Despite the lingering shadow of the Olympic Village tragedy, the city itself was pretty peaceful for Duke, who nevertherless was walking around with bodyguards.
He was enjoying his time in Munich, a brief window of respite before diving back into the corporate world was something he felt it must be savored.
He walked down the street, his heavy wool coat pulled tight against the wind, leaning slightly on his cane. Beside him, Barbara Bouchet was wrapped in a tailored trench coat, her bright blonde hair catching the afternoon sun.
They were, for all intents and purposes, just regular tourists with some bodyguard.
The Olympic committee had branded the 1972 games with light blue, silver, and bright green and were plastered across every storefront and lamppost. But the most ubiquitous symbol of the games was a small, striped dog, Waldi.
"Look at him," Barbara laughed, pointing to a vendor's cart overflowing with brightly colored plush toys. "He's so cute. I want to have one."
Duke smiled. They approached the cart. The vendor, a bald man in a thick woolen sweater, offered a welcoming grin.
"Waldi," the vendor proudly proclaimed in heavily accented English, holding up a plush dachshund striped in orange, green, and blue. "First official mascot! Good luck for games. Good luck for you."
"We'll take two," Duke said, pulling a few Deutsche Marks from his pocket. He picked up a large plush version and a smaller keychain.
He handed the plush to Barbara, who hugged it against her coat with a laugh.
Duke slipped the keychain into his pocket. His fingers brushed against the cool metal of the little dog.
It was a simple, cheap piece of stamped zinc and enamel, but to the Munich organizers this 'merchandise' was helping them pay for the Games.
"He is coming back to Rome with me," Barbara declared, adjusting the plush dog under her arm. "He will sit on my dressing room mirror."
"He's a good guard dog," Duke agreed, "Now, we have a screening to catch."
"Are we finally going to a German cinema?" Barbara asked, her eyes lighting up with curiosity. "I want to see how the audiences react here. The European crowd is very different from the Americans, more cultured."
"I thought about it," Duke admitted, steering her toward their waiting car. "But everything playing around here is dubbed in German. I wouldn't understand a word of the dialogue, and as much as I appreciate the visual medium, I need to hear things. So, I made a few calls. We're going to a private screening room at the Bavaria Film Studios. I had a reel flown in from the UK."
Barbara raised an eyebrow as the driver opened the door for them. "A Paramount picture?"
"Yes... well no, sort of i guess." Duke said, settling into the leather seat. "It's an Ithaca picture."
The private screening room at the Bavaria Film Studios was a soundproofed bunker lined with velvet. Duke and Barbara took their seats in the center row, the lights slowly dimmed to black as it started.
Duke called Evans and found out that Cabaret was completely shoot at the Bavaria Film Studios, and they were more than happy to lend him a Screening room.
The projector came to life. The film began without a studio logo, just a stark, raw title card cutting through the darkness, The Last House on the Left.
The story follows two teenage girls, Mari Collingwood and Phyllis Stone.
For Mari's 17th birthday, they travel into the city to attend a concert by an underground rock band. While attempting to buy marijuana before the show, they are lured into an apartment by a young guy named Junior.
Inside, they are ambushed by Junior's family, Krug (the leader), Fred (an escaped pedophile convict), and Sadie.
The girls are kidnapped, locked in the trunk of a car, and driven into the dense woods located near Mari's family home.
When the car breaks down in the forest, the gang forces the girls out. Over several hours, the group subjects Mari and Phyllis to torture.
Phyllis attempts to escape into the woods but is hunted down and killed by Krug and Fred.
Mari is forced to watch her friend being assaulted before being sexually assaulted herself.
In a final moment of resignation, Mari walks into a nearby lake, Krug shoots her, and she dies in the water.
A thunderstorm begins. The killers, unaware of exactly where they are, seek shelter at a nearby house, the home of John and Estelle Collingwood, Mari's parents.
The parents welcome the strangers in, offering them food and a place to sleep.
While the killers are asleep, Estelle finds Mari's blood-stained clothes and belongings among the group's luggage.
After discovering Phyllis's mutilated body in the woods nearby, the Collingwoods realize these guests are responsible for their daughter's death.
Rather than calling the police, the Collingwoods decide to take things into their own hands. They lure the gang members into various traps throughout the house.
Sadie is lured outside, where Estelle kills her by cutting her throat.
Fred is incapacitated and killed in a gruesome manner involving a dental tool.
Junior, overcome with guilt and drug withdrawal, commits suicide.
Krug is the last to die, John Collingwood uses a chainsaw to kill him in the living room.
The film ends with the arrival of the local sheriff, who finds the parents standing in their home, covered in blood and traumatized by their own actions.
