Ade Bacon
1 Published Story
Ade Bacon's Book and Story
The Super Bodyguard And His Campus Belle
Modern In all of the Iroc Continent, I was the strongest mercenary.
But suddenly my grandfather assigned me to be a campus belle's bodyguard. Her name was Christine.
Initially, she didn't want me around and even tried to drive me away, but her father stopped her.
On my first day as her bodyguard, she went to the bank and gave me a million dollars to drive me away, but I refused. I didn't come to her for money!
Unexpectedly, several vicious robbers broke into the bank. She cried for help and told me to call the police, but I was skilled enough to have them on their knees all on my own.
Christine was dumbfounded, but she was still unimpressed. "So what if you're good at fighting? Just leave me alone!"
I replied, "Don't you understand? You're going to die without me!"
The next day, I found a bomb in her car and a gunman who hid around the corner. Again, I saved her from the attack.
The distrust in her eyes was wiped out.
"Alas, I might as well give up on this job for how dangerous it turned out to be!"
But this time, Christine begged me, "Please, don't leave me!" You might like
Ex-Wife, Please Have Some Self-Respect
Fritz Heaney I was driving through a rainstorm in upstate New York, pushing my old Volvo to the limit just to pick up a Dior gown for my wife, Catarina. She needed it for a gala tonight, where she planned to spend the evening standing next to the man she actually loved, Atticus Deleon.
The truck hit me head-on, crossing the center line and sending my car rolling down an embankment in a shriek of twisted metal and shattered glass. As the steering column crushed my chest, my brain didn't see a white light; it was pried open by a digital tsunami, flooding my mind with the "Quantum Archive"-billions of data points on surgery, high-frequency trading, and combat.
I woke up in the ICU with three broken ribs and a concussion, but the only thing waiting for me was a screaming voicemail from my wife's assistant.
"Jorden, where the hell are you? Catarina has been waiting for thirty minutes! You are so incompetent it's actually impressive."
There was no "Are you okay?" or "Are you alive?"-only fury over a ruined dress and a missing tie. While I was being resuscitated, my wife was on Instagram, singing "Endless Love" with Atticus and laughing at my "tantrum." She even called the family lawyer to freeze my credit cards, wanting to make sure I couldn't even buy a coffee without her permission.
For three years, I had been the "useful husband," the doormat who apologized whenever she stepped on my toes. But the accident had overwritten my desperation with cold, hard logic, and I realized I had almost died for a woman who viewed me as a liability with a negative return on investment.
When Catarina finally stormed into my hospital room to demand an apology for ruining her night, I didn't look at her with the usual puppy-dog eyes. I looked at her with ice in my veins and handed her a manila envelope I had drafted myself.
"Sign the divorce papers, Ms. Evans. I'm done being your canary." 
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