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🕑 Added 2025-05-25 16:46:33 +0000 UTCChapter 125: Inside Jokes
Creak, creak.
Creak, creak.
The baggage claim conveyor rumbled along, its gritty friction cutting through the bustling noise of the crowd, stubbornly carving out its own space.
Maxim glanced at Ronan, then at Ollie, not bothering to hide his confusion. Finally, he turned back to Ronan, pointing at Ollie. “What’s up with him?”
Ever since the plane landed, Ollie had been waddling around like a frantic penguin. Neither Maxim nor Cliff could figure it out, their heads full of question marks with no answers in sight.
Ronan’s eyes sparkled with amusement, but his words dodged the question. “How long’s it take to get to the hotel from here? Can we call ahead to the restaurant for lunch? I could eat a whole cow right now.”
Maxim rolled his eyes without mercy. “You just ate on the plane—already hungry again?”
“Because someone’s inspiration explosion meant I didn’t even finish my meal, okay?” Ronan shot back, instantly fired up, his tone dripping with mock outrage.
Sure, U.S. domestic flight meals were… hard to describe, a mess you didn’t even know where to start complaining about. But Ronan’s experience with plane food was so limited he had no basis for comparison, so he didn’t mind. Right now, though, taste wasn’t the issue—it was not eating enough!
Maxim zeroed in on the key word. “Inspiration?” His gaze darted back to Ollie, brimming with curiosity.
Ollie ignored Maxim, instead throwing Ronan a glare, letting his eyes do the talking.
Maxim swiveled back to Ronan, only to catch him muttering under his breath. “How could I leave food behind? I actually left food uneaten, and I’m still starving. I’m in a low-blood-sugar crisis here—if I don’t get some fuel soon, I’ll pass out. And we’ve got rehearsals this afternoon—who knows how long that’ll drag on…”
“Ronan?” Maxim had to cut off the ramble.
Ronan shot him a deadpan look, staying silent.
Maxim caught on quick. “Relax, we’ll make it to the hotel restaurant for lunch. There’s time.”
Ronan grumbled a bit more, then replied grumpily, “Ollie got some inspiration during the flight, so we hashed it out and jotted stuff down. We can go over it later.” Starving as he was, Ronan was genuinely a little cranky—
He wasn’t kidding about needing food.
But Maxim couldn’t wait, brushing past Ronan’s hunger woes. “Ollie’s writing again? That’s awesome—why wait? I want to see it now!”
He sidled up to Ollie, eyes gleaming with anticipation. “Ollie, all your work?”
“No…” Ollie was a bit sulky but more cooperative than Ronan. “I wrote lyrics, Ronan did the melody. But that last set of lyrics? All Ronan!”
His voice dropped into a mumble of gibberish, venting his annoyance, which only made Ronan burst out laughing again.
Honestly, it wasn’t a big deal—or even that funny. It was more about the moment, the vibe they’d been in. Outside that context, it lost its spark. Only Ronan and Ollie got it.
Earlier, Ronan had picked up some fragmented ideas from Ollie’s words and dashed off a set of lyrics on a whim. The song? “Kill Me Slower”—literally “kill me more slowly,” riffing off Ollie’s “kill me slowly.”
Ollie took it as a jab, grumbling protests like, “Why ‘more slowly’ instead of just ‘slowly’?”
Ronan swore he didn’t mean it like that—he’d just swapped “slowly” for “slower” without thinking. But in the plane’s pressurized cabin, talking through what felt like a fishbowl helmet, he couldn’t even recall what he’d said. Somehow, it ticked Ollie off.
And… that was that.
Not exactly hilarious, but in the span of half an hour, they’d churned out three songs in a daze. Their sleep-deprived giggles were probably a little off-kilter, not quite normal.
The lyrics alone gave no hints. Ronan had painted a bitter slice of reality—
“Gotta get a job, but I hate those office guys—it makes me wanna slit my wrists, then drift in the ocean, quietly burning, doing slow push-ups.” (Note 1)
“Man, I hate my dreams—what’s the life plan anyway? I’m tired of living, back seat’s full of bills.”