The film was jagged. It was uncomfortable. It lacked the smooth, polished cinematography of a traditional Hollywood production, but that was exactly its strength. It felt real.
There were a lot of rumours on his past life, about Tobe Hopper, taking elements from the Last House of the Left, which Duke actually feel were at least in some parts, partially truth.
Barbara, who had made a career out of starring in stylish, blood-soaked Italian thrillers, sat perfectly still. The Giallo films she worked on were violent, yes, but they were stylized.
They featured beautiful women, extravagant sets, bright red blood that looked like paint, and killers wearing black leather gloves.
Craven's films were not like that.
When the film finally snapped to black, Barbara let out a long breath, her hands tightly gripping the plush dachshund. She looked at Duke, her eyes wide.
"Duke," she whispered. "That was... that was horrible."
"It was," Duke agreed, leaning back in his chair.
"It is going to be banned in Italy," she said, her voice finding its footing. "It will be banned in London. The censors will have a field day."
"I'm counting on it," Duke smiled. "Controversy is the cheapest marketing budget in the world. We're going to put a warning on the posters. We're going to tell people that the theater management will provide vomit bags in the lobby."
"You funded this?" she asked, still staring at the blank screen.
"Through Ithaca, yes," Duke said. "The director, Wes Craven is a talented man. It's going to cost us pennies to market this, and it's going to make millions at the drive-ins."
Barbara looked at him, shaking her head. "You buy me a stuffed dog in the morning, and you show me this in the afternoon. I'm sure we can get other english films here."
"I appreciate a good horror film," Duke chuckled, helping her up from the seat. "Come on. I'll take you back to the hotel. You can recover, and I have a meeting I can't get out of."
"More business?"
"Unfortunately," Duke said, "Some Americans who happened to be in the neighborhood."
Duke left Barbara resting in their suite at the hotel and took the elevator down to a private room on the mezzanine level. The hallway was guarded by two men wearing dark suits.
Duke nodded to them and pushed open the oak doors.
The room smelled of cigar smoke, and malt scotch. Four men sat around a circular mahogany table. These were high-level power brokers for the Republican Party.
It was late 1972. The Watergate break-in had happened in June.
While the full, catastrophic explosion of the scandal was still months away from tearing the Nixon administration apart, the men in this room knew the situation was bad.
The Washington Post was digging. The FBI was circling. The party was quietly, desperately searching for lifeboats.
The men stood up as Duke entered. The leader of the group, a silver-haired man named John N. Mitchell, extended a hand.
"Duke. It is a profound pleasure to finally meet you in person," Mitchell said, his voice a rich, booming tone that sounded like it belonged on a campaign commercial. "Thank you for taking the time."
"Mr. Mitchell," Duke replied smoothly, shaking his hand and taking the empty leather chair opposite him. He rested his cane against the table. "I admit, when your office reached out to my people in LA, I was surprised. I didn't realize the RNC was taking an interest in the European theatrical market."
The men chuckled politely, but it was a thin, nervous sound.
"We take an interest in American exceptionalism, Duke," a second man, a younger one named Maurice, said as he poured Duke a glass of scotch. "And right now, nobody is projecting that better than you."
Duke didn't touch the glass. He leaned back, crossing his arms. He knew exactly what this was. "I'm a mere filmmaker, gentlemen."
"You make culture," Mitchell corrected, leaning forward, "We saw the numbers on The Godfather, Duke, you are steering the national conversation. And frankly, we love to have a friendship with the man behind the wheel."
Maurice pulled out a small manila folder, flipping it open. "We've looked at your profile, Duke. You are exactly what this country needs to be reminded of right now. You're a WASP, a Christian, a self-made man, an orphan from Texas who built an empire."
"And most importantly..." Maurice tapped the paper. "...you are a veteran. A Door Gunner in Vietnam. You are the absolute, unfiltered embodiment of the American Dream."
Duke's face remained neutral.
"I appreciate the summary of my resume," Duke said, his voice flat, completely devoid of the warmth they were trying to create. "But let's skip the biography. What is it that the Republican Party wants from Paramount Pictures?"
Mitchell sighed, sitting back and lighting a cigar. He decided to drop the pretense.
"The country is fracturing, Duke," Mitchell said, "The counter-culture is getting louder. The press is becoming entirely hostile to the administration."
"We are fighting a war of perception, and right now, the media is controlled by people who do not share our values. They are New York liberals, Duke. They want to tear down the institutions that men like you and I built."
"So?" Duke asked.
"So, we would want you to expand," Mitchell said, "You could use the massive capital Paramount is generating to start acquiring newspapers or some Television stations in key midwestern markets. We want you to build a media apparatus that can push a reliable, traditional, Republican viewpoint. We need a friendly person on our side."
