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GodofPleasure
*****
The afternoon sun dipped behind the manicured palms of Tremblin Drive. Long, amber shadows stretched across the white stone of the Meyers estate. Marvin pushed through the front doors. He wore his backpack slung over one shoulder with the effortless cool of a boy returning from conquering his first kingdom.
"Mom, your lovely son is back! Did you miss me?" Marvin's voice rang through the foyer, clear and vibrant.
He stepped into the dining room. He anticipated the usual quiet hum of the afternoon. Instead, uncharacteristic gravity anchored the room. His mother, Linda, and his father, Grant—who belonged at the J.P. Morgan tower downtown right now—sat side-by-side at the mahogany table. They wore unreadable expressions. A stiff mask of parental authority failed to reach their eyes.
"What happened? Did the stock market crash?" Marvin joked. He flicked a quick, questioning glance toward Mrs. Aranda.
The housekeeper stood by the sideboard. She offered no words. She caught Marvin's eye and mouthed two syllables: *Random House*.
Marvin's core hummed with satisfaction.
The bait worked. He relaxed and leaned against the doorframe. The telltale signs appeared clear now. His father's foot tapped with suppressed excitement. A proud shimmer lit his mother's gaze.
"Ahem. Marvin," Linda started. She forced a stern tone. "Sit down. Tell me, what exactly have you done behind our backs lately?"
"Hey Mom, do you want a confession?" Marvin feigned wounded innocence. "Is this an interrogation?"
"That depends on whether you made a mistake!"
"Of course not. I attend classes diligently. I keep my bullying of the bullies to a minimum. I complete my homework. In my spare time, I read, I write, I draw—"
"Wait, write and draw?" Grant interrupted. He leaned forward and cleared his throat, chasing his executive persona. "So, besides the drawing, have you done anything else? Like, say... visiting a post office?"
"Well," Marvin smiled. His eyes twinkled. "I sent a story to a few publishers. Call it wishful thinking, but the world needs more magic. I sent a package to..."
"Like this?" Grant pulled a thick, crisp envelope from his leather briefcase. The Random House logo—the iconic little house—sat embossed on the corner. He waved it like a trophy. "A courier dropped this off an hour ago. Addressed to 'Mr. Marvin Meyers.'"
"Wow, they replied?" Marvin feigned a gasp of childlike excitement. He jumped in his seat.
"Look, I haven't even opened it," Grant said. His hands shook. "I hope it isn't a rejection letter. They show no mercy to young writers."
*Smack!*
Linda slapped Grant's arm. She glared at him. "Don't say that! Our son is a genius."
Grant winced. He zipped his lips with a playful motion.
Marvin took the envelope. His steady hands tore it open. He read the letter aloud. His voice gained strength with every word:
"*Dear Mr. Marvin Meyers: This is Benjamin Georgia, Publishing Editor at Random House… We were charmed by your children's story, Kung Fu Panda. The voice feels fresh, the world-building is cinematic, and the commercial potential proves staggering… We would like to visit your home on September 25th to discuss the acquisition of rights and publication matters…*"
….
…
..
.
---
Later that night, the grand Meyers manor settled into its familiar quiet. Old money bought this silence—thick walls, heavy drapes, and floors refusing to creak. The soft, amber glow of silk-shaded lamps bathed the master suite.
Their warm, honeyed light danced against dark paneled walls. Outside, a pale moon climbed high above the gardens. It cast long silver ribbons across the Persian rug.
Grant Meyers rested against a mountain of goose-down pillows. He wore his undershirt and slacks. Reading glasses perched at the end of his nose. He held a remarkable object—something to make any bank colleague do a double-take. Not a quarterly report. Not a merger prospectus. A comic book. Marvin's comic book. The bold, confident title scrawled across the cover in a hand too assured for a ten-year-old boy.
*Invincible.*
Grant read it the way he read everything that mattered. Slow. Focused. He retraced panels the way he hunted through contract clauses.
His brow furrowed. His jaw set. Every few pages, a quiet sound escaped him. Not a word. A low hum of deepening astonishment.
The bedroom door opened. Linda slipped in. Her dark hair fell loose around her shoulders.
