An aristo catwalk posture could be coached into a cack-handed nonentity, Siddhartha Huff surmised. Dialect was a horse of a different color. Sidd knew he must stifle Claw Hammer’s classless koine — the drawling pidgin of dinghy-spawn pullulating like maggots beyond the gates. Otherwise, the kid would never pass for highbrow amongst the real McCoy.
The way forward was to go for broke. Sidd would saturate the hapless ding with fossilized audio of a Jacob Rees-Mogg speech excavated from silicon hacked out of meso-diluvian flotsam calcified in substrate. Acquiring a semblance of the sculpted consonance and vocalic resonance of Old High Dulcet just might enable Claw Hammer to feign distinction when the time came.
Taking the Dingo out of the ding was akin to taking the monkey out of the simian — a steep climb — but not beyond the powers of a Rhipidistian bent on transitioning to Mamasutra. “By thunder!” Sidd murmured to himself. “Siddhartha Huff-bin-Chuck is a creature bred for challenge!”
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