We are thrilled to have achieved our first 2,000 collections and 150 Power Stone donors. Henceforth, for every 100 Power Stone donors, every 10 reviews, and every 1,000 collections, I will upload a bonus chapter. So, three chapters today.
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*****
The Hollywood Ledger: Keep It in the circle
With the mountain scenes in the can, the production caravan descended into the valleys.
The next block of scheduling was entirely dedicated to the "Mike Parker" narrative—the sunny, rugged California ranch scenes.
The film crew relocated to an idyllic, sprawling farm in the southern suburbs of Los Angeles, ant to serve as the cinematic stand-in for the Napa Valley vineyards. The property was a stunning piece of agricultural real estate: just under sixty acres of rolling hills, ticulously planted with cherry orchards, towering rows of sweet corn, ancient walnut trees, and vibrant vegetable patches.
What the Disney studio accountants didn't explicitly advertise, however, was the na on the property deed.
The farm belonged entirely to the yers family. Marvin's father, Grant, had purchased the estate five years ago as a private family vacation spot and a quiet place to entertain Wall Street clients.
When it ca ti to select a location for The Parent Trap, Nancy hadn't even bothered looking at other ranches. She had imdiately drafted a location contract for the yers estate, charging the studio a premium, top-tier daily rental fee.
It was a stark, unapologetic display of how the "Boys' Club" of Hollywood actually functioned. The industry was a closed-loop economy—a very small, highly exclusive circle of elites constantly passing money back and forth across the sa dinner tables. Why let Disney pay a hundred thousand dollars to a random Californian farr when Nancy could route that exact sa budget directly into her brother's real estate holding company? It was the ultimate insider maneuver.
And nothing illegal about it.
When Marvin stepped out of his chauffeured car onto the dirt road of the farm, he felt instantly, luxuriously at ho.
He imdiately set to work optimizing the environnt. During the long, grueling setups for the exterior shots, the crew was usually subjected to standard, dry catering. Marvin bypassed the craft services tent entirely. He approached the estate's permanent farm workers, handing them a stack of crisp bills from the studio's own pocket.
Within hours, the scent of open-pit barbecue drifted across the set. The farmhands were roasting pri cuts of beef, spiced lamb, buttery potatoes, and fresh-picked sweet corn over massive squite grills. The crew was ecstatic, eating better than they had all month.
Of course, Marvin wasn't running a charity. He had Jennifer, his temporary secretary, ticulously invoice the studio's production office for "Premium On-Site Craft Services," billing Disney at a staggering fifty percent markup. The farmhands earned a massive, unexpected tip, the crew was kept happy and compliant, and the yers absorbed the profit margin.
Nancy, reviewing the daily expenditure reports in the shade of a cherry tree, looked up as Marvin approached with a plate of perfectly roasted lamb..
"Little shark," Nancy sighed, though a proud, highly amused smile played on her lips. She reached out and playfully pinched his nose. "I suddenly feel that you are far more suited to be a Wall Street predator like your father than a Hollywood actor. You are both equally, terrifyingly greedy for money. You're charging my own production for the corn grown on your father's land!"
Marvin chuckled, brushing her hand away smoothly. "It's actually a perfect win-win situation, Aunt Nancy. The farm generates an unexpected quarterly profit, the farmhands get a tip and morale boost, and the film crew is fed high-quality protein instead of stale bagels, which keeps them working faster and saves you lighting ti. Why not synergize the assets?"
Nancy shook her head, taking a piece of lamb from his plate. "Yes, yes. You're right. You yers n are impossible to argue with when the ledger balances."
---
A few days later, during a break in filming, Marvin sat in the cool, air-conditioned interior of his RV.
He capped his silver fountain pen, looking down at the massive, completed stack of manuscript pages. Ready Player One was finished. Using Grant's Century City lawyers, the intellectual property had already been quietly registered, aggressively copyrighted, and locked down under a maze of LLCs.
"Jennifer," Marvin called out, not looking up from his desk..
The blonde USC student, who was currently sitting on the lounge sofa trying very hard to focus on a geotry textbook instead of the boy across the room, looked up. The lingering awkwardness from the mountain dorms was still there, but she had managed to push it down into a state of nervous professionalism.
"Yes, Marvin?"
He tapped the thick stack of photocopies. "Could you please take these to the FedEx office in town? I need this manuscript couriered directly to the acquisitions departnt at Random House in New York."
Jennifer wrinkled her pert little nose. She stared at the eleven-year-old, utterly speechless for a mont. "Marvin, I am a contracted academic tutor. I am not your personal secretary or your errand girl."
Marvin leaned back in his executive chair, his ocean-blue eyes catching the light. He offered a slow, devastatingly charming smile, accompanied by a slight, deliberate wink. "Actually, Jennifer... considering how much you loved reading the first half, you absolutely could be."
Jennifer felt her heart do a traitorous little flip.
She gave a light, exasperated huff, walking over to the desk and picking up the heavy stack of paper. "Fine. Consider this my paynt for getting to read the ending before anyone else."
She held the manuscript to her chest, her maternal, protective instincts suddenly warring with her awe of his talent. She looked at him, her brow furrowed with genuine concern.
"Marvin... are you sure about this?" Jennifer asked, biting her lip. "Do you think the executives at Random House will even bother to read a manuscript sent by an eleven-year-old? The publishing world is brutal. What if they just throw it in the slush pile? No, wait—it's such an incredible story, they would have to publish it, unless every single editor in that building is completely blind."
She began pacing the small space, clearly more anxious about the book's fate than the author himself. "Marvin, maybe you should have send copies to Simon & Schuster and HarperCollins too. If you cast a wider net, you'll have a much better chance of breaking through the rejection letters."
