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GodofPleasure
*****
Chapter 5 - Genius Young Writer, Screenplay
The afternoon sun was beginning to dip, painting the marble pillars of the Meyers' reception room in hues of deep ochre and liquid gold. Benjamin Georgia sat paralyzed for a moment, his gaze darting between the professional-grade character sketches and the ten-year-old boy who had just dismantled two decades of his editorial skepticism.
Sheena, usually the most stoic assistant in the Random House building, looked at the drawings of Po and Tai Lung, then back at Marvin. To her, this wasn't just a discovery; it was a tectonic shift. Marvin wasn't just selling a story; he was handing them the deed to a multi-billion dollar empire, and his calm, azure eyes suggested he knew the exact market valuation of every single ink stroke.
"Mr. Benjamin," Marvin said, breaking the silence with a voice that was smooth and devoid of any childish tremor. "This is my creative process. I believe that should clear up any lingering doubts about the authorship."
Benjamin let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. A short, breathless laugh escaped him. "Marvin... 'smart' doesn't even begin to cover it. I can't look at you as an ordinary kid anymore. I am absolutely certain now. You aren't just the writer; you are the architect of the Valley of Peace."
The room had transformed. It was no longer a suburban living room; it was a theater of the future, a crucible where a new era of entertainment was being forged.
Benjamin straightened his suit jacket, his expression shifting into the dead-serious mask he usually reserved for high-stakes auctions at Sotheby's. He leaned in, treating the boy as a peer—a full partner in a global venture. "Marvin, let's look at the royalty percentages. Because after seeing these illustrations and hearing your vision... the initial offer I had in my bag is far too low. It would be an insult to your talent."
Marvin's smile widened just a fraction. Checkmate. The "Incubus" within him hummed with satisfaction, feasting on the pure, concentrated respect and awe radiating from the two professionals.
Benjamin glanced at Grant, then back at the boy. "So, regarding the copyright fees, the advances, and the sub-rights... will you be the one to negotiate this with me? Or will Mr. Grant or Ms. Linda be taking the lead?"
In an instant, the air shifted again. Marvin stood up, stretching his small limbs with a theatrical yawn. The predatory sharpness, the CEO-level composure, and the magnetic gravity vanished as if they had never been. In their place stood a tired, innocent little boy.
"Oh, leave all that boring stuff to my dad," Marvin said, his voice hitting a high, youthful pitch. He gave a bashful, dimpled grin. "I'm just a kid, after all! I have a piano lesson soon and I still haven't finished my math homework."
Sheena couldn't help but burst into a fit of giggles, the tension breaking instantly.
Benjamin, Linda, and Grant joined in, the room filling with the warm, easy sound of laughter.
But beneath that laughter, Marvin's mind was a steel trap. He had already spent the last two nights meticulously prepping his parents. He had walked Grant through the "sliding scale" royalty structure, the importance of retaining the movie and merchandising "reversion and rights" clauses, and the absolute necessity of firm copyright control. Grant Meyers, a man who managed billions for J.P. Morgan, had been stunned to find his son teaching him the finer points of intellectual property law.
Nothing—not a single decimal point—had been left to chance.
To any other small publisher, Kung Fu Panda might have just been a charming talking-animal story. But Marvin knew that to a house like Random House, this was a strategic "Master Key."
Kung Fu Panda, as a novel, offered more than a compelling narrative; it carried cultural weight. Its foundation, deeply rooted in Chinese traditions, gave it a natural advantage—not only in Western markets but across Asia as well. China's cultural footprint, after all, extends far beyond its borders, influencing neighboring regions in language, philosophy, cuisine, martial arts, and aesthetics. Because of that, a story built on such elements wouldn't feel foreign in Asia—it would feel familiar, almost native, allowing it to resonate across multiple countries with minimal resistance.
Because this story felt "native" to the East—respectful of its martial arts, its food, and its "Master-Disciple" hierarchy—it wouldn't encounter the friction usually faced by Western exports. It was a Trojan Horse of entertainment.
With the right backing, a publisher wouldn't simply be releasing a book—they would be positioning themselves to break into a vast and interconnected market. This single title could serve as a gateway, opening distribution channels, building brand recognition, and laying the groundwork for future titles across the region.
