On the private room of a discreet London restaurant, Duke sat adjusting the cuffs of his suit.
He had spent the last two days handling Paramount business in the UK and meeting friends, spending some time with Marty Feldman.
A door creaked open, as Simpson stepped into the room, looking slightly out of breath as he loosened his silk tie.
Right behind the young assistant walked Bill Shankly, the legendary Scottish manager, most renowned for transforming Liverpool FC from a struggling second-division team into a dominant European powerhouse.
Duke stood up, extending a hand to the legendary sports figure.
Shankly met him halfway, delivering a firm handshake.
"Mr. Hauser. I've heard a fair bit about you," Shankly said, his voice carrying a thick Scottish accent. "You are the American fellow who made that famous shark movie."
He released his grip and took a seat across the table.
Duke smiled, taking his own seat. "And you are the man who built Liverpool into a European power, I am honored you agreed to meet me for lunch today."
Duke pushed his empty water glass aside and mapped out his vision of new stadiums spanning from New York to Los Angeles.
"The youth leagues are multiplying every single month over there," Duke explained, his voice filled with excitement. "What do you think about the American soccer market."
Shankly held up a calloused hand, "You Americans," the Scottish manager teased softly, picking up his heavy silver fork and pointing it playfully across the table.
"You always call it soccer. It's football, son. Always has been, and always will be."
Duke threw his hands up in a quick gesture of friendly surrender.
"Point taken, Bill," Duke smiled, "Let's talk about the future of football."
Recently retired from his managerial duties, Shankly now operated as a respected consultant.
He loved nothing more than talking about the beautiful game.
Duke asked him about the realistic potential for football growth inside the United States.
Shankly leaned back, looking thoughtful as he considered the untapped market across the ocean.
"A regional team with strong results inside a big media market could improve Football standing," Shankly noted, "You could bring up the local popularity if you spend the cash. But it is not easy to manufacture passion."
"Over here in England, football is in the blood. It means everything to these people."
Duke understood the cultural difference, specially since in his past life, its not like there were no businessman trying to make Soccer become popular.
Shankly paused, swirling the ice in his water glass. "I saw your national boys play a match recently, The United States Men's team."
He did not finish his sentece. Instead, Shankly let out a chuckle. "Your boys certainly have a lot of heart out there on the grass. I will give them that."
"A shining World Cup trophy is exactly what you need to capture the American imagination," Shankly continued, shaking his head. "But son, looking at your current squad, you are a long way off from even begin to imagine that kind of miracle."
Duke joined in the laughter, fully aware the American squad was miles behind the seasoned European titans.
By 1975, the United States Men's National Team or USMNT for short, held an all-time FIFA World Cup record of 2 wins, 0 draws, and 5 losses across three tournament appearances, 1930, 1934, and 1950.
During this 45-year span, the team scored 8 goals and conceded 19, with their greatest historical run coming at the inaugural 1930 World Cup.
Before 1975, the USMNT did not classify for the tournaments held in 1954, 1958, 1962, 1966, 1970, and 1974.
Shankly tapped his index finger against the table. "I hear your domestic league is cobbling together a special squad for this upcoming 1976 Bicentennial Cup."
"They want to celebrate your country's aniversary by kicking a ball around with real international professionals. It makes for nice promotion."
Duke leaned over, resting his forearms on the table. "Promotion is fine," Duke said. "But I truly want Football to grow, where should I actually put my money, Bill?"
"If you want to make a proper mark, bring your capital to England. This island is where the heart of the game beats. You can bring over talented american kids then and train them here to improve the local talent."
Duke raised a curious eyebrow, deciding to test the waters. "So, do I write a check for Liverpool?"
Shankly waved his hand dismissively, waving the idea away like a pesky fly.
"Keep your checkbook closed for my boys. Liverpool does not need a wealthy white knight riding in to save the day. But I do know a club that fits your exact profile.
Shankly picked up his fork, turning it over slowly. "The suits up in Parliament just pushed through the Safety at Sports Grounds Act."
"They are sending government inspectors with clipboards into every single stadium in the country. They will walk through the old stadiums, kicking at the floorboards, looking for dry rot and structural weakness."
