Chapter 245: CH : 235 The Generous Uncle
Chapter 245: CH : 235 The Generous Uncle
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*****
The porch erupted into warm laughter.
The pride radiating from his grandparents felt tangible in the air which it was very much for him. To the rest of the world, Marvin Meyers remained a terrifying prodigy, the secret youngest self-made billionaire in history. But here, amidst the rolling hills and the smell of home-cooked food wafting from the kitchen, he represented the crown jewel of their bloodline.
They felt fiercely protective of him. His genuine nature moved them. His wealth left them unfazed. To Arthur and Eleanor, his greatest achievement wasn’t his bank balance; it remained the simple fact that he remembered to say ’please’ and ’thank you’.
Marvin finally managed to break away from his grandmother’s affectionate embrace. Playing his part to perfection, he took a quick step back. He hid playfully behind his mother’s shoulder with a look of mock, lingering fear.
"Hey now," Eleanor pouted, putting her hands on her hips. Her eyes danced with amusement. "Our little Marvin grows up and makes his billions, and now he doesn’t want to be close to his Grandma anymore. I feel very sad."
"Mom, okay, stop teasing him," Linda laughed. She reached back to ruffle Marvin’s hair, smoothly helping her son out of the spotlight. "He sat in boardrooms with men twice your age for two months. Give him a minute to remember how to be a kid."
Frank finally pushed off the wooden railing. The soon-to-be groom looked relaxed. He carried the easy energy of a man looking forward to his wedding day. He walked down the steps and casually threw a heavy arm around Marvin’s shoulders.
"Alright, that’s enough torture for one afternoon," Frank declared with a wide grin. "Come on, Marvin. Let’s go hit the stables. Uncle Frank plans to take you to ride some real horses, and we can safely ignore all these adults."
—
The Meyers family settled comfortably into the rhythm of the sprawling ranch owned by Marvin’s maternal grandparents. The crisp air carried the scent of dry earth and pine, a sharp contrast to the salty humidity of Los Angeles or the smog-choked skies of the Asian mega cities.
What quickly began to strike Marvin as bizarre was the unrelenting enthusiasm radiating from his uncle Frank.
Frank, usually a man who enjoyed his own space and quiet mornings with a cup of black coffee on the porch, suddenly hovered around Marvin like an eager tour guide trying to secure a five-star review.
On the very first day of their arrival, before the sun had fully crested the hills, Frank presented Marvin with a coal-black foal. The men of the family—Grant, Arthur, Frank, and Marvin—spent the morning riding along the property lines. Marvin leveraged his physical coordination and took to the saddle instantly.
He rode with a natural grace that left Frank beaming with boisterous pride. It provided simple, uncomplicated fun.
The next morning brought an escalation.
Marvin awoke to find a brand-new, top-of-the-line off-road dirt bike gleaming in the driveway. It included a helmet adorned with his initials. Frank grinned, tossing him the keys with a wink. He declared that every young man needed to know how to handle an engine in the dirt.
But the crescendo of Frank’s uncle-bonding campaign arrived on the third day.
"Get dressed, kid," Frank announced at breakfast. He slapped a pair of VIP lanyards onto the kitchen island. "We are heading back into the city. I managed to score front-row tickets at the Staples Center. The Lakers host the Timberwolves tonight."
Marvin soon found himself sitting courtside. His leather jacket draped over the back. The polished hardwood of the court sat mere feet away.
"Marvin, I’m telling you, you made a profit coming with me today," Frank yelled over the deafening roar of the arena, leaning close to be heard. "These seats cost a small fortune. You can practically feel the sweat. When they inbound the ball, you can even greet Shaquille O’Neal up close."
"That’s nice," Marvin replied, adjusting his sunglasses. His tone carried a sophisticated indifference. "But I think I like Kobe better."
Frank chuckled, shaking his head. "Everyone loves Kobe. But Shaq is the mountain that moves."
Marvin merely shrugged.
In truth, the demonic soul of the Incubus occupying this thirteen-year-old body completely failed to grasp the appeal of basketball. The premise seemed trivial. ’Ten grown men,’ Marvin mused silently. ’Chasing a single, inflated leather sphere, attempting to throw it into a small iron ring guarded by their opponents.’
