Zenith of Desire: The Hollywood Incubus

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The article suggested—without offering evidence—that professional security personnel may have been responsible for killing the animals before ”a more marketable version of events” found its way to the press.

One unnamed columnist wrote:

*”Perhaps the real heroes are being kept conveniently out of sight while a wealthy American child enjoys another headline. Until independent photographs or official evidence are released, readers would be wise to treat this remarkable tale with healthy skepticism.”*

The story quickly spread to other tabloids, each adding its own twist. Some questioned whether the leopards had already been wounded. Others speculated that police had exaggerated Marvin’s role. A few even claimed the entire confrontation had lasted only seconds and that eyewitnesses had become caught up in the chaos.

The more respectable newspapers were far more restrained. Most simply reported what police investigators, forensic officers, and eyewitnesses had stated. Even so, the debate only fueled public curiosity.

For every person who believed the story was impossible, another wanted to know how a fourteen-year-old had accomplished something seasoned hunters would hesitate to attempt.

It was almost as though Marvin’s PR team had been waiting for someone to challenge the story.

The morning after *the News of the World* questioned the leopard attack, the narrative shifted dramatically.

CBS. NBC. ABC. Fox.

Within hours, all four American networks obtained licensed copies of the training footage filmed after the incident at the Meyers estate in New Zealand.

That evening, millions of viewers watched the same remarkable sequence.

A white Arabian stallion thundered across an open field.

A teenage boy rode bareback, guiding the horse with nothing but his legs while drawing a compound bow in one fluid motion.

Seven clay targets exploded one after another in the sky.

The footage wasn’t shaky home video. It had been professionally filmed with multiple cameras during a demonstration for visiting officials. Every angle clearly showed Marvin’s speed, balance, and accuracy.

Suddenly, the idea that he had stopped two charging leopards no longer sounded impossible.

Former Olympic archers appeared on television explaining the mechanics of instinctive shooting. Experienced hunters admitted they had never witnessed someone fire that quickly from a moving horse. Even skeptics who still questioned parts of the incident quietly abandoned the claim that Marvin couldn’t possibly possess the skill.

The conversation changed overnight. People stopped asking, Did he really do it? They started asking, Who is this kid?

That curiosity spilled into bookstores, record shops, and cinemas. Readers who had ignored *Harry Potter* picked up the novels for the first time.

Teenagers bought his CDs just to hear what all the attention was about.

Movie rental stores reported a sharp increase in demand for *The Sixth Sense*.

Amy recognized the opportunity immediately.

Every network licensing the footage also received a short identification sheet prepared by Marvin’s publicists. It wasn’t an advertisement—it simply identified him accurately as a bestselling author, recording artist, and actor. Most broadcasters used it without hesitation. It was standard practice, and it gave viewers the context they were looking for.

The footage drove their ratings through the roof. The cross-promotion made the broadcast more valuable to advertisers. It was a perfect loop of media manipulation.

By the end of the week, the leopard attack had become more than a news story.

It had become the introduction of Marvin Meyers to millions of people who had somehow managed to overlook him until now.

---

”When do you think we’ll have the final cut of The Others?” Tom Cruise’s voice came through the speakerphone, echoing around the dim editing suite on the Miramax lot.

The lead editor straightened in his chair.

”We’re close, Mr. Cruise. I promise,” he said, rubbing tired eyes before glancing back at the timeline on his monitor. ”We’re cutting everything exactly the way Marvin laid it out—following his storyboards and editing notes shot for shot. If nothing unexpected comes up, we should have it finished in about two weeks.”

Ten minutes earlier, Harvey Weinstein had called the same editing room and unloaded on everyone, demanding they work faster.

The pressure was relentless.

Every producer with a Marvin Meyers project wanted to get to theaters as quickly as possible, hoping to capitalize on the worldwide attention generated by the New Zealand incident.

Tom didn’t raise his voice. ”Alright,” he said. ”Keep pushing. I want this picture moving as fast as we can without sacrificing quality.”

