Zenith of Desire: The Hollywood Incubus

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****

Weeks of unwashed laundry, and the sweat of a man losing his grip on reality.

The office looked less like a workplace and more like a bunker after a siege.

”Peter!” Richard called, staring around in disbelief. ”When was the last time you cleaned this place? You’re about two days away from qualifying as a new life-form.”

Richard, a native New Zealander and a founder of Weta Workshop, was Peter Jackson’s closest collaborator. He thrived on creating monsters and armor out of latex and steel, but the state of his friend’s office was a horror beyond his professional capacity.

Without looking up from the drafting table, Peter Jackson waved him off.

”Oh, bugger off, Richard.” His eyes stayed fixed on a map of Middle-earth spread beneath a desk lamp, red notes scribbled across every corner. ”I’m trying to rewrite the bloody script.”

Richard ignored him.

He marched to the windows, yanked the curtains apart, and shoved them open.

Cold Wellington air rushed into the room.

”Finally,” Richard muttered, taking a deep breath. ”I was starting to think there wasn’t any oxygen left in here.”

Peter squinted against the sunlight. ”Do you mind?”

”Actually, yes. I do.”

Peter blinked against the sudden sunlight, startled by his friend’s intervention. He rubbed a hand roughly through his messy hair, exhaustion evident in the dark circles under his eyes. Miramax was bleeding him dry, demanding a sprawling epic be compressed into an impossible constraint.

Richard let out a long sigh, finally able to breathe. He walked to the drafting table, grabbed Peter by the shoulder of his stained flannel shirt, and pulled him upright. ”Enough.”

Peter frowned. ”I can’t stop. Harvey wants another draft.”

”Forget Harvey Fat Fucking Weinstein and his fat studio-mandated demands, I don’t care what Harvey wants.” Richard looked him straight in the eye. ”You’re sitting in here driving yourself insane.”

Peter rubbed both hands over his face.

”You don’t understand. He wants the whole thing cut down. Every time I fix one problem, three more show up.”

”I understand perfectly.” Richard folded his arms. ”I also understand that you haven’t seen daylight in what... Eight days?”

Peter didn’t answer.

Richard raised an eyebrow.

”Nine?”

”...Maybe.”

”And when was the last shower?”

Peter hesitated.

Richard sighed. ”Right. That’s exactly what I thought.”

He pointed toward the office door. ”Get up.”

”Richard—”

”No.” Richard’s tone left no room for argument. ”Forget Fat Weinstein for an hour. The script will still be there when you get back.”

Peter glanced toward the mountain of pages on his desk. ”I really should—”

”No, you really shouldn’t.” Richard jabbed a finger toward the hallway. ”You’re going to have a shower. You’re going to put on clean clothes. Then we’re getting in the truck and going somewhere that isn’t this cave.”

Peter let out a tired laugh. ”And where exactly are we going?”

”I don’t care.”. Richard shrugged.

”We’ll drive out to the farm. Walk through the bush. Grab lunch. Feed some sheep. Anything.”

He looked around the office again.. ”Just somewhere that doesn’t smell like you’ve been fermenting.”

Peter finally cracked a reluctant smile. ”...The farm sounds nice.”

”Good.” Richard nodded once. ”But first...”

He pointed toward the bathroom. ”Soap.”

Peter sniffed the sleeve of his flannel shirt. ”I can’t be that bad.”

Richard stared at him for a long moment. ”Peter...”

He pinched the bridge of his nose. ”I build orcs for a living.”

Another beat. ”And right now, I’d rather stand next to one of them than stand next to you.”

Peter laughed despite himself. ”That bad?”

Richard started walking toward the door. ”Worse.”

Richard’s face twisted in unfiltered disgust. ”Peter, a scientist once used an electronic nose designed for detecting tuberculosis and urinary tract infections to smell Boulogne cheese, and the machine registered a positive threat. You smell worse than that. You smell like a corpse baking in the sun for a hundred days.”

He glanced back over his shoulder with a grin. ”Now move before I hose you down outside.”