It lacked the poetry and blood of a sword fight or the intellectual stakes of corporate warfare.
Yet, as the buzzer sounded and the game commenced, the undeniable kinetic energy of the arena began to infect him.
The squeak of rubber soles on polished wood.
The physical collisions under the rim. The roar of twenty thousand fans vibrating in his chest.
Marvin’s senses always attuned to the flow of human desire and emotions. He picked up the raw hunger radiating from the players. It was a vigorous, unyielding desire to conquer, to establish dominance in a confined arena.
’Perhaps,’ Marvin conceded internally, leaning forward slightly in his courtside seat, ’this spectacle isn’t so pointless after all. It is merely warfare distilled into a civilian format. And I could take advantage of it.’
He began to watch the players. His eyes naturally gravitated toward the young man wearing the number 8 jersey. Kobe Bryant.
Marvin watched Kobe carefully. The young guard’s movements were not merely athletic.
They were fluid and efficient. His crossover dribbles looked sharp, shifting his center of gravity with a deceptive speed that left defenders grasping at air. His shooting form provided a study in perfect biomechanics—a graceful, elevated arc possessing a distinct aesthetic beauty. It offered an elegance of motion that fell well within Marvin’s sophisticated standard for art.
The Lakers dominated the tempo of the game.
Kobe’s performance proved electric. He demanded the ball, racking up 16 points before the first half even wrapped up.
Then, it happened.
Kobe intercepted a sloppy pass near half-court.
He accelerated toward the rim with explosive speed, leaving two Timberwolves defenders trailing in his wake. He leaped, seemingly hanging in the air for a second, before slamming the ball through the hoop with a reverse, two-handed dunk.
*Boom!*
The entire Staples Center erupted. It ignited into a frenzy of screaming, manic energy. The sound hit with deafening force, a physical wave of adoration and excitement.
Marvin looked around at the screaming faces. He saw the ambient, vibrating energy of the crowd. Suddenly, his own expression shifted.
The raw, artistic frequency of the moment—the explosiveness of the dunk, the roaring crowd, the blinding arena lights—triggered something deep within his mind. He saw a chance to make this about himself with a rhythm accompanied by sharp, rapid-fire lyrics.
He turned sharply to his uncle. "Frank, do you have any paper with you?"
Frank stopped cheering. He looked down at his nephew in confusion. "Paper? Do you need to use the toilet? It’s down the hall to the left."
"No, I don’t need a toilet," Marvin said, his voice urgent, cutting through the noise. "I need writing paper. I suddenly had a surge of inspiration. I need to write this down right now."
"Uh, let me check." Frank patted his jacket pockets frantically. "I have a pack of cocktail napkins from the lounge?" He produced a crinkled stack of thin, white napkins.
"Too flimsy," Marvin dismissed them instantly.
"Oh, wait!" Frank reached into his inner breast pocket. "I have my checkbook. I just picked it up from the bank this morning." He pulled out a sleek, leather-bound book of blank checks.
"The checkbook. Give it to me. Yes."
"Wait, Marvin, those are brand new, official bank drafts—never mind!"
Before Frank could finish his sentence or pull his hand back, Marvin snatched the checkbook.
He produced the silver Montblanc fountain pen he always carried in his jacket pocket. He uncapped it with a sharp click, and began writing furiously across the blank, watermarked checks.
Coincidentally or intentionally as his aura was concentrated at one person, at that exact moment, the high-definition camera sweeping the courtside VIP row for the overhead Jumbotron panned past their section. The lens swept over Jack Nicholson, drifted past Denzel Washington, and then suddenly jerked back. It zoomed in tightly on Frank and Marvin.
The cameraman in the production booth felt genuinely puzzled, but also deeply amused by the stark contrast of the visual.
Frank and Marvin’s faces appeared on the four-sided big screen suspended above the center of the court.