Bleak, self-loathing, and aimless, the words screamed frustration. They all knew dreams didn’t pay the bills—you needed a job. But the rigid, suffocating grind trapped them in a chaotic gray zone between dreams and reality, slowly killing them.
A foggy future, stacks of bills; a gray life, a black horizon.
That’s how brutal and helpless it felt. Like the line, “I hate my dreams”—he wished he could ditch them and accept being ordinary.
Definitely dark stuff.
Of course, the melody Ronan had in mind wasn’t hardcore rock or mournful soul—it was light rock with a funky twist. A playful, cheeky beat mocked their pointless persistence, echoing “Get Out of My Head” in style. A continuation, laughing through tears, but lazier, more laid-back—like basking in sunlight while hugging the dark.
You couldn’t tell from the words alone, though. All that emotion lived in the melody.
Like “Get Out of My Head,” “Kill Me Slower” came together fast—about half an hour, start to finish. Ronan and Ollie teamed up, leaving some loose ends with chord work and arrangement tweaks, but Ronan already had a clear vision.
To him, it was self-deprecating indie light rock. But to anyone outside their bubble, it looked totally different.
Maxim saw none of the light rock flair or humor. He just stared at them, baffled. “…Are you guys nuts?”
That one line yanked them both back to last night’s dark heart-to-heart and the cabin brainstorming that kicked it all off—
Ollie had written some seriously grim lyrics. Yet, through Ronan’s spark, they’d spun out three tracks, each lighter than the last. So… yeah, they were probably nuts. The clash between mood and melody only amplified their knack for finding joy in the struggle.
But what else could they do? Life kept rolling on. Better to laugh at the mess than cry over it.
“Haha!”
Ronan and Ollie locked eyes, couldn’t hold it in, and doubled over laughing.
Chapter 126: Five-Star Hotel
“Haha.”
“Haha.”
Watching Ollie and Ronan doubled over laughing like they’d lost their minds, Maxim’s face twisted into a look of pure disbelief. He turned to Cliff. “Do we need to call an exorcist for these two?”
His first instinct was to ask Alice—she knew Ronan best, after all.
But after three months together, Maxim, like the rest of the band, had gotten used to tuning Alice out. She was like a ghost—always there, quietly filming everything with her camera, just as she’d asked them to get used to from the start. They’d learned to live with it, ignore it, and just be themselves.
Right now, Maxim’s gaze drifted toward Alice but skipped over her lightly, circling around before landing back on Cliff.
Cliff, focused on waiting for their luggage, totally missed the sarcasm in Maxim’s jab. He answered absently, “No time for that, remember? We’ve got rehearsal coming up soon. Where’s the room for random stuff like this?”
Maxim: “…”
He didn’t say a word, but his eyes were doing all the cursing for him.
“Hahaha!” Ollie and Ronan caught the mismatched exchange between Maxim and Cliff with perfect timing. It was offbeat but somehow clicked, and their laughter roared even louder.
Ollie’s earth-shaking cackle was especially destructive—like a sonic boom. Nearby passengers shot annoyed looks their way, clearly fed up with the noise pollution. But seeing Ollie and Ronan’s hulking frames, anyone itching to complain thought twice and stayed put.
Maxim’s forehead was a map of dark lines.
Amid the chaos of giggles, the band’s luggage rolled in one by one. Everything went smooth—no hiccups. They grabbed their bulky bags and hauled them out of the airport. No time to hit the parking lot for a rental, though—they had to bite the bullet, dig into their wallets, and hail two cabs to head from the airport toward downtown.
Unlike the endless clear skies of the Midwest and West, the East hit different right from the landing. A gray blanket hung overhead, hinting at the shift. This city, marked by the White House, carried a deep, heavy vibe—worlds apart from the flashy, carefree buzz of Las Vegas.
A whole new scene unfolded slowly before their eyes.
Straight, wide streets stretched out, flanked by low, slate-gray buildings. No towering skyscrapers blocked the view—just stiff, crisp lines slicing the horizon into neat, orderly chunks. Deep greens, brick reds, and navy blues drowned in waves of gray, like a giant tide crashing down.
Then, a flash of white caught the eye.