Her pale lace nightgown whispered against the floor. She came straight from Marvin's room.
Residual softness lingered around her eyes from kissing him goodnight. A mother's tenderness, carried fresh from a sleeping child's bedside.
She paused at the foot of the bed. She watched her husband. He never looked up.
She smiled. She slipped in beside him and pulled the silk sheet up against the pillows. For a long moment, she watched his face. The small movements of his expression as he turned each page. The slight widening of his eyes. The faint shake of his head.
Grant reached the last page. He closed it carefully, preparing to return to it later. He set it on the nightstand with the reverence reserved for first-edition contracts.
He took off his glasses. He pinched the bridge of his nose.
"Our son," he said at last. His voice sounded low, weighted with an undefined emotion. "He truly seems born genius."
Linda turned to him. "Of course he is."
The words came out quietly. They carried the certainty of someone holding a secret, waiting for the rest of the world to catch up.
"I don't mean that the way parents usually do," Grant said. He turned the comic over, before looking at her. "I'm looking at this the same way I'd evaluate a pitch in a boardroom. No sentiment. No fatherly bias. Just the work."
He tapped the cover with a finger.
"Linda, this wasn't written by a kid doodling superheroes after school. This is someone building a world. The first thing that jumped out at me was the structure. Every character has a purpose. Every relationship pushes the story somewhere. The rules are established early and then consistently followed."
He flipped through several pages.
"Sure, on the surface it feels familiar. You can see the influences. The flying hero, the costumes, the larger-than-life conflicts. Anyone can point at it and say it resembles DC. That's the easy observation."
Grant shook his head.
"The harder observation is that most adults can't do this."
He held up the comic.
"This boy didn't just copy superheroes. He asked why they work. Then he built his own framework around that answer. The character flaws aren't mistakes. The contradictions aren't accidents. They're deliberate. He understands that people can be heroic and selfish at the same time. Noble and flawed. That's not something most ten-year-olds even think about."
His gaze lingered on the pages.
"What worries me isn't that he made a comic this good at ten. It's that I can see him reaching for ideas he doesn't fully have the experience to understand yet."
Grant let out a slow breath.
"There's something underneath all of this. Something bigger. I don't think we're looking at a talented child trying to imitate comic books. I think we're looking at someone who already understands storytelling on an instinctive level."
He looked back at her.
"And that's a very different thing."
"I know," Linda said softly. She tucked one leg beneath her. She faced him fully. "Grant, I visited his room tonight. I kissed him goodnight. I looked around. I had to stop myself from standing there with my hand over my mouth."
She shook her head. "The boxes, Grant. All those labeled boxes. The filing system. The cross-references between the scripts and the treatments. He runs a system. A ten-year-old boy developed an organizational structure for his creative output beating most professional writers at forty."
Grant let out a breath resembling a laugh. He felt too awed for humor. "We spent the whole afternoon reading. It still hasn't landed for me. The Kung Fu Panda script alone—"
"The pacing," Linda said instantly.
"The pacing," Grant agreed. He pointed at her. "Exactly. Any bright kid finds a concept. It's the pacing. He knows when to slow down and when to accelerate. Where to breathe and where to push." He leaned his head back against the pillows. He stared at the ceiling.
"And the dialogue and philosophy. Linda, grown men—men I hire, men educated at top schools—cannot write dialogue and philosophy like that."
"He told you. He just listens to people." She smiled. Something serious moved beneath the expression.
"Children listen to people," Grant said. "They don't synthesize conversations into emotionally truthful dramatic writing. That's not listening. That's craft. Instinct and craft. The rarest combination." He fell quiet. "My father built this family's name in finance and property. I spent twenty years building on his foundation. And our son—our ten-year-old son, who leaves his football cleats on the kitchen stairs—sits in a bedroom two floors above us. He builds something destined to eclipse all of it."
Linda reached out. Her hand covered his. "It already might."
The room absorbed the truth. The mantle clock ticked. Outside, a night bird called once and vanished into silence.
"That frightens me," Grant said. He turned his hand to hold hers. "Not the talent. The talent serves as a gift. We celebrate the talent. The world he approaches terrifies me." His expression shifted. The proud father receded.