---

*Huh... ha...*

Miles away, isolated in the pristine rural countryside of the Waikato region, Marvin stood on the second-floor balcony of his family estate. He inhaled deeply, the crisp air filling his lungs, and stretched his arms toward the rolling green hills.

”The air here carries a sweetness to it,” Marvin observed, his voice calm and resonant. He rested his hands on the polished timber railing, looking out over the empty landscape. ”Back in Los Angeles, the smog settles over the basin like a lid. You have to run air purifiers in the house just to sleep properly.”

Gordon stood a half-step behind him. The seasoned bodyguard remained in his dark suit, scanning the tree line out of habit. He took a deep breath, his brow furrowing slightly.

”The air is clean, boss,” Gordon admitted, ”but is it really that much of an exaggeration in LA?”

”It’s going to be,” Marvin said, turning his face to catch the morning sun. The golden light caught the hues in his eyes. ”Buying a plot of farmland and a mansion here as a permanent vacation retreat isn’t a bad idea. In fact, if we secure the right zoning permits from the local council, I could build an exclusive Meyers luxury resort right here. Completely off the grid. High-end privacy for family who need to relax.”

Gordon heard the casual proposition and felt a sharp spike of financial anxiety.

The bodyguard knew his employer did not operate in half-measures. If Marvin Meyers decided to build a luxury resort, it wouldn’t be a quaint bed-and-breakfast. It would be a fortress of modern architecture requiring at least half a billion dollars in initial capital.

Gordon mentally calculated the liquidity.

Technically, Marvin didn’t have even fifty million sitting idle in any accounts, let alone half a billion. The vast majority of his wealth was funneled into the stock market through Scarlet Capital, acquiring tech shares during market dips. The rest was tied up in the operational expansion of the Japanese arm and European logistics hubs for Meyers BrandWorks. Even the backend gross profit checks from *The Sixth Sense* had yet to clear the studio accounting departments; it would take weeks before those funds materialized.

Gordon looked at the teenager on the balcony. He knew Marvin operated on a macroeconomic scale, viewing capital as a tool to bend reality rather than a number in a bank. Just as Gordon was about to ask a logistical question about construction budgets, Marvin broke his train of thought.

”Come on, Gordon!” Marvin said, a predatory energy lighting up his face. ”Let’s go for a ride!”

Without hesitation, Marvin vaulted over the wooden railing.

Gordon gasped. The drop to the cobblestone patio below was nearly twenty feet. He rushed to the edge, his heart jumping into his throat, peering over the rail.

To his astonishment, Marvin had already landed. He didn’t roll or stumble. He absorbed the kinetic impact through his legs flawlessly, standing tall and brushing a speck of dust from his jeans. He looked up, waving casually at his bodyguard.

”How can you be that agile?” Gordon muttered.

He had observed Marvin demonstrate remarkable strength and authority in boardroom negotiations, even against men significantly older than him, but seeing the boy drop from a two-story balcony like a hunting cat was entirely different.

Feeling the pressure to keep up, and unwilling to take the stairs while his boss waited, Gordon swung his legs over the railing.

He jumped.

Unlike Marvin, Gordon was bound by the laws of physics. He hit the cobblestones hard. He bent his knees, trying to absorb the shock, but his boots slapped the grass with a heavy, painful thud. He winced sharply, a jolt of pain shooting up his ankles and settling deep into his kneecaps.

”Good form!” Marvin praised, already turning his back and walking briskly toward the estate’s private stables.

Gordon stood up slowly. He silently cursed his pride, testing his sore joints. There was no time to stretch. He limped slightly, following his employer across the courtyard.

...

..

.

Inside the sprawling wooden stables, the scent of hay and rich earth hung in the air.

Marvin walked past the gentle, older riding horses. He stopped in front of a stall housing a purebred white Arabian stallion. The animal was notoriously temperamental, known to throw experienced riders. As Marvin approached, the stallion tossed its head, its dark eyes locking onto the boy.

Marvin didn’t slow down. He stepped into the stall. The Incubus aura flared—a silent frequency of absolute authority and monstrosity. The stallion froze, sensing the apex predator in its space. The horse lowered its head submissively, allowing Marvin to run a hand along its muscular neck.