Jennifer was entirely unaware that the boy sitting in front of her was already a contracted, highly valued Random House author. She was filled with a frantic anxiety, treating him like a fragile, aspiring artist who needed protection from the harsh realities of the corporate world.
Marvin watched her pace, highly amused by her distress.
"Jennifer," Marvin interrupted, his voice cutting smoothly through her rambling. "Tell ... have you ever read a book called Kung Fu Panda?"
Jennifer stopped pacing, looking at him with a blank expression. "Kung Fu Panda? Hmm. No, I haven't heard of it. Is it a comic book? Why do you ask?"
Marvin offered a faint, mysterious smile. "It's nothing. Just a good book that ca out recently. Hmm. You should probably go and mail that package before the FedEx office closes, my temporary, beautiful secretary."
"Don't call that," Jennifer muttered, though her cheeks flushed a pretty shade of pink. She turned and walked out of the RV, the heavy manuscript securely tucked under her arm.
Marvin leaned back in his chair, lacing his fingers together as he watched her walk away through the tinted glass. He noted the sway of her hips and the confident, athletic bounce in her step, appreciating the aesthetic view with the detached admiration of a connoisseur..
'So, she hasn't heard of it,' Marvin stroked his chin, his mind shifting gears from predator to producer..
'Random House had quietly dropped Kung Fu Panda into the market a few weeks ago, entirely devoid of a promotional budget.
Without a marketing push, the sales were likely hovering in the low thousands—respectable for a debut, but virtually invisible to the mainstream collegiate demographic like Jennifer.'
'It seems we will have to wait for the grand convergence,' Marvin thought, his eyes gleaming with dark, absolute ambition. 'When this movie wraps, the Disney and Random House joint-marketing machine will finally ignite. When the world finds out that the star of the sumr blockbuster also wrote the year's most philosophical children's book... the '11-year-old genius' gimmick won't just sell tickets. It will detonate the cultural zeitgeist..
Well, that's what he was hoping for…
He turned back to his desk, pulling a fresh sheet of paper from the drawer.
---
The bitter December wind whipped off the Hudson River, hurling a flurry of snow against the thick glass windows of the Random House building in Midtown Manhattan. Inside the towering cathedral of Arican publishing, the atmosphere was a chaotic symphony of ringing landlines, the clatter of IBM keyboards, and the distinct, papery sll of fresh galleys.
In his corner office, Senior Editor Benjamin was aggressively rubbing his temples. His desk was a geological formation of slush-pile manuscripts, unreturned mos, and half-empty coffee cups. The 1996 holiday season was in full swing, and the pressure from the executive board to secure the next big literary sensation was crushing.
The heavy oak door creaked open, and Sheena, his razor-sharp editorial assistant, walked in. She was carrying a manila folder and a thick, rigid FedEx box wrapped in priority tape.
"Tell you bring good news, Sheena," Benjamin sighed, leaning back in his leather chair. "Tell the Barnes & Noble buyers finally increased their endcap orders for the thriller slate."
"Forget the thriller slate, Ben," Sheena said, a highly uncharacteristic, genuine smile breaking across her face. She dropped the manila folder onto the center of his desk. "Look at the sell-through reports for the 'Little House' imprint. Specifically, look at the ghost."
Benjamin frowned, pulling the folder open. He ran his finger down the spreadsheet, his eyes scanning the daily sales figures for Kung Fu Panda.
Marvin, sitting in his luxurious RV in California, had been entirely wrong about his own book. He had assud that without a massive, multi-million dollar promotional blitz, the novel was languishing in obscurity. He had underestimated the power of the Arican independent bookstore and lack of entertainnt in current tis, and more importantly, the power of parents desperate for a good story for their children.
Although Random House had strictly adhered to the "Zero Promotion" embargo to preserve the explosive synergy of the upcoming Disney movie, the novel had found its own legs. It possessed a rare, undeniable magic—a childlike charm wrapped in profound, ancient philosophy.
"Wait," Benjamin muttered, pulling his reading glasses down from his forehead. "Are these numbers accurate? We haven't spent a single di on marketing."
"They are perfectly accurate," Sheena said, tapping the paper with a manicured fingernail. "It's entirely organic. It's word-of-mouth. Teachers are recomnding it to parents. Independent bookstores in Seattle and Austin are putting it on their 'Staff Picks' tables. We're moving about three hundred copies a day right now, and the trajectory is actually curving upward as we get closer to Christmas. People are buying it as a premium holiday gift."
Benjamin let out a low whistle. "Three hundred a day... at this rate, the initial 200,000-copy print run will be completely consud in less than six months."
"Exactly," Sheena nodded. "Which ans right around the ti the Disney movie drops in July, the market will already be hungry, the shelves will be empty, and we will hit them with a massive paperback reprint and the 'Prodigy Reveal.' Ben, this kid is a goldmine. Which brings to this."
She slid the heavy FedEx box across the desk. The return address read: yers/Zenith Trust, Los Angeles, CA.
Benjamin's eyes widened. He grabbed a brass letter opener and practically ripped the reinforced cardboard apart. "Wow. Sheena, look! Our little writer has a new work!"
"Already?" Sheena asked, her eyebrows shooting up. "He's been shooting a fifteen-million-dollar movie for the last two months. When does he sleep? He's such an inspired, energetic little guy."
Benjamin pulled away the bubble wrap, lifting a thick, immaculate stack of manuscript pages bound by a heavy rubber band. He set it on his desk as if it were a holy relic.
*****
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