He paused for a moment. ”And once you’ve got a locked cut, let me know. I’ll call Marvin myself. I want him involved before he finalises the score.”

”You got it, Mr. Cruise.”

The situation wasn’t much different over at the 20th Century Fox editing department, where *Hide and Seek* was racing through post-production under equally impossible deadlines.

The only reason the exhausted editors—many of whom had been surviving on coffee and four hours of sleep—hadn’t completely burned out was Marvin himself.

Editing one of his films was strangely straightforward.

Every shot had already been planned.

Every transition, every cut, every camera angle, every beat had been mapped out in painstaking detail on his storyboards. As long as the editors resisted the temptation to ”improve” the material and simply followed Marvin’s blueprint, the film almost assembled itself.

It was as if the finished movie had already existed in Marvin’s mind long before the cameras had ever started rolling.

---

Thousands of miles away in Wellington, Peter Jackson had a phone pressed to his ear.

”Harvey, listen,” Peter said, barely containing his excitement. ”I actually got Marvin interested. He said yes. He’s willing to play the Elf Prince. So... when do we get the money?”

A booming laugh came through the receiver. ”Relax, Peter. The money isn’t going anywhere.”

Harvey Weinstein sounded almost amused. ”Tell me about our miracle kid. How’s he doing?”

”He’s alright,” Peter replied. ”Though after what happened with the leopards, his mother’s gone into full lockdown mode. Apparently he can’t leave the farm now without four bodyguards following him.”

Harvey burst into laughter. ”As she should. I’d do the same.”

He didn’t miss a beat. ”That kid’s worth a fortune. Too many people have money riding on him now. We don’t let assets like that wander around getting themselves killed.”

Peter pinched the bridge of his nose. ”Right... but what about the financing? I’d really like to start putting this production together.”

Harvey sighed impatiently. ”I said I’ll look at the numbers.” A pause. ”My people will go over the budget.”

Another pause. ”We’ll talk.”

Before Peter could ask another question—

Click.

The line went dead.

Peter stared at the receiver for a long second.

”Damn fat bastard,” Peter muttered to the empty room, ”...Bloody hell.” He slowly lowered the phone back into its cradle.

”The man never even asked if I was alright.”

He leaned back in his chair and rubbed both hands through his already chaotic hair. ”I was the one being chased by the bloody leopards.”

The dial tone droned on in the background.

Peter let out a long sigh, then turned back toward the sketches, maps, and script pages covering his drafting table.

His excitement over Marvin had never been higher.

His opinion of Harvey Weinstein had somehow managed to sink even lower.

”I didn’t hear you ask if *I* was okay. I was the one almost eaten by leopards!”

Peter sat at his drafting table, full of creative ambition and bitter resentment.

---

”Oh, I’m suffering terribly,” Marvin sighed. ”Truly. It’s almost unbearable.”

He stretched out on a cream-colored lounge chair beneath the veranda, one ankle resting over the other. The afternoon sun spilled across the estate, warming the stone terrace while a cool breeze drifted in from the distant coast, carrying the scent of grass and salt.

Beside him, one of the young local maids carefully peeled a chilled peach. Ever since she’d started working at the estate, she hadn’t managed to look Marvin in the eye for more than a few seconds without blushing. She cut the fruit into neat slices and, whenever he opened his mouth, quietly placed one between his lips.

Marvin accepted each piece with the contented expression of a man convinced life had finally become fair.

A few feet away, Gordon sat on a wooden stool with a pear in one hand.

He watched the whole performance in silence.

Then he took another bite.

”Yeah,” he said dryly, ”I’ve never seen anyone have it so rough.”

Marvin raised an eyebrow.

”Gorgeous girl feeding you fruit. Private estate. Sunny afternoon.” Gordon gestured vaguely with the pear. ”Half the women around here look ready to fight each other just for the privilege of fluffing your pillow.”

He shook his head. ”Tragic, really.” He gave Marvin a long, utterly unimpressed look. ”Absolutely heartbreaking, boss. I’m this close to shedding a tear.”

