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*****
Now that Marvin thought about it, observing her reaction, he completely understood Oprah's initial, underlying anxiety. If he began the story by speaking negatively about the studio, his co-actors, or the strict director, her producers would have cut it out of the broadcast to avoid bad PR. No one in the public would blame a child for speaking out about something bad on set, but it could damage the reputation of the studio and affect opening weekend movie sales.
By flipping the script into a hilarious, endearing story of him prank-warring with Bruce Willis, he delivered pure talk-show gold.
"That is incredible!" Oprah wheezed, fanning herself with her cue cards. "I will absolutely ask Bruce about that the next time he sits in that chair. Okay, let's shift gears for a moment. You aren't just taking over Hollywood; you're taking over the radio."
The crowd cheered loudly in agreement.
"I loved your recent songs, Marvin, especially the new NBA anthem, *Unstoppable*," Oprah said, her tone shifting to sincere admiration. "It is everywhere! Can you tell us when your millions of fans might expect a full, new EP or a debut album?"
"It will arrive significantly sooner than you think," Marvin promised with a secretive smile. "As soon as I am free from the immediate promotional duties for this film, I will lock myself back in the recording studio."
"That is wonderful news," Oprah beamed.
"Now, we all saw you play the grand piano beautifully at the Oscars. And from the liner notes and the rights of your songs, we know you personally played all the instruments involved in the production of your track *My Heart Will Go On*. Can you tell us, out of everything, what is your favorite instrument to play?"
"I love all music, and I genuinely love the process of learning," Marvin answered jovially, creating his myths slowly. "So I learned all of them simply because it helps me compose better, richer arrangements. I don't have to rely on translators to communicate my vision to the orchestra. But if I had to choose, I deeply love playing the acoustic guitar and the piano. They form the foundational building blocks."
Seeing the sudden, wide grin spread across Oprah's face gave Marvin a mild, impending chill. He knew what was coming next.
"Well, isn't that perfect?" Oprah asked, her voice raising an octave in manufactured excitement. "Because we just happen to have a few beautiful instruments waiting right here in the studio. Would you do us the incredible honor of playing a song for us live today?"
She aimed what could only be described as Oprah's high-powered, billionaire version of puppy-dog eyes directly at him.
It served as a brilliant, highly calculated move by her producers. She clearly took advantage of the newly established, industry-wide fact that whenever Marvin Meyers sang a song live on television, the Nielsen ratings literally broke through the roof.
From what Jeff's network gathered, the hushed, frantic whispers running through the entertainment industry boardrooms sounded hilarious. The executive producers of both the Grammys and the Golden Globes reportedly fell into a state of hair-pulling despair. They literally screamed at their booking agents, completely at a loss as to why they hadn't formally asked the boy to perform a song live during their respective broadcasts.
After seeing the astronomical volume of money and traffic the Academy Awards and the TNT NBA broadcast made simply by putting a microphone in his hand, every network in America felt desperate for a Marvin Meyers live performance.
"How could I refuse a request from that beautiful face?" Marvin grinned back at her, radiating effortless charm.
The audience gasped in delight.
Oprah blinked, visibly taken aback. "Are you flirting with me, Mister?" she asked, crossing her arms with a mixture of indignation and amusement.
"Oh, yes, I absolutely am," Marvin replied instantly, leaning forward, much to her visible shock. "Honestly, Oprah, if only I was a few years older, I would have dropped to one knee and proposed marriage by now."
The studio audience completely lost their minds, shrieking and cheering at the sheer audacity and smooth delivery of the boy.
Oprah threw her head back and laughed, genuinely charmed by the aura washing over her. "Lord have mercy! You will become one heck of a ladies' man in the future, mister. You will break a lot of hearts. Now, before I get into trouble, onto the instruments! Which one would you like to bless us with today?"
She pointed toward a dimly lit corner of the massive stage where a beautiful, white marble grand piano sat next to a rack of high-end acoustic guitars.
Marvin stood up, buttoning his suit with a crisp, professional motion. The camera tracked him as he walked smoothly over to the rack. He bypassed the piano, picking up a beautiful, polished acoustic guitar. He settled the strap over his shoulder, checking the tuning by casually, rapidly playing a few complex, flamenco-style practice chords instantly showcasing a level of technical proficiency beyond his age.
"This one will do perfectly," Marvin said into his lapel mic, as he sat down gracefully on a wooden stool that a frantic set assistant rushed out for him.
As the sound engineers scrambled onto the stage, adjusting the boom mics to properly capture the acoustics of the guitar, Marvin started doing a few brief, resonant vocal exercises to prepare his chords.
He didn't actually need to warm up. His biology ensured his vocal cords remained always in pristine condition. But he did it purely for the show-off factor while showing that he was normal.. He ran through a complex, soaring multi-octave scale, his voice transitioning flawlessly from a deep, vibrating baritone into a crystal-clear, piercing falsetto echoing through the cavernous studio.
The casual, raw display of vocal power instantly silenced the murmuring audience. They realized they were about to witness something historic.
Oprah's production team politely asked his agent beforehand if he felt comfortable singing a small, brief snippet of his unreleased acoustic track, tentatively titled "Bumblebee on Ferris Wheel," just as a teaser for the viewers.
Marvin adjusted his grip on the neck of the guitar. He looked up, his amber-blue eyes catching the studio lights, locking the millions of viewers at home in his gaze when they saw this broadcast.
His fingers struck the strings, and the studio faded away.
…
…
…
When Marvin finally dropped the last, echoing syllable, his fingers elegantly muting the vibrating strings of the guitar, the entire Chicago studio plunged into a stunned silence.