And this was the ideal work to lead that charge.
The vision behind it wasn't vague—it was deliberate. A carefully structured global rollout, designed to penetrate both domestic and international markets simultaneously. One of the biggest hurdles in international publishing—localization—had already been removed.
There would be no need for translation delays or additional costs.
He had already completed it.
The novel existed not only in English but also in Mandarin, Japanese, Korean, French, and a few other languages—each version thoughtfully written, not merely translated, preserving cultural nuance and narrative flow. For him, it had been effortless.
Not through crude translation, but through thoughtful adaptation, ensuring the puns worked in Tokyo and the emotional beats resonated in Seoul.
From a business perspective, that alone was invaluable. It enabled simultaneous multi-market releases, unified promotional campaigns, and immediate accessibility across regions—advantages that typically required enormous time and financial investment.
More than that, it transformed the book into a cross-cultural flagship property.
With the right push, it could extend far beyond print—into illustrated editions, merchandising, adaptations, and licensing deals. The characters, themes, and world-building all held strong commercial potential.
This wasn't just about selling a successful novel.
It was about establishing a lasting presence.
And whoever secured the rights wouldn't merely gain a bestseller—
They would gain a strategic foothold in the Asian market.
And all of this… had already been discussed with his parents—who, after consulting a trusted lawyer friend, had given their full approval.
Marvin was pretty sure Random House thought of this too.
"Dad," Marvin said suddenly, pausing at the door as he prepared to leave the "men" to their business. He turned back, his expression momentarily sharp again. "Don't forget to tell Mr. Benjamin that my age is the greatest promotional gimmick in the history of the industry. The 'Eleven-Year-Old Visionary' is a headline that writes itself. That's our biggest bargaining chip. Don't sell it cheap."
Grant and Benjamin both blinked, taken aback by the sudden reappearance of the "Hunter." Then Marvin winked at his father and vanished behind his mother.
Linda led Marvin through the house to the small hall in the backyard—a sun-drenched conservatory filled with orchids and the scent of damp earth.
"You really handled that well, honey," Linda said, sitting on a wicker chair and pulling Marvin onto the footstool beside her. She ran a hand through his hair, her eyes searching his.
"But sometimes I wonder... where did my little boy go? You've become so... capable."
Marvin leaned his head against her knee, feeling the role of the doting son to perfection.
"I'm still here, Mom. I just realized that if I want to tell my stories to the whole world, I have to learn how the world works. Dad always says professionals leave the work to professionals, right? I'm just making sure the professionals have something worth working on."
Linda smiled, but a shadow of maternal worry remained. She had seen the way Benjamin looked at him—not like a child, but like a gold mine. "Just promise me you won't grow up too fast. You're still ten, Marvin. You're allowed to just play."
"I am playing, Mom," Marvin whispered, his eyes fixed on a butterfly hovering over a violet. "The whole world is just one big game of 'Let's Pretend.' I'm just playing it better than everyone else."
"Marvin," Linda began, her voice soft but carry a weight of genuine curiosity. "That meeting with Benjamin... you were incredible. But as a professor of film, I have to ask the question I didn't want to ask in front of the 'Book Men.' How on earth did you come into contact with Chinese culture so deeply? I've looked at the syllabus for your tutors, and while your French is improving and your piano skills have suddenly... skyrocketed... I don't recall us ever hiring a specialist in Eastern studies for you."
Marvin didn't blink. He had been expecting this. To a normal ten-year-old, the grueling schedule of an elite scion—etiquette lessons, horseback riding at the club, Latin drills, and classical painting—was a form of refined torture. The "old" Marvin had spent most of those hours staring out the window or faking stomach aches.
But for the souls that became one with this body, these lessons were a feast.
Incubus were, by their very nature, the ultimate mimics. They were natural artists who understood the geometry of beauty; they were linguists who grasped the rhythm of a tongue before they even knew the vocabulary. The "ritual" of the Meyers' lifestyle—the specific way a salad fork was held, the precise tension in a piano sonata, the posture required for dressage—was not a chore. It was nourishment. Every lesson was a new layer of "allure" he could add to his arsenal.
