Chapter 23: The Bet for Uncle Martin
"Hello, Prince William, Prince Harry."
Martin greeted the two young princes with a flawless London accent.
It's well-known that the English language has its own hierarchy of accents: London at the top, followed by East of England, then Birmingham, and continuing down through Northern England, Canadian, American, Australian, New Zealand, Scottish, Irish, Singaporean, and finally, Indian English.
Legend has it that before Margaret Thatcher took office as Prime Minister, she hired a professional announcer and a speech coach to rigorously train her pronunciation. After two years, her voice became clearer, her tone more rounded, resonant, and appealing. Thatcher herself admitted that her "vocal image" won her considerable favor with voters, helping her secure valuable support.
In situations like these, if Martin had spoken in American English, people would have hidden their amusement behind polite faces but certainly thought, What a hillbilly from America.
Back to the present.
William and Harry turned toward the voice and saw a young man around their age addressing them.
"Who are you?" William gave Martin a dismissive glance.
Harry was even more direct. "Go away, we don't want to talk to anyone right now."
The two boys were in their rebellious phase, and their parents' divorce had only intensified their irritability.
Martin shrugged, ready to leave. He wasn't one to fawn over royalty, especially when the British crown had no reach across the Atlantic to America.
But just then, William called out, "Wait!"
Martin stopped, giving him a calm, questioning look. "What is it?"
"Where did you get that ring?"
With that, William lunged forward, stopping right in front of Martin and glaring up at him, his face filled with hostility.
At fourteen, William was still half a head shorter than Martin. In the future, he would grow to 1.91 meters, much taller than Martin's own carefully planned height of no more than 1.85 meters, with proportions sculpted to follow the golden ratio.
Though many experts would later challenge the idea of the "golden ratio" as the perfect proportion, it remained true that things aligned to it were indeed pleasing to the human eye.
From microscopic to cosmic scales, from plants to seashells, insects to the human body, the solar system to the galaxy, the golden ratio exists in abundance throughout the universe.
Martin, ever the perfectionist, had long noticed the golden proportions in human body structures and organs.
The human forearm, for example, divided at the wrist follows a [5:13] ratio, close to the golden ratio, which, if deviated from, appears oddly unbalanced.
And every human finger, composed of three bones, also follows the golden ratio.
Even the shape of human ears is "designed" in the form of a perfect golden spiral, like a nautilus shell.
People whose teeth, lips, and facial features fit this ratio tend to appear more aesthetically pleasing or "well-proportioned."
By 2023, ideal proportion standards like these are templates for orthodontics and facial cosmetic surgery.
Driven by a daemonic fixation on beauty, Martin was controlling his body's growth toward the golden ratio, aiming to achieve both "stunning elegance" and "mesmerizing allure"โthough if forced to choose, he would unquestionably favor the latter.
"Tell me, where did you get that ring?" William's tone grew increasingly impatient.
At that moment, Harry also approached. Noticing the old silver ring with an emerald on Martin's left middle finger, he gasped, "Isn't that Mom's ring? Why are you wearing it?"
Martin held up his left hand and wiggled his fingers. "Oh, this? Your mother gave it to me!"
"Liar! You stole it," William snapped.
He knew that Martin couldn't have stolen the ring, otherwise, he wouldn't wear it so openly. What enraged him was that he had asked his mom for it several times, only to be turned down. Yet, here it was, given to a boy his own age, sparking a feeling that his mother's affection had been taken away.
"Stole?" Martin chuckled, realizing he was dealing with a couple of bratty kids.
Putting on a serious face, he said, "Do you even know who I am?"
Before William or Harry could respond, Martin gave a slight smile. "I'm your Uncle Martin."
"Liar! You're the same age as us. You can't be our uncle!" Harry spat out angrily.
"I meant by seniority," Martin replied.
William scowled, staring at Martin coldly. "You're lying. There's no way you're our uncle."
"I know all our relatives," he continued. "Harry and I don't have an uncle as young as you."
"Yeah, we don't have an uncle as young as you," Harry chimed in.
"I never said we were related by blood. I'm your mom's godbrother, which makes me your god-uncle. Isn't that right?"
"You're talking nonsense! Mom would never take you as a brother!"
"Brother, he's messing with us. Let's beat him up!"
Harry lunged at him, but William held him back.
"Quiet! This is Mom's charity event. Don't make a scene."
It seemed Harry's temper was even shorter than William's. Although William was jealous and wanted to confront Martin, his lowered tone showed he understood the importance of self-restraint.
Once he had stopped his brother, William looked coldly at Martin and said, "Listen, Mr. Martinโif you insist on being so rude, let me remind you that you are not our uncle. Even if Mom considers you a brother, that doesn't make you one. And that ring is a family item. Give it back."
Martin tilted his head slightly and blinked. "How about we make a bet? If I win, you call me Uncle Martin. If I lose, I'll return the ring. Deal?"
"Do it, William!" Harry urged, clearly excited.
William, however, kept his composure. "What's the bet?"
"I bet I can make him crawl on the floor and bark like a dog."
Martin smiled and gestured toward a balding middle-aged man standing a short distance away.
That man's name? Grant Brook.
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