For three seconds, no one breathed. The raw emotion of the acoustic rendition hung in the air, wrapping around the audience like a physical weight. The studio lighting highlighted Marvin's composed features, capturing the captivating depth of his eyes as he gazed over the dimly lit stands directly into the camera.
Then, suddenly, the dam broke.
A deafening eruption of applause shattered the quiet. The live studio audience—hundreds of people—leaped to their feet in frantic unison.
Women wiped mascara-stained tears from their cheeks. Men clapped until their palms turned red. The volume of the cheering vibrated the television cameras tracking the stage.
Marvin stood from the wooden stool, drinking in the chaotic adoration. He slung the guitar behind his back, bent at the waist, and offered a deep bow to accept their appreciation. The soul of the Incubus drank deeply from the tidal wave of raw human desire, awe, lust, love, and infatuation flooding the room.
The energy intoxicated him.
"Another wonderful, breathtaking song, Marvin!" Oprah exclaimed. Her booming voice cut through the applause. She stood up, giving him her own vigorous share of a standing ovation.
She walked over to him. She shook her head in disbelief. "I mean, my goodness! Not only are you a great actor, but you are a great singer, a masterful songwriter, a brilliant composer, a bestselling author, and a painter as well! What is next? Next, you'll sit in that chair and tell me you are a master dancer and you're planning to compete in the Olympics!"
"I hate to disappoint you, Oprah, but there will be no Olympics for me anytime soon," Marvin waved the compliment off with casual charm. He flashed a brilliant smile. "But... I happened to learn some complex dancing moves recently, just for the fun of it."
Oprah stopped dead in her tracks. She stared at him, gobsmacked. A producer's grin lit up her eyes. She opened her mouth, ready to demand a live demonstration.
Marvin raised a single finger. He shut her down smoothly before she could articulate the thought.
"No, Oprah. Save that ambitious look for later. I will not dance for you today."
"But Marvin, the people would simply *love* to see that, right?!"
Oprah whipped around to the audience.
Thunderous applause and chaotic cheering met her rhetorical question. Hundreds of women in the stands practically begged for more.
Marvin chuckled. He shook his head resolutely, unfazed by the crowd's pressure. "We can make a deal right now. You can invite me back onto this show the day I decide to make a dance movie. And I promise, I will dance with you on this very stage then."
"You drive a hard bargain, young man," Oprah laughed. She placed her hands on her hips. "But you've got yourself a deal!"
She extended her hand. They shook dramatically for the flashing cameras, sealing the televised promise.
They spent the remaining fifteen minutes of the broadcast segment diving deep into the psychological themes of the movie. They navigated his bizarrely grounded life behind the scenes, playfully bantering about his meteoric rise.
Marvin controlled the rhythm of the interview. He fed her exactly the soundbites she needed for sweeps week. He never surrendered his own aura.
Finally, Oprah turned to the primary camera. Her expression shifted into her signature, earnest recommendation mode.
"Marvin Meyers, everyone! *The Sixth Sense* will officially be in theaters near you this Wednesday, just in time for the holidays," Oprah announced. Her voice rang with conviction. "My personal advice to every single one of you watching at home: book a ticket right now before it is completely sold out. It really is *that* good!"
The audience cheered wildly. Oprah stepped forward and wrapped Marvin in a tight hug. He returned the warm embrace. He angled his face perfectly for the cameras, stepped away, and waved gracefully to the crowd. The floor director signaled the final commercial cut.
The red *"ON AIR"* lights above the cameras clicked off. The studio crew immediately rushed the stage to strike the set.
Marvin walked smoothly off the platform and into the shadowed backstage corridors.
Oprah followed him into the quiet corridor. She handed her microphone pack to a passing assistant. His unnatural composure genuinely unnerved her.
"You know, Marvin," Oprah noted. Her brow furrowed in fascination. "Most veteran, A-list celebrities with decades of experience need a stiff drink and a towel after doing a live musical set on my stage. Yet you look like you just woke up from a nap. You were so calm and confident out there."
Marvin stopped and turned to face her. In the dim lighting of the backstage hallway, his projected boyish innocence melted away. The CEO bled back into his posture and aura. His eyes locked onto hers. The intense, magnetic gravity made the billionaire media mogul catch her breath.
"I am confident, Oprah, because I have nothing to fear from a camera lens," Marvin murmured. "I know exactly what the world wants to see."
Oprah swallowed hard. His suffocating charm momentarily trapped her. She forced a professional laugh to break the heavy tension.
"That you do, baby. That you do. So... tell me the truth off the record. Was that acoustic song you just played really an original composition? Because my producers couldn't find a single copyright match for it."
"Every single note," Marvin confirmed. His lips curved into a knowing smirk.
"Well, then we'll have to get my legal team to sign some expedited release papers with your agent and label to allow us to air that footage," Oprah said. She quickly shifted back to business mode. "Since it is exclusively *your* creation, the licensing fees are going to be a nightmare. But it will be worth every penny."
Marvin nodded graciously. He knew the complex game of television production intimately. Oprah loudly claimed to her audience on stage she watched the movie at a "premiere." That remained a Hollywood lie. The actual red-carpet premiere of *The Sixth Sense* awaited them in Los Angeles.
They merely recorded this talk show episode days in advance. It would telecast nationwide the morning after the LA premiere to maximize box office momentum. That represented the sleek, deceptive nature of 90s showbiz.
"I appreciate the platform, Oprah," Marvin said smoothly. "But tell me... did you actually manage to sit down and watch the final cut of the movie, or was that glowing recommendation purely for the cameras?"
****
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