His tutors were already whispered among themselves that Marvin Meyers had "seen the light." His piano teacher had gone from scolding him for missed scales to sitting in stunned silence as the boy played Chopin with an emotional depth that should have been impossible for a pre-teen.
But the "Eastern" knowledge? That required a more creative explanation.
"Mom," Marvin said, his voice smooth and reassuring, "it wasn't a tutor. It was curiosity. My math teacher at school, Mr. Chen? He's of Chinese descent, and he has one of the most fascinating personal libraries I've ever seen. I started borrowing books from him months ago—not just about China, but Japan and Korea as well. I found that the philosophies there... they help me find the 'center' for my ideas."
He leaned forward, his blue eyes locking onto hers with a focused intensity. "It's not just about history, Mom. It's about the sound of the world. I wanted to understand the rhythm of the people I was writing about. I didn't just read; I practiced. Listen—"
Marvin's expression shifted. The boyish softness of his face didn't change, but his aura suddenly took on a different cadence.
"Annyeonghaseyo, gamsahamnida, cheonmaneyo..." The Korean flowed from his lips with a soft, melodic lilt, perfectly capturing the polite honorifics of Seoul.
Without a pause, his tone sharpened slightly, becoming more rhythmic and percussive. "Konnichiwa, arigatou gozaimasu, dou itashimashite..." The Japanese was crisp, his posture subtly stiffening to match the linguistic formality.
Then, he softened his vocal cords, the sounds becoming more tonal and fluid. "Ni hao, xie xie, bu ke qi, chi le ma, zai jian." The Mandarin was impeccable, the four tones dancing through the air of the conservatory with the precision of a native speaker.
Linda sat back, her hand fluttering to her throat. For a long moment, she just stared at him. She was a woman who dealt in the "illusion" of cinema every day, yet her own son was performing a feat of transformation that felt more real than anything she'd seen on a screen.
"Even though I can't understand a word of it," Linda whispered, a shaky laugh escaping her, "my son... you are truly amazing."
She reached out, her fingers trembling slightly with affection, and ruffled his brown hair too much, mussing the neatly combed waves he had carefully set before the meeting.
"No, Mom! Not the hair!" Marvin protested, though he didn't pull away. He feigned a look of deep, tragic annoyance, ducking his head with a playful grin. "That took me ten minutes to get right. It's my 'Professional Author' look."
"Haha!" Linda's laughter rang out, bright and clear, echoing off the glass walls. "My little angel has finally grown up. You're starting to pay attention to your appearance? Don't worry, my little Marvin inherited his mother's beauty. You could wear a paper bag and pull it off."
"No, Mom," Marvin corrected her, standing up and striking a deliberate, heroic pose—one hand on his hip, the other smoothed over his shirt. "I'm a man now. This isn't called 'beauty.' This is called being 'handsomely formidable.'"
"Hehe, that's right," Linda beamed, her eyes welling with a mix of joy and relief. "Handsome. Formidable. My son."
Marvin watched her, his heart—or the soul —giving a satisfied throb. He could feel the golden, honey-thick threads of his mother's Unconditional Love and Adoration pouring into him. It was the purest form of desire: the desire for a child's success and happiness. He drew it in, refining it, feeling his muscles grow a fraction more defined, his skin more luminous.
He wasn't just a fitness fanatic for the sake of health; he was an athlete of the soul. Every push-up he did in the early morning, every mile he ran through the San Marino hills, was designed to create the perfect "vessel." An Incubus with a weak body was a contradiction.
He needed to be the physical peak of his age to maximize the "allure" he cast on the world.
"Marvin?" Linda's voice brought him back. "What's next? After the 'Book Men' leave with the contract?"
Marvin walked to the glass door, looking out at the swimming pool where the water was turning a deep, twilight purple. "Next, Mom? Next, we stop being 'the people who wrote a book.' We become the people who define a generation. I'm thinking about the screenplays you have in your study. Maybe it's time I showed you a different kind of story. Something... Lovely."
He turned back to her, and for a split second, the "little angel" was gone. In his place stood Incubus, the architect of a multi-billion dollar future, looking at his mother not just as a parent, but as his first and most important cinematic ally.
"But first," Marvin chirped, the mask snapping back into place, "I think I heard Dad opening the good scotch. Let's go see if he's managed to keep his 'executive cool' after the negotiation."