Duke looked at the four men. He didn't feel intimidated.
"No," Duke said softly.
Mitchell blinked, the cigar pausing halfway to his mouth. "Duke, perhaps I wasn't clear-"
"You were perfectly clear," Duke interrupted, "You want me to take my brand that is currently famous and paint it so you can use it as a shield. I won't do it."
"It's about the future of the country-" Vance tried to interject.
"It's about the bottom line," Duke snapped back, his eyes narrowing. "I run a business. My audience is made up of Republicans, Democrats, hippies, soldiers, factory workers, and college students."
"When a man walks up to a box office and puts down three dollars to see The French Connection, I don't ask him who he voted for. If I turn my studio into a political mouthpiece, I alienate half of my consumer base. That is bad business."
The men exchanged glances.
"Duke, you're looking at this too narrowly," Mitchell tried again, shifting tactics. "If you help us ensure a favorable environment for the administration, the administration can ensure a highly favorable environment for Paramount."
"We're talking about tax incentives. We can deregulate the anti-trust laws concerning media ownership. We can make it so you can acquire things, without the DOJ knocking on your door. We can pave the road for you."
Duke smiled.
"Mr. Mitchell, with all due respect, I don't need you to pave the road," Duke said softly. "I am already winning. I don't need Washington's permission to release my films."
He reached for his cane, preparing to stand up and leave. He was done with the conversation.
But Mitchell wasn't finished. The man leaned forward, putting both hands flat on the table.
"What about Atari, Duke?"
Duke stopped. His grip on the cane tightened slightly, but his face remained perfectly still. He slowly sat back down. "What about it?"
Mitchell continued, his voice regaining its smooth confidence. "We know about the Pong console. We know about the deal with Sears. You think the future is in interactive electronics."
"It is," Duke said simply.
"It's a bold bet," Maurice chimed in, leaning over the table. "But hardware is a vulnerable business. Right now, international trade laws regarding electronics and intellectual property are the wild west."
"The Japanese are beating you up. The Europeans are looking at putting tariffs. If you launch Home Pong globally, you are going to face massive import taxes, patent theft, and foreign knock-offs that will bleed Atari before it ever gets off the ground."
"Unless," Mitchell said softly, "video games and interactive entertainment are officially added to the General Agreement on Tariffs and Trade. Specifically, under a heavily protected, American-favored intellectual property clause."
Duke's mind raced as his mind procesed the information.
GATT. The international treaty that governed global commerce, and the strongest weapon America had.
If the United States government used its geopolitical leverage to classify video games under strict GATT protections, it would fundamentally alter the future of technology. It would create a legal moat that Atari could abuse.
"We can make it happen, Duke," Mitchell whispered, leaning in closer. "We can start the process for our trade representatives to make it a primary mandate. We will classify physical consoles as protected American cultural exports."
"We will slap crushing tariffs on any foreign competitor trying to enter the market, and we will force open the European and Asian markets for Atari with low import penalties."
"We aren't just offering you a tax break, Duke," Mitchell concluded, "This is basically a state-sponsored monopoly that can be kept as long as we control. All you have to do is buy a few newspapers and make sure the editorial boards remember who their friends are."
It was the ultimate bribe. A protected monopoly for Atari meant limitless capital.
It meant the ability to fund R&D that would leapfrog the competition. It meant total dominance of the home entertainment sector before Nintendo even stepped into the market.
Duke looked at the four men. He saw the sweat on their brows. They were powerful men, but they were trapped in their own impending political doom.
For a long moment, Duke considered it.
Duke slowly stood up. He leaned his weight onto his cane. He looked down at Mitchell.
"It's a beautiful offer," Duke said, his voice calm.
Mitchell smiled, relief washing over his face. "So, we have a deal?"
"I will consider things first." Duke said.
The smile vanished from Mitchell face instantly.
Duke walked off the room.
____
So guys, im busy since im doing my Masters rn, but i will try to keep updating everyday
I been trying to write at least 2000 words a day for the past 6 months which is not easy
Also theres some people that seem to dislike everything
I write about the business plot, people want more Personality moments with Duke.
I write Personality moments with Duke, and people complain about it saying it doesnt serve the plot
I take a moment to make Duke do something cool(martial arts with bruce lee or going to the Oscars or the olympics) and people complain that it acomplish anything for the story
Also, Is he going to have a bad leg? YES, its a part of his characterization.
Duke is essentially a man from the future. Smarter, and with more foresight than anyone else in 1970s. Without the leg, he would just be an unrelatable Mary Sue.
Even if he's rich, he cant completely cure his leg
As for dating several women, Duke isn't a Boy Scout, as long as he continues to treat both women with respect and provides for them, the narrative will view it as a Non-Issue.