The Miraculous Adventures of Marinette and Adrien

The Baconater

(In advance, this story is not the writing style of my previous chapters. It may be a little creepy... I mean, I didn't intend it to be but... It might be that way to some people.
Sorry if you were expecting some form of Miraculous shipping, but this is purely the backstory of The Baconater.)

Okay, okay.

I know I said that the last authors note was the absolute last one... But that's no fun!!

Besides. My sister came up with a totally great backstory for The Baconater... So why not have an extra chapter??

Haha, thank you, for still reading this story, and here comes

*Twilight Zone ominous music plays*
Duh
Duh
Duh
Duh!!!!

THE BACONATER

•

She is cooking again.

I think nervously.

I hated it when Mom cooked. She forced me to eat her nasty food. She forced me to stand next to the grease pan and get burns on my arms. She told me to stop being a baby.

A baby. Tell that to my second degree burns she wouldn't treat.

I try to slither away up the stairs to my room, but I stepped on a loose board, and it creaked.

NO!!

My brain shrieked, just as I heard my mother's sickly sweet voice.

"Nicholas... Hun, is that you?"

I grimace. Today was Bacon Tuesday... The worst day ever.

"Yes, mummy dearest?" I drawl back at her, putting on my good son personality.

"Oh, dear son. Please come help me cook. I'm an old woman, and you're a strapping young man-"

"I'm not a young ma-" I start before she cuts me off, yelling.

"If you're not a young man then get out of my house! Move out and find a wife!" I grabbed my ears, holding them closed.

"What was it that you ask of me, mother?" I cringe, quickly changing the subject.

I could feel the demented smile on her face from here. "Well, since you're so strong could you come here and help me cook my bacon."

I never understood how she could change her personality so fast, and I definitely didn't understand why she needed a strong man to cook bacon...

But, nevertheless, I walk into the small kitchen, and she grabs my hand and pulls me next to her, her nails sliding into my skin, finding the scars from before.

I grunt, but follow her hand, and stand right next to the skillet filled with cream colored, uncooked bacon.

I grimace as the bacon starts popping, causing oil to splatter onto my scarred hand. I stand perfectly still. That woman could do much worse than oil splatterings.

All day she tells me to move out of the house, but she knows. She knows how hard it is to find a job in the cooking industry. In the arts, in... Practically anywhere! The cost for the degree, the cost for-

I stifle a wail as a lob of oil plops onto my skin, staying there, and burning. I couldn't wipe it off, otherwise the woman would do much worse than just a plop of oil.

I stare at the bacon, biting my cheeks as the oil slips off my burned hand. I tilted my hand slightly, and felt the burning oil slide over my scarred hand. But relief. No more burning... At least, not as intense as before.

The bacon, I begin to notice, has turned perfectly golden, but the woman does not turn it over, or do anything, just stares blankly at it. The wort torture of all...

I want to tell her that she should take the bacon off the skillet, and serve it then, but she will slap me with my own hand she has gripped tightly.

I watch as the bacon turns darker and darker.

Darker.

Darker.

I want to scream my pleas at the woman, please!! Mercy! Mercy to the bacon!

No. I stay silent.

"Finished!" She says, her voice pouring into my ears like maple syrup. But I glance at her face, and her smile has stretched almost ear to ear, and her grin is demented. I don't know why, though.

"Yes, mummy dearest." I say, my mind giving my mouth the automatic response.

"Would you like a tastey...?" She says, grinning up at me ominously.

"And wastey? No, no. You must save the bacon for someone much more important than me." I smile. Maybe this time...

"Oh, no! You are the most important person in this household!" She screeches and cackles like a witch. "Open wide!"

She stabs a fork into the black bacon, still burning hot, and shoves it into my mouth. The fork stabbing into my tongue, and the bacon burning my entire mouth.

"Yum!" She laughs. Laughing at my pain! Laughing at my burns!

But I growl. I wrench my hand from her grip, and grab the nearest cooking item. A spatula. For the first time, she doesn't say anything. She is letting me get away. Just staring at me as I walk away from her burnt bacon and endless scars!

I turn and walk upstairs to my room, the burning bacon crunching in my numb mouth. I can't even feel my jaw working to crush the bacon.

I slam open my bedroom door, and slam it closed too. I grip the spatula tighter in my hands. Why did I grab it?

To use as a weapon? To fight off the evil lady who calls herself my mother?

Sure. That will do.

While I sit on my bed, glowering, a bin full of spit out bacon bits lays next to my bed. I lean over it, and spit out the ones currently inhabiting my mouth.

While I am doing this... I barely notice the black butterfly, land on the spatula, and melt into it, creating my new identity to stop the evils of burnt bacon.

•

Okay... You know what? That was kinda dark. I don't know what happened there. My sister is weird.

She's like, let's have an abusive mother, who forces him to eat her burnt bacon!!

Then she was like, telling me a story... But I wasn't really listening...
Sorry, Maddie...
Yeah...

Anyways... Yeah that was dark. That wasn't really my typical writing style, and I thought it was going to be funny... Um...

Want a tastey??