Linda laughed, standing up to follow him.
---
In the other room, the air had turned thick with the smell of expensive tobacco and the scratch of pens on legal pads. Grant Meyers leaned forward, his "Wall Street" eyes locking onto Benjamin's "Madison Avenue" soul.
"So, Benjamin," Grant said, his voice dropping into that predatory barrette that earned him his bonus at J.P. Morgan. "My son mentioned the 'age gimmick.' 'Asian Market' Let's talk about how much that's worth to Random House's year-end projections. Because if we're going to give you the 'Ten-Year-Old Genius,' the advance needs to start with seven figures. And that's before we talk about the merchandising."
Sheena's pen flew across her paper. The battle of the titans had begun, but they were both fighting over a map drawn by a boy who was currently "playing" with a butterfly in the backyard.
The ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway seemed to sync with the scratching of pens in the adjacent room. In the conservatory, the air was still, heavy with the scent of blooming jasmine and the unspoken weight of a shifting paradigm. Marvin sat across from his mother, his expression tranquil, yet his mind was a high-speed processor, calculating the echoes of the conversation happening just down the hall.
Finally, the heavy oak doors of the reception room creaked open. Benjamin Georgia and Miss Sheena stepped out, looking as though they had just gone twelve rounds with a heavyweight champion—exhausted, slightly dazed, but wearing the triumphant grins of people who had just secured their legacy. Grant followed behind them, his tie slightly loosened, his eyes burning with the cold, bright fire of a Wall Street victor.
"It's settled," Grant announced, his voice booming with a paternal pride that vibrated through the marble floor.
Benjamin stepped forward, extending his hand to Marvin once more. The skepticism from earlier was gone, replaced by a profound, professional reverence. "Marvin... your father is a terrifying negotiator. But I suspect he had a very good teacher. We've reached an agreement on the principal terms."
The numbers were staggering, even by San Marino standards. Random House had committed to a launch of Kung Fu Panda just two months away—the strategic "Golden Week" before Thanksgiving. The initial print run wasn't the usual cautious 5,000 or 10,000 copies for a debut author. It was a massive, aggressive 200,000 copies.
The most explosive detail, however, was the royalty rate: a flat 15%.
In the cutthroat world of 1996 publishing, a newcomer was lucky to see 3%. Established bestsellers struggled to break 8%. To grant a ten-year-old 15% was practically unheard of.
But as Marvin had sensed, this wasn't a bet on a book; it was a bet on a phenomenon.
"Fifteen percent," Sheena whispered, still marveling at the notes in her ledger. "Benjamin, we've never given that to someone without a Pulitzer."
"We've never bought a manuscript that was already localized into five languages by the author," Benjamin countered quietly. "We're saving a quarter-million in translation and cultural consulting fees alone. Not to mention the marketing budget we can save by using the 'Child Genius' angle."
Benjamin turned back to Marvin, his gaze serious. "We are pricing the hardcover at $15.00. With a 200,000-copy sell-through, Marvin, you are looking at a gross royalty of $450,000 on the first run alone. And that's before we even discuss the international sub-rights or the paperback transition."
Marvin didn't jump for joy. He didn't cheer. He simply nodded, his blue eyes reflecting a deep, analytical calm. "A fair start, Benjamin. It accounts for the risk you're taking on an unproven name while acknowledging the 'turnkey' nature of the asset I've provided. I assume the merchandising 'reversion' clause remained intact?"
Grant laughed, a rich, belly-shaking sound. "It did, son, the rights are with us. I told you, professionals leave the work to professionals."
The reason for this unprecedented leverage was simple, though only Marvin truly understood the mechanics.
It also helped—more than most realized—that Marvin wasn't some desperate newcomer clinging to a single opportunity. Even if this deal fell through, he wouldn't be left struggling to survive off one uncertain release.
The Meyers came from old money.
He had backing, stability, and, more importantly, options.
That alone shifted the balance of power.
Publishers couldn't pressure him with low offers or standard debut contracts, because he simply didn't need them. There was no urgency forcing his hand, no financial desperation pushing him to accept whatever was placed in front of him. If anything, it was the publishers who felt the pressure—because they knew that if they hesitated, he could walk away and take the manuscript to a competitor without losing anything.