A patch of white nestled in wide, flat green, the view stretching open and vast. The contrast sharpened everything—the white reflecting the stacked gray sky above, like two mirrored worlds meeting at the peak of that white dome. It made you wonder what scenes played out beneath the white and above in the gray.
Ronan pressed against the cab window, quietly watching the world slide by, trying to soak in the colors, the people, the moments with his eyes.
When they reached the hotel, the band couldn’t help but feel a little stiff. The grand, spotless lobby—polished and plush—made their steps slow instinctively. It was a stark leap from the cramped, stuffy, bare-bones motels they were used to, like stepping from hell into heaven.
Well, calling a motel “hell” wasn’t quite fair. They’d had a roof and walls to keep out the wind and rain—plenty of folks had it worse. The comparison didn’t really hold up. Still, the hotel’s vibe was so different it put them on edge, their inner “don’t make a scene” alarm blaring loud and clear.
Las Vegas had its share of five-star spots too, but those were “resort” hotels—built for vacation vibes. Totally different feel.
Those places packed in shopping streets, food courts, concerts, acrobatics, tourist traps—all crammed into one space, a little world of its own. You could live there for a year or two without stepping outside and still find an old-school barber shop if you wanted.
So even though Vegas hotels were open to all, they felt more like wandering a theme park than staying in a “hotel.” Hard to tie the surroundings to the idea of crashing for the night.
But stepping into the Hilton? That was a whole other story—elegant, serene, orderly.
A refined guy flipping through a newspaper in the lobby. Business types in sharp suits hustling toward the ground-floor bar. A couple with vacation hats and floral dresses griping about their trip as they checked out. Kids darting through the halls, shattering the calm with bursts of laughter.
Every little detail screamed: This is a five-star hotel.
And then there was the bellhop, stepping up with a warm smile and a gentle tone, taking the bags from Cliff’s hands.
“Hold on—” Cliff almost blurted out a refusal, but he caught the sidelong glances from around the lobby. Swallowing it back, he squared his shoulders and handed over the luggage, keeping his unease under wraps.
It wasn’t until they were in the room, the bellhop gone and the door shut, that Cliff started to feel the sting—
Ten bucks for a tip.
For the One Day Kings, it wasn’t that they couldn’t afford it—it just felt like an unnecessary splurge. Especially after shelling out for cabs.
Cliff even marched over to the next room, banging on the door. When Ollie answered, he didn’t waste a second. “How much did you guys tip?”
“…Twenty,” Ollie said, caught off guard but thinking it over. He answered casually, only to hear Cliff suck in a sharp breath.
Ollie chuckled. “It’s just one time. My drums and Ronan’s keyboard—they’re heavy. They hauled it all up for us, so we had to show some thanks.”
Cliff looked like he was about to pass out. “How can you not care? That’s a whole night’s lodging, and you just tossed it out as a tip!”
“Heh, it’s a one-off. No big deal,” Ollie said, still carefree, totally missing why Cliff was stressing.
Cliff’s chest tightened with frustration.
Chapter 127: A Gap in Treatment
Ollie couldn’t wrap his head around Cliff’s stress. “…Anyway, tonight’s lodging is sorted, so that tip can just count as part of the stay, right? Besides, this place is way better than a motel—I’d say we’re coming out ahead.”
A five-star hotel room versus a damp, stuffy, cramped, paper-thin-walled, chaotic motel? No contest.
Cliff took a deep breath, feeling like his hair was falling out. “One time? You think it’s just once? Have you considered how we’re getting the instruments downstairs? We’ve got rehearsals soon—moving them again means more tips. How do we handle that?”
“…” Ollie froze. He clearly hadn’t thought that far, but voices from inside the room cut their exchange short.
“Ollie! They’ve got bathrobes in here!”
“Whoa! There’s a mini fridge too!”
“Ollie, Ollie, did you know they offer laundry service? And they’ll even press pants or hem them—wow!”
Truth be told, the band’s room was just a basic double standard, not some fancy suite. The amenities and services were standard hotel fare.
