built it new from the floor up. Then all the business that he had gotten had come from the morbid horror chasers and those who are obsessed with true crime. He likes to refer to them a bottom feeders, vultures or the classic 'fucking freaks' depending on his mood.

Bob said with a cheerfulness that I could tell was false. “Hi, Bob,” I replied, taking my seat. “So, what’s this about a commercial for Outer U?” “What’s the rush?” Bob sat down. “Let’s catch up.” “I’d rather not.” I looked around. “Where’s the waiter?” “Oh, don’t worry. I already ordered for both of us. Club sandwich and soda for me, salad and water for you.” My nose crinkled in disgust. I used to hate when Bob would order for me at restaurants. He’d always order me the cheapest option possible.