The executive stepped forward with measured, deliberate clarity. "The entertainment industry, Linda. You know it better than I do. You spent your whole career adjacent to it."
Linda grew thoughtful. "I know exactly what it is."
"Then you know it functions as a meat grinder, not a meritocracy," Grant said. "Talent alone offers no protection. Talent makes you vulnerable without the right people." He sat up. His mind shifted into planning mode. "He's ten. He could hold a Random House contract before he turns eleven. That means rights negotiations, royalty structures, subsidiary licensing, adaptation clauses—"
"Grant—"
"I am not dramatic. I am practical. Practical protects him." He looked at her. "We need people. Not us—professionals. The right professionals."
Linda nodded. Her thumb traced a small circle on the back of his hand. "A lawyer."
"Not a standard lawyer. A shark. An entertainment lawyer who recognizes every industry trick because he wrote half of them. One who works for us. Loyalty tied exclusively to the Meyers family." Grant's eyes sharpened.
Moonlight caught the edge of his focus.
"A agent. Someone who reads every contract before Marvin knows it exists. A professional catching the traps we miss."
"And someone to manage the correspondence," Linda added. "A secretary. No, more than a secretary. An intelligent, organized buffer between Marvin and the chaos. The meetings, the calls, the morning couriers." She pictured the boy sleeping upstairs. The soft warmth of his hair. His childlike, ageless eyes. "He should create. Nothing else should cloud his mind. No contracts. No emails. No publisher relationships."
"Precisely," Grant said. "He creates. The staff manages. We oversee." Quiet certainty settled into his voice. "An old principle governs this family. My grandfather said it first. Professional work belongs to professionals. We choose the right people. We keep our eyes open." He paused. "Wide open."
"He never enters a room alone," Linda said. Her soft voice adopted a steely undertone. "Not with a producer. Not with a publisher. Not with a studio representative. He travels with someone on our payroll."
"Agreed. Unambiguously agreed." Grant looked at her. "I will make calls on Monday. I know the right people in entertainment law. I need three names on my desk by Wednesday. Interviews conclude by the end of the month."
"And the secretary?"
"I will contact the bank's agency. Discretion remains non-negotiable. Anyone touching Marvin's work signs an NDA before they read a single word." He glanced toward the nightstand. The comic book rested in the warm lamplight. "That work proves extraordinary, Linda. We protect it."
Linda followed his gaze. They fell quiet. They stared at the small, unassuming comic book. Their child made it. He forged it with his hands, his mind, and the strange, blazing fire living inside his chest.
"He looked at me tonight," Linda said. "Just before bed. I told him goodnight, and he looked back at me."
She shook her head slowly. "And for the first time in my life, I didn't know what was going on behind those deep eyes."
A quiet laugh escaped her. "That's ridiculous, isn't it? I've known him since the day he was born."
Her smile trembled. "I carried him. Raised him. Watched him take his first steps. I know every scraped knee, every birthday, every silly thing he's ever done."
She swallowed. "But sometimes I look at him and wonder how someone so young can seem so much older than the rest of us."
Linda glanced toward his room. "I love him with everything I have. I always will. But every now and then, I realize there are parts of him I don't understand at all."
Grant put an arm around her and drew her close. "You know," he said quietly, "most parents spend their lives hoping their children will become something remarkable."
He glanced toward the comic resting on the table. "I think ours already is."
Linda didn't answer.
Grant continued. "That doesn't make him a stranger. It just means there's more to him than we can see."
He was silent for a moment. "Every year we'll discover something new. A new talent. A new ambition. A new side of him we never noticed before."
His expression softened. "That's not distance, Linda. That's growth."
He squeezed her shoulder. "We'll spend the rest of our lives getting to know the man he's becoming."
A small smile touched his lips. "And honestly, I can't think of a greater privilege than that."
She leaned into him. Her head rested against his shoulder. Neither spoke. The night settled around the manor like a held breath. The lamps flickered. Moonlight slowly shifted its silver angle across the rug.
Linda's hand traced the line of Grant's jaw. "My little author... the world isn't ready for him."
"The world isn't ready for any of us," Grant whispered. His voice dropped an octave. He looked at his wife. The business talk melted into the heat of the quiet room. Parental pride sparked a vibrant, shared energy between them. A celebration of their life, their love, and their perfect legacy.