And in a market driven by timing, that kind of leverage was dangerous.
Especially when paired with what he was offering.
A culturally rich, globally adaptable story.
Multiple fully written language versions.
A clear vision for international expansion.
It wasn't just a promising debut—it was a strategic asset.
So when negotiations began, the usual rules didn't quite apply.
What would normally be dismissed as an unreasonable demand—a 15% royalty for a first-time author—was instead treated as a condition worth considering. Not because Marvin insisted loudly, but because he could afford to walk away quietly.
In the end, that was what secured it.
Not arrogance. Not luck.
Leverage.
Marvin didn't need the $450,000 to buy a bike or pay for college; he wanted the deal because it was a "Gateway."
Because he didn't need them, Random House couldn't break him. The standard predatory debut contracts—the ones that stripped away movie rights and locked authors into decade-long "option" traps—simply didn't apply here. Marvin could afford to walk away and take Po to Simon & Schuster or HarperCollins without blinking. In the dance of negotiation, the person who needs the least has the most power.
"I'll have my legal team review the final 'long-form' contract by Monday," Grant said, shaking Benjamin's hand. "We'll tighten the definitions on the 'Global Net' and ensure the tax-efficient structures are in place. My office handles a lot of offshore IP holding; we'll make sure Marvin's earnings are... well-protected."
Marvin knew that in the United States—the "Country of Ten Thousand Taxes"—a $450,000 check could easily be sliced in half by the IRS before it ever touched his hand. But with a father who sat at the heart of the world's most sophisticated financial machinery, that was a non-issue.
"Dad," Marvin said, his voice dropping into that mature, conspiratorial tone as the Random House team began to gather their things.
"Make sure the royalty flow is directed into the 'Zenith Trust.' We'll need that liquidity for the 'accumulation phase' we discussed. I don't want a single cent sitting idle."
Grant paused, looking at his son. Sometimes, the boy's foresight was so sharp it felt like a cold breeze. "The Zenith Trust. Right. I'll talk to the lawyers about the deferred compensation structure. We'll keep the tax hit to a minimum."
As Benjamin and Sheena moved toward the grand marble foyer, Benjamin paused, looking back at the boy who was now casually leaning against the staircase, looking for all the world like a normal kid again.
"Marvin," Benjamin said. "Your father told me what you said. About your age being a 'gimmick.' You're right. The 'Eleven-Year-Old Architect of the East' is going to be the lead story in the New York Times Book Review. But tell me... are you ready for that kind of attention? Once the world knows who you are, you can't go back to just being a student."
Marvin smiled, and for a split second, the "Incubus" allure flared—a magnetic, predatory light in his eyes that made Benjamin feel a shiver of pure, unadulterated awe.
"Mr. Benjamin," Marvin said softly. "I didn't write this book to be a student. I wrote it to be a master. The attention isn't something I'm afraid of. It's the harvest I've been waiting for."
Sheena stared, her heart fluttering. She had seen movie stars with less presence. As they walked out to the black Cadillac, she whispered, "Benjamin... I think we just signed the future."
Benjamin nodded, his hand trembling slightly as he reached for the door handle. "We didn't just sign a writer, Sheena. We signed a Hunter. I just hope the industry is ready for him."
Back inside the manor, the silence returned, but it was a different kind of quiet—the charged silence of a fuse that had just been lit. Marvin watched through the window as the Cadillac pulled away, his mind already drifting past Kung Fu Panda.
Two hundred thousand copies. Thanksgiving release. The seed capital is secured.
He turned to his parents, his expression melting back into the "little Marvin" mask, radiating a sunny, innocent confidence. "So, Dad? Since I'm a big-time author now... does this mean I can get that high-speed ISDN line for my room? Mark says the future is in the 'Net,' and I'd hate to be left behind."
Grant laughed, wrapping an arm around his wife and his son. "Son, for $450,000, you can buy the whole telephone company. But let's start with the ISDN line."
Linda kissed the top of Marvin's head, her eyes misting over. "My little genius. Let's have dinner. Mrs. Aranda made something special to celebrate."
Marvin smiled, but as he walked toward the dining room, his fingers traced the edge of the manuscript hidden in his bag.