Ronan’s over-the-top excitement had a “country bumpkin in the big city” vibe, which prompted Ollie to tease, “You better finish gawking before Alice gets here, or every YouTube viewer’s gonna see you like this.”
Ronan fired back without missing a beat. “If I remember right, Alice already caught you gushing in the lobby. Worry about yourself first.”
Ollie’s face darkened with mock indignation, and he launched into a chirpy protest.
But Ronan wasn’t listening anymore—his attention had locked onto the view outside the window.
A floor-to-ceiling window flooded the room with light. Standing there, he could see the horizon stretch out, the sprawling city unfurling at his feet. The jagged skyline of buildings pieced together a natural masterpiece.
This was a sight no two-story motel could ever offer.
Cliff trailed Ollie through the bathroom corridor into the room, spotting Ronan’s tall figure by the window.
Ronan was a bit taller and leaner than Ollie—187 cm of lanky, balanced frame. Sparse light outlined his silhouette, tall and upright. Against the gray sky, his silent back carried a hint of gloom, like he was lost in thought. It made you wonder what breathtaking scene his eyes were drinking in.
Then he turned around, and even with the light behind him, the excitement in his expression shone through.
“Ah! Room service! Can we order now? Pasta, pizza, meatballs, steak, fries, onion soup, burgers, fried chicken, sausage, mashed potatoes, lamb chops, sushi… They’ve got a ton of options!”
Cliff nearly choked on his own spit. “…”
Ronan’s bright eyes darted between Cliff and Ollie, radiating a contagious energy that lit up the room. Even the cloudy sky behind him seemed to brighten a little.
Knock, knock, knock.
A rap at the door jolted Cliff. He opened it, and Maxim’s voice poured in with the air.
“…I came out of the bathroom, and everyone was gone—I thought you fell out the window or something. So, you all settled? Should we sit down now and talk about Ronan and Ollie’s stuff from earlier? Or head straight to the venue for rehearsal?”
As he spoke, Maxim felt a chill lock onto him, like a jolt up his spine. Every hair on his back stood up, and his words died mid-sentence. He glanced back warily—nothing. Puzzled, he turned forward and met Ronan’s silent, piercing stare tracking his every move.
Maxim faltered, letting out a nervous chuckle. “What’s up? Why’s it feel like someone stepped on your tail?”
Whoosh!
Maxim swore Ronan’s glare could devour him. Then Ollie’s voice chimed in. “Ronan’s in hangry mode right now.”
“Oh.” Maxim let out a quick sound, squirming under Ronan’s gaze before looking away. “…How about we hit the restaurant for lunch first? What do you think? It’s better than room service—more options, nicer vibe.”
“What should we eat? Italian? French? Mexican?” Ronan’s mood flipped instantly, buzzing with enthusiasm.
Maxim felt the invisible blade lift from his neck. He caught Ollie’s sympathetic look—
Congrats on dodging that bullet!
In the end, One Day Kings and Alice headed to the hotel restaurant for lunch. Ronan went with Italian—
Mostly because money was tight. They weren’t sure if their meals here would be covered, and pizza was the cheapest, filling option. Even Ronan, the bottomless pit, couldn’t finish it all, leaning back with a full belly and sleepy eyes.
Stuffed and satisfied, Maxim brought up his next worry. “What’s the plan now? Ronan, what’d the assistant say in the emails?”
From locking in the trip at dawn to racing to Washington, it’d been a whirlwind. There’d barely been time for email back-and-forth. Ronan had confirmed things with John Mark’s assistant before leaving the motel, but hadn’t checked since.
Maxim’s question hit him, and Ronan’s face blanked for a second. Maxim caught on instantly, his temples pulsing—
They hadn’t even checked the emails before coming down to eat? Couldn’t tell what mattered most? What was going on?
But before he could say anything, a stranger interrupted.
“Excuse me, you’re One Day Kings, right?”
All eyes snapped over. A young guy stood there—tanned skin screaming surfer vibes, baseball cap, neon T-shirt, jeans, full-on street style. Not quite the image they’d expected.
“I’m Julio Lupito, John Mark’s assistant. We’ve been emailing. Wait—did I get the right people?”
(End of Chapter)