Gordon, deciding to prioritize survival over pride, pointed to a gentle, smaller brown filly in the corner stall. According to the stable groom who had briefed them earlier, the mare was docile, slow, and perfectly suited for beginners.

”Hey, Gordon, you okay over there?” Marvin asked, leading the Arabian out of the stall without a lead rope. He watched Gordon awkwardly trying to hoist his leg over the saddle of the small brown mare.

Gordon grunted, his sore knees protesting. He didn’t dare distract himself by speaking. He had never ridden a horse, and his primary objective was to avoid falling off and breaking his neck.

After a struggle, he settled into the leather saddle.

Marvin swung up onto the bare back of the Arabian with fluid grace. He grabbed the reins.

”Not bad, Gordon,” Marvin called out, his voice carrying a teasing edge. He dug his heels lightly into the stallion’s flanks. The Arabian took off instantly, tearing across the dirt path and accelerating into a sprint. ”But come on! Ride like a man! Let her run!”

”Wait up, Marvin!” Gordon shouted, gripping the saddle horn. ”Hold on, I’m coming!”

Gordon kicked his heels against the filly’s sides, trying to urge her into a run. The mare snorted, unbothered by his commands, and settled into a lazy, bouncing trot. No matter how much Gordon kicked or clicked his tongue, the horse refused to break a sweat.

By the time Gordon coaxed the mare a few hundred meters down the path, Marvin had completed a high-speed lap around the perimeter of the estate’s racecourse.

As Marvin circled back, Gordon noticed something had changed.

At some point during his ride through the estate, Marvin had made a brief stop at the manor’s private sporting lodge. Now he carried one of the estate’s modern compound bows in his left hand, a quiver of carbon-fiber arrows resting across his back.

The weapon looked almost out of place in the hands of someone his age.

Yet the moment his fingers settled around the grip, something about him subtly shifted. His posture grew quieter. Sharper. The instincts buried deep within his soul stirred awake, and for an instant, he looked less like a teenage heir and more like a predator preparing to hunt.

”Gordon, you’re moving too slow!” Marvin called out, not slowing down. He banked the horse sharply, pointing the horse toward the dense forest that bordered the property. ”I’m heading into the tree line to try my luck in hunting. I will be back!”

”Marvin, wait! Wait for me!” Gordon yelled, his protective instincts overriding his fear of the horse. ”Be careful! Stay in sight!”

Gordon kicked the filly desperately. The mare gave a protesting whinny and maintained her stubborn trot.

By the time Gordon reached the tree line, the sound of the Arabian’s hooves was gone.

Marvin had vanished entirely into the silent depths of the New Zealand forest.

....

...

..

.

Miles away, on the edge of a rural reserve, a battered Land Rover sat parked beside a broad, slow-moving river.

Peter Jackson stood at the water’s edge, staring across the current, his thoughts clearly somewhere far from the countryside.

Richard Taylor noticed immediately. ”Oh, come on, Peter.”

He threw up his hands.. ”Don’t tell me you’re rewriting Moria in your head again.”

Peter blinked. ”I wasn’t.”

”You absolutely were.”

”I was just thinking.”

”That’s the problem.” Richard laughed, picking up a small stone and skipping it across the river. ”We drove all the way out here so you’d stop thinking for five bloody minutes.”

Peter let out a weary sigh.. ”I’m trying.”

”No, you’re not.”

Richard pointed at him. ”You’re standing there looking like Gandalf’s just told you the budget’s been cut again.”

That finally earned a reluctant chuckle. ”I said I’m trying to relax.”

Richard folded his arms. ”Right then. So how, exactly, are you relaxing?”

Peter shrugged. ”My brain isn’t.”

He started walking toward a stand of ferns farther down the Bank. ”But my bladder certainly needs to.”

Richard frowned. ”Where are you going?”

”To take a leak.”

”You know there’s about half a kilometre of empty riverbank right here.”

Peter kept walking. ”I’d like a little privacy.”

****

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