"They point their pens at the stands and demand concrete and steel reinforcements," Shankly continued, "The working-class clubs are under pressure, since the new laws are going to choke the life out of the historic clubs who rely on weekend gate receipts just to keep the lights on."
"Take Chelsea," Shankly said, setting his fork down and leaning back into the seating of the corner booth. "They just fell out of the First Division. Dropped right down into the Second Division mud. Why?"
"Because the previous board of directors decided they wanted to build a modern expensive stadium instead of a proper football ground. They commissioned a massive new Stand."
"And now?" Duke prompted, taking a sip from his water.
"Now, the cement is drying, and the club is drowning in debt," Shankly replied, wiping his mouth with a linen napkin.
"The contractors are literally hammering on the doors at Stamford Bridge, waving unpaid invoices in the air. The club is buried underneath a mountain of debt from the banks."
"They boast a large part of London as their loyal fanbase, people ready and willing to buy tickets every Saturday afternoon, but their operational bank accounts are empty right now."
"They need a man with deep pockets to walk in, pay off and calm the local banks, and pull the club out of the financial mud before they go bankrupt."
Duke fingers interlaced slowly.
The picture Shankly painted was starting to take an appealing shape in his mind.
Damn, did he loved a distressed asset.
Shankly reached for his water glass, "They sit right in the heart of West London near high-end boutiques, luxury flats, and sports cars."
"You have rockstars, fashion models, and bankers walking right past a football ground that is currently starving for cash flow."
"The commercial potential blows away the clubs trapped up in industrial towns. Up north, you have generations of loyalty, but you do not have vast disposable income."
"Down in West London, you have pockets waiting to be emptied. The hardest part of the expensive renovation? It's already built. You just have to manage the debt, stabilize the front office, and put a winning product back onto the grass."
Duke let the silence stretch out over the table.
"Alright, Bill," Duke finally said. "You paint a very pretty picture. But in my line of work, the building is never just sitting on the discount rack for no reason. What's the catch?"
From the corner of the room, Simpson cleared his throat.
Simpson pulled out a folder and slid it across the table toward Duke.
He opened the folder to reveal a stack of black-and-white newspaper clippings, police reports, and internal research memos.
Duke looked down at the information.
The top page featured a grainy photograph on a small article, talking about how Chelsea boys had been hunting enemy club fans.
"Chelsea has a severe hooligan problem," Simpson explained, "Their primary supporter firm is known locally as the Chelsea Shed Boys. They currently rank among the most dangerous fan groups in all of England."
Simpson flipped over a few pages of text, revealing a different photograph.
This one showed a line of exhausted police officers wrestling with young men on a muddy patch of grass.
"Just last month, during a relegation match against Tottenham Hotspur, the Shed Boys spilled over the perimeter fences, invaded the pitch before the whistle came off and beat up the Tottenham fans and their goalkeeper too."
Duke studied the violent images scattered across his plate, shattered remains of wooden stadium seats, broken beer bottles in the grass, and frightened people scrambling to escape the chaos.
"They fought the rival fans in the stands with belts, wood, metal bars, baseball bats and fists," Simpson concluded, "They smashed hundreds of stadium seats to splinters, tore down the metal goalposts, and sent dozens of people to the local hospital with injuries."
"The police presence required just to hold a standard match is draining the city's resources, and the club is suffering from fines."
Duke looked away from his young assistant and locked his gaze back on Shankly.
The romantic vision of a fashionable London club was fractured.
"Rich families do not buy premium season tickets if they have to dodge flying bricks," Duke murmured, tapping the closed folder with his finger.
Duke leaned back against the booth, letting out a breath.
Marketing the club to corporate sponsors would be nearly impossible if their expensive logos were broadcast on television behind a backdrop of bleeding, fighting fans.
"If wealthy people are terrified of being caught up, they will simply take their entertainment money elsewhere. Physical security is the bedrock of profitability."
"That is the puzzle for you to solve, son," the Scottish manager replied calmly, chewing his food.
"I did not come here today to sell you a polished diamond," Shankly continued, "I came here to point out exactly where the gold is buried in the thick mud."
___
A week later, they were in Tokyo, he didnt sign anything yet nor did he make promises.
