Chapter 99 – The Crow Takes a Plane
The redheaded woman at the check-in desk gave Caroline a sideways glance. Her plump figure jiggled exaggeratedly as she leaned forward, faking surprise:
"Did you just say… Channing? Caroline Channing? Wait, are you that Caroline Channing?"
Immediately, the people nearby turned to stare, their expressions laced with amusement, curiosity—and judgment.
Caroline ducked her head lower, her voice barely audible as she tried to explain, "Yes… I personally called the event organizers. My name is on the list…"
She was on the verge of tears.
The redhead glanced down and slowly dragged her finger down the printed guest list, theatrically sounding it out:
"Channing… Channing… Channing… Nope, sorry. No 'Caroline Channing' here."
Caroline sighed and rubbed her temple, completely mortified.
"Try looking under my name," Max said, stepping forward and glaring at the woman. "Max Black. We're together."
The redhead, unfazed, continued calling out Caroline's last name louder and louder each time—as if it were a public announcement.
Caroline wished the floor would just swallow her whole. If only a white knight would appear to rescue her right now. But who was she kidding? Real life isn't a fairy tale. She had learned that the day she was thrown out of her family mansion.
Just then, a sharp voice rang out from the entrance:
> "Shut your mouth. If you say 'Caroline Channing' one more time, I swear I'll rip your windpipe out, tie it in a bow, and strangle you with it."
Caroline turned around, eyes wide with surprise and joy.
"Ron!" she gasped—and rushed straight into his arms.
After everything she'd endured that evening, her white knight had finally arrived.
Max smirked, adding with a snide grin,
"Sounds even more violent than it did in my head."
Ron gently patted Caroline's back, his eyes locked on the redhead—but his real attention was aimed at the event planner's assistant standing behind her.
"If I'm not mistaken," Ron said coldly, "the organizer of this event is Paul Platt, correct?"
The assistant gave a quick, nervous nod.
"Good. Tell him Ron Lee Cooper is here. I'm attending—with two guests. Now move."
Intimidated by Ron's presence, the assistant stammered into a headset, quietly relaying the name. Ron watched with amusement as the young man's jaw dropped further with each word.
"I apologize, Mr. Cooper," the assistant said quickly. "Right this way, sir. Mr. Platt will be out shortly to personally apologize to you."
He led them toward the security checkpoint, adding nervously,
"Also… could I ask that you not bring your firearm inside? Mr. Platt specifically instructed me to make sure you're… unarmed."
Ron spread his arms with a casual shrug.
"Of course. Who brings a gun to a party?"
Two staff members stepped up and scanned him with metal detectors—front and back. No weapons were found.
The assistant's face fell.
His boss had clearly told him: This man is always armed. Make sure he doesn't bring anything in. The poor guy didn't want Ron to insert anything into any part of his body like last time.
Ron grinned. "So, are we good to go?"
"Y-Yes… of course," the assistant stammered. The detectors hadn't picked up a thing—so they had no excuse to stop him. Still, the assistant called over two bodyguards to follow them in closely.
"This way, please."
Smooch!
As they walked through security, Ron got a kiss on each cheek—one from Caroline, one from Max.
The moment made him feel like he was just one step closer to his fantasy of the three of them "hanging out" together.
"If you hadn't shown up," Max said, half-joking, "I was ready to grab a clipboard and pretend we were part of the staff."
She paused, wide-eyed. "Ron, I can't believe you know Paul Platt—the King of Parties!"
Ron chuckled softly, shaking his head.
"King of Parties? That's a new one. I always thought his real job was serving as a broker between different capital groups."
He paused, then added dryly,
"We're not friends. Every now and then, when he forgets to pay his taxes, I show up to… remind him."
Of course, Ron's idea of a "reminder" was to shove a cold metal barrel into someone's mouth—or somewhere far worse—and demand to know when he was getting paid.
This, of course, was why Paul had emphatically reminded his assistant to check Ron for weapons—especially since his hemorrhoids had been acting up again lately.
---
Ron gently slipped his arms around the waists of the two women beside him and gave a slight nudge.
"Ladies," he said with a roguish smile, "I know you're here for something important tonight, so don't worry about me. Go take care of your business—I wish you the best of luck."
His chivalrous gesture earned him two more kisses, one from each side. As he watched the women disappear into the ballroom crowd, Ron turned around, eyes narrowing mischievously at the two bodyguards tailing him like he was some dangerous criminal.
He really didn't appreciate being followed with that kind of attitude. Time to teach them a little lesson.
The two large Black bodyguards suddenly felt… a distinct tightening in their rear ends.
"W-What are you planning to do?" one of them stammered. Years of experience told them instantly: this guy was not someone you messed with.
Ron held out his hands innocently.
"Relax. I just had a little too much champagne and need to use the restroom. That okay with you two? Or would you like to join me?"
The two bodyguards looked at each other, skeptical.
You've been here five minutes. What champagne?
"…Of course, sir." Bound by orders, they followed him in.
---
The party was just getting started when Ron entered the bathroom. It was empty—just as he'd hoped. The two bodyguards stepped in behind him, but Ron didn't head for the urinals.
Instead, he turned to face them—and smiled. That kind of smile.
The bodyguards tensed.
"What… what are you doing?"
Ron cocked his head playfully.
"Ever heard of the move 'The Crow Takes a Plane'?"
Before they could answer, Ron took a step back—then suddenly stomped one foot hard on the tile.
Boom!
Like a spring-loaded weapon, his body launched forward. In just six strides, he hit maximum speed, and by the time the guards braced themselves, Ron was already in the air.
His hands reached out toward their faces as if to gouge their eyes—forcing them to flinch—but it was only a distraction.
With insane core strength, he snapped his torso backward midair, bringing up both knees with brutal precision.
CRACK!
He landed both knees squarely into their chests.
Ron swore he heard the crack of ribs.
The two bodyguards collapsed instantly, groaning in pain and completely incapacitated.
Ron let out a satisfied stretch.
"Man… almost forgot Paul still owes some of last year's taxes. Might as well pull some overtime tonight~"
---
Just then, the bathroom door creaked open. An elderly man stepped in, only to freeze in shock at the scene—two unconscious men sprawled on the ground, and Ron casually adjusting his collar.
Ron turned, calm as ever.
"Careful. The floor's really slippery. Walk safe. Also—Stan Lee? My little brother's a huge fan."
---
(Classic Stan Lee Entry?)