The surrounding audience, still buzzing from Kobe’s spectacular dunk, looked up at the screen. They saw a boy wearing dark designer sunglasses and a sleek, black baseball cap pulled low. He completely ignored the game. Instead, he hunched over his lap, head down, writing frantically in what looked like a checkbook with a silver pen.
A collective wave of confusion rippled through twenty thousand people.
"Who is that kid?" a man three rows back muttered, squinting at the screen. "Doesn’t he look familiar?"
"What on earth is he doing?" a woman next to him laughed. "Is he seriously doing his middle school math homework while sitting courtside at a Lakers game?"
"Damn," another fan grumbled enviously. "What a waste of a ten-thousand-dollar ticket. I would kill to be in that seat."
The scene looked jarringly out of place. While everyone around him stood, spilled beer, and shouted for Kobe’s feat, this lone child anchored to his seat, completely immersed in his own silent, furious world of creation.
Then, the murmurs began to ripple through the lower bowl.
"Wait... take the cap off. I think I know who that is."
"Holy shit. Isn’t that Marvin Meyers? The kid who performed at the Oscars?"
"Oh, my God, it is him!" a teenage girl shrieked, pointing at the screen. "That’s Marvin! I bought his EP! I have his poster in my room!"
"Today’s ticket price was entirely worth it," a sports journalist in the press box muttered. He rapidly typed on his laptop. *"The Lakers dominate the game, and the youngest Oscar-winner in Hollywood does his homework during a fast break."* What incredible news material."
The veteran entertainment reporters scattered throughout the VIP sections instantly recognized Marvin despite the hat and sunglasses. They became electrified, smelling a viral story before the term even existed.
Some seasoned editors were already mentally drafting the punchy headlines for tomorrow’s sports and entertainment pages:
***"Genius Marvin Meyers Bored by Lakers; Ignores Kobe to Do Homework Courtside!"***
***"The Boy Wonder Strikes Again: Marvin Finds Math More Exciting Than a Staples Center Slam Dunk!"***
***"How a Musical Genius Operates: Marvin Meyers Composes Next Hit During Lakers Fast Break."***
The rising commotion in the audience—the pointing, the sudden flashes of unauthorized cameras, the wave of whispers—eventually attracted the attention of the players on the hardwood.
During a brief stoppage in play for a foul call, Shaquille O’Neal wiped sweat from his brow with a towel. He glanced up at the Jumbotron.
He let out a booming laugh, walking over and throwing a heavy arm around Kobe’s shoulders.
"Hey, Kobe," Shaq chuckled. He pointed a large finger toward the courtside seats. "It seems that your flashy little reverse dunks are not enough to attract the attention of our resident little genius over there. The kid would rather do his algebra homework than watch you fly."
As a self-proclaimed "entertainment shark," Shaq stayed highly plugged into the currents of the Hollywood entertainment industry. He operated as a savvy businessman who tracked cultural relevance. He had personally purchased and listened to Marvin’s mini-album,
*Marvin 1*, in his car. He actually liked the complex vocals, especially the haunting, melancholic second track. Of course, the towering center would never publicly admit to the imagery that came to his mind when listening to the boy’s music in private.
Kobe focused on the defensive scheme, blinked in confusion. He wiped his chin. He squinted toward the courtside seats. "Who is he? Do you know him, Shaq? What genius are you talking about? Is he some kind of high school basketball prodigy?"
O’Neal looked down at Kobe in genuine, theatrical surprise. "Man, sometimes you really need to step out of the gym and pay attention to things in the world other than a basketball rim. That kid right there is Marvin Meyers. He is literally the most famous, popular star in Hollywood right now."
Shaq leaned closer, adopting the tone of a seasoned veteran educating a rookie. "That little guy is a mega-star, Kobe. He just won an Oscar for his soundtrack. His live performance at the Academy Awards reached over a billion people globally. He’s written bestselling books. The kid is a walking mint."
After dropping those credentials, O’Neal puffed out his chest, adding with a booming laugh, "And the music this little guy creates? It is amazing. Honestly, it’s almost as good as the rap albums I make! I will definitely take you over to the sideline to get to know the little guy later when the quarter ends."
****
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