Marvin clicked his tongue. ”I detect sarcasm.”

”You detect correctly.”

”You’re still upset because mom yelled at you.”

Gordon barked out a laugh. ”Yelled?” he repeated. ”She rang my mother.”

Marvin blinked.

”My mother, Marvin.”

”...That’s unfortunate.”

”I’m a former SAS operator,” Gordon continued. ”I’ve had colonels scream in my face. None of them were as terrifying as your mother explaining how I apparently let her son go hunting leopards with ’a stick and a piece of string.’”

Marvin couldn’t help laughing.

The maid beside him covered her mouth, trying not to laugh as well.

Marvin nodded toward the four new security men standing around the lawn. ”On the bright side, you’re getting a substantial raise.”

”Oh, lucky me.”

”I’m serious.”

”I know.”

Marvin pointed at the guards. ”See them?”

Gordon looked over. ”They’re here to protect you.”

”They’re here because my mother doesn’t trust me,” Marvin corrected. ”Protecting me is just a convenient excuse.”

”...Fair point.”

”And do you know why you still earn more than all four of them put together?”

Gordon looked at him suspiciously. ”I’m almost afraid to ask.”

”Because they report to the family.”

Marvin smiled. ”You report to me.” Marvin smirked, the confidence of a king settling over his features, ”you finally succeeded in becoming Marvin Meyers’ confidant. Those men report to the Meyers.”

Gordon stared at him for several seconds. ”That somehow sounded less comforting than you intended.”

”It wasn’t meant to be.”

Gordon rolled his eyes. ”I really should’ve retired.”

”You say that every week.”

”And every week you prove I should’ve.”

”Then I really have to thank you,” Gordon muttered, rolling his eyes, though the tension in his broad shoulders finally relaxed.

”No need to thank me. I don’t need to tell my mother in detail about my day, or if anything happens in the future—like if I decide to dump you in a ditch.”

”But this is my duty to the family.”

”No,” Marvin corrected, his voice hardening a fraction, projecting an authority that commanded the space. ”Your job is to listen to me.”

Marvin climbed to his feet and stretched. ”I’m heading inside. Need to work on a few scripts.”

Gordon stood immediately. ”You’re not planning to sneak out a back window again, are you?”

Marvin turned slowly, looking genuinely offended. ”Gordon.”

”Yes?”

”Do you honestly think I’d do something like that?”

”...Yes.”

The answer came so quickly that even the maid laughed.

Marvin sighed. ”I can’t believe the trust between us has deteriorated to this level.”

”It hasn’t deteriorated,” Gordon said. ”It never existed.”

Marvin placed a hand over his heart. ”You wound me.”

”You’ll recover.”

Shaking his head dramatically, Marvin spoke. ”Can you take those monitors to the break room to rest? Aren’t they tired after standing like gargoyles all day?”

Gordon looked immediately suspicious, standing up. ”You don’t want to run away secretly out the back window again, do you?”

Marvin stopped, turning back with an expression of wounded, aristocratic innocence. ”Am I really such a person, Gordon?”

”I am absolutely sure of it!” Gordon replied firmly.

”Then let them take turns on duty,” Marvin sighed dramatically. ”There’s no need for a group of armed men to surround me all the time. I’m not a national dignitary. Really, Gordon, you’re not qualified as a confidant. I think I want to remove you from my list and replace you with...” Marvin tapped his chin playfully. ”Who’s that big guy? Gruss? Groot?”

Shaking his head dramatically, Marvin headed toward the villa while Gordon groaned, waving the other guards toward the kitchen as Marvin slipped into the cool, shadowed interior of the house.

A minute later, Marvin settled into the study, pulled out his phone, and dialed his grandfather.

The connection opened before the first ring was completed.

”Well?”

”Grandpa.” Marvin sank into the chair, feeling the leather conform to his shoulders. ”Did you watch it?”

A laugh rumbled through the line—deep, textured, the sound of a man who had never needed to raise his voice to command a room.

****

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