Their son slept two floors above them. Labeled boxes, stacked manuscripts, and a world-altering imagination surrounded him.
Below, his parents held each other in the dark. Pride, plans, and love bound them together.
They created something vast. A ten-year-old boy already larger than both of them.
Grant reached out. He pulled Linda closer. Silk sheets rustled. The worries of the industry faded. Moonlight shifted across the floor. The locked bedroom door sealed away the world. Shadows lengthened. The air grew heavy with intimacy. The silver light faded into velvet black.
Grant pulled Linda tighter against him. His arm slid from her shoulder down the elegant curve of her back. His palm settled possessively over the small of her waist. The silk nightgown felt cool against his fingers. Her skin radiated heat.
"You keep calling him 'little author,'" Grant murmured. His lips brushed the shell of her ear. "But the only tiny thing in this house tonight is my polite restraint."
Linda let out a soft, throaty laugh. It vibrated against his chest. She tilted her head back, exposing her throat. An invitation he never refused. "Polite?" she teased. Her voice turned husky. "Since when do you practice manners with me, Mr. Meyers?"
He dragged his open mouth along the column of her neck. Slow. Deliberate. His teeth grazed her skin, making her breath hitch. One hand slipped lower, cupping the swell of her ass through the thin silk and squeezing hard enough that she arched into him with a small, greedy sound.
"Since our son started writing better sentences than ours," he said against her skin. "I figured I should practice restraint."
"Liar." Her fingers threaded into his hair. She tugged sharply, tilting his face up to hers. Their mouths met.
---
September 25th.
The morning marine layer burned off hours ago. The sky over San Marino turned a brilliant shade of cerulean. On Tremblin Drive, the hum of a precision-engineered engine broke the silence.
A black Cadillac sedan, polished to a mirror finish, glided to a halt against the curb. The doors opened with a solid thud.
Benjamin Georgia stepped out. He adjusted the cuffs of his light gray business suit. He played the part of the Manhattan intellectual perfectly—thin and energetic. His eyes spent twenty years scanning manuscripts for the next big hit. Behind him, Miss Sheena, his lead assistant, smoothed out her charcoal pencil skirt. She clutched a leather portfolio to her chest.
Benjamin shielded his eyes. He stared up at the towering iron gates of Number 222.
"222 Tremblin Street," he muttered. He checked the brass numbers. "Upscale fails to cover it, Sheena. This looks like a fortress of old money. Are you sure this is the address for our author, Marvin Meyers?"
"I verified it three times with the return address on the parcel, Benjamin," Sheena said. Her heels clicked on the pavement. She studied the sprawling stone villa beyond the gate. "A house like this… the owner must be a seasoned academic or a retired diplomat. It explains the Kung Fu Panda manuscript. Only someone with a private library and decades of travel could capture that ancient Chinese aesthetic. The descriptions of the 'Valley of Peace' bypassed fantasy. They felt like a history lesson wrapped in a fable."
"Exactly," Benjamin agreed. He straightened his silk tie. "The martial arts terminology alone—the flow of Qi, the paw-styles—suggests a lifetime of research. I expect a silver-haired gentleman in a silk smoking jacket."
Colleagues pointed out the architecture's resemblance to real historical dynasties. Others noticed the accuracy in the clothing and traditional attire. Martial arts enthusiasts commented that the techniques felt grounded. They seemed drawn from real schools rather than pure imagination.
Even the food descriptions caught attention. The dishes reflected authentic regional styles instead of generic fantasy meals.
All of it made one thing clear.
The author possessed deep knowledge of Chinese culture… or conducted decades of research.
The two talked. They arrived at the villa's front gate. Benjamin pressed the intercom button. "Hello, you reached the Meyers residence," a friendly female voice crackled through. "May I ask who is calling?"
"Hello, we represent Random House Publishing in New York. We have an appointment with Mr. Marvin Meyers."
A sharp silence blanketed the line. A muffled gasp followed. Footsteps sprinted away from the receiver. A distant shout echoed: "He's here! The book man is here!"
Benjamin and Sheena exchanged a bewildered look. Benjamin spread his hands. "Excitable staff?"
The voice returned, breathless. "Please, come in! The Master and Mistress wait for you at the front door."
The electric gates hissed open. The duo began the long walk up the driveway. The garden offered a masterclass in landscape architecture. Tall palms acted as natural pillars. Firethorn and golden-edged juniper created a lush sanctuary. Summer azaleas in shades of rose-red and royal purple dotted the green.
A marble fountain erupted in the center of the circular drive. Water cascaded from the mouths of carved koi fish. The villa stood behind the shimmering mist—a Baroque masterpiece of white marble and sculptures.
Grant and Linda Meyers stood at the top of the wide stairs. They played the power couple flawlessly. Grant wore a tailored navy blazer screaming Wall Street. Linda wore a cream dress radiating academic elegance.
Grant stepped forward. He extended his hand. A hospitable smile lit his face.
"Welcome to our home. I am Grant Meyers. We looked forward to this meeting since your call."
Benjamin shook his hand firmly. "An honor, Mr. Meyers. Your work is wonderful. *Kung Fu Panda* stands as a masterpiece of children's literature. Children from New York to Beijing will read your words for decades."
Grant froze. A slow, amused chuckle started in his chest. It erupted into a full laugh. He looked back at Linda. She covered her mouth, hiding a grin.
"We have a misunderstanding, Mr. Georgia," Grant said. His eyes danced with pride. "I serve as the Chief Investment Advisor for JPMorgan Chase. My wife, Linda, teaches Film at USC. Neither of us wrote a single word of that story."
Benjamin's hand went limp. "I... I don't follow."
Grant beamed. He gestured toward the interior of the house. "Our son wrote *Kung Fu Panda*. Marvin Meyers."
Heavy silence settled over the steps. Sheena nearly dropped her portfolio. Benjamin's professional mask cracked. "Your... son? May I ask his age?"
"He turned ten last September," Linda said. She stepped forward and shook Benjamin's hand. "He turns eleven in a few days. Please, come inside. We will get you some refreshments."
Linda led them into a reception room feeling more like a museum. High ceilings featured gold-leaf molding. Velvet sofas sat near floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the pool.
Benjamin sat on the edge of a plush armchair. His mind reeled. A ten-year-old? The research. The pacing. The philosophy. The irony. Impossible.
"What would you two like to drink?" Linda asked. Her voice sounded warm. "We have coffee, black tea. If the shock proves too much, Grant keeps excellent twenty-year-old scotch in the decanter."
"Coffee, please. Black," Benjamin said. He needed caffeine to process reality.
"I will take tea, thank you," Sheena added. Her pen hovered over her notepad.
Linda winked at Mrs. Aranda. The housekeeper appeared minutes later with a silver service tray. She poured a steaming cup of authentic Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee for Benjamin. She poured delicate Jin Jun Mei tea for Sheena.
"So," Benjamin said. He took a cautious sip. "An eleven-year-old. Mr. Meyers, you must realize something. If the quality of the writing matches the boy's age, this becomes the marketing story of the century. As an editor, I must ask. Did he have help?"
Grant leaned back. He looked at the ceiling. "We asked him the same thing. My wife checked for plagiarism. She knows every script in Hollywood. I checked his computer history. The boy sits down. The world pours out of him. He got over his laziness after his illness six months ago. It's as if a lightbulb switched on."
"He doesn't just write," Linda added. Her voice dropped to an awed whisper. "He storyboards. He composes. He currently draws something he calls 'Manga.' He says the American market isn't ready for it yet, but he wants to file first."
Benjamin opened his mouth to ask about the "Manga." The front door swung open. A youthful, energetic shout echoed through the marble foyer.
"Mom! Dad! Your favorite handsome son returned from conquest! Did I miss the 'Book Men' or am I just in time for the contract?"
*****
Remember, if you think Invincible is too bloody for a ten-year-old, keep in mind that in its first few comic issues, it looked like a fairly standard superhero story. From the beginning, the Parents viewed it as just another good comic in the same vein as DC heroes. So no, Marvin didn't just hand his parents the bloodier version for them examine his psychology.
It's a re-edit chapter, so all comments on the chapter disappeared.
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