Duke, Simpson, and Jeffrey Katzenberg stepped off their international flight at Narita Airport. They carried their briefcases through the busy terminal.
They climbed into a cab and rode deep into a bustling Tokyo neighborhood.
The MadHouse studio was located inside a rather unassuming, gray office building.
The interior was filled with dozens of animators sitting hunched over slanted desks drawing.
Masao Maruyama, the co-founder of MadHouse, stepped forward to greet him. Masao offered a smile and a deep bow.
Duke returned the gesture half hearthedly.
Masao led the trio away from the busy studio floor and into a small conference room in the back.
Masao carefully poured Duke a cup of coffee and set a small dish of sliced pickled cucumber down on the table.
Duke looked down at the odd pairing, he had never been served pickles with black coffee before, he wasn't complaining since he actually loved pickles, but still, curious.
He then used a toothpick to try one of the pickles. To his surprise, it was very good. "Thank you, Masao, this is... interesting."
Maruyama smiled softly, taking a seat across the narrow table. "It's a tradition here in the studio, the coffee keeps the eyes open, and the pickles wake up the mind. It is our daily creative fuel."
Duke reached for another pickle, deciding he actually liked the strange combination.
While Maruyama gathered his presentation folders, Duke let his mind wander back home for a brief moment as he looked at a Blue Beetle drawing.
He reflected on how surprisingly comfortable his life had become since deciding to officially choose a side in American politics.
Just last year, he felt like he was constantly fighting fires.
He had been dealing with the messy Paramount Records scandal, FTC investigations into Blue Beetle and Atari, and a IRS audit.
All of these had magically disappeared the moment he aligned his empire with a political side.
The political protection he now enjoyed was invaluable.
It allowed him to focus on building his businesses instead of fighting endless courtroom battles.
Maruyama returned to the table, carrying a small decorated cake on a white platter.
"We are celebrating today," the studio head announced, "The first season of Blue Beetle was a great success for us."
Duke smiled, his mind flashing back to the initial launch.
Back in 1971, he had purchased the struggling Charlton Comics for a low price.
He had taken a gamble and launched solo comic series for two characters, Blue Beetle and Captain Atom.
Captain Atom never really caught on with the reading public, quickly fading into the background.
But Blue Beetle had exploded in popularity, Masao slid a sheet of sales figures across the table, tapping the numbers at the bottom of the page.
The top 10 best-selling American comics on 1973-1974 were.
Mad (EC Comics) – 2,132,655 copies
Blue Beetle (DC Comics)- 435,288 copies
Amazing Spider-Man (Marvel Comics) – 288,232 copies
Superman (DC Comics) – 285,634 copies
Archie (Archie Comics) – 272,272 copies
World's Finest (DC Comics) – 242,726 copies
Action Comics (DC Comics) – 237,166 copies
Superboy (DC Comics) – 225,427 copies
Tarzan (Gold Key Comics) – 223,710 copies
Fantastic Four (Marvel Comics) – 218,330 copies
The data was great.
Blue Beetle was now the number 2 best-selling comic book in America, sitting just behind the juggernaut of Mad Magazine.
It was currently moving 435,288 copies per issue. It had successfully surpassed cultural icons like Spider-Man and Superman at the newsstands.
Duke traced the number with his finger, "That is incredible work, Masao. The animated show is a huge part of this success."
Katzenberg didn't miss a beat. He slid a stack of scheduling calendars across the wooden table.
Without a TV animation wing back in Los Angeles, Paramount relied on this exact room in Tokyo.
Katzenberg treated the Japanese studio as the engine of his DC division in animation matters.
"Green Lantern is next on the line," Katzenberg rattled off, "We need to push our other comics too. And season two of Blue Beetle has an October deadline this year."
Masao did not flinch at the American deadlines.
"We are ready," the studio head replied, "The ink and paint teams are already sketching space battles during their lunch breaks. Green Lantern is in good hands."
Then, Masao gently pushed the DC Comics folders aside, and locked eyes with Duke.
"We enjoy drawing your stories," Maruyama stated, "We have animated many characters for others here in Japan, like Candy Candy, or Zero Tester."
"But our dream goes beyond work-for-hire. We want to tell our own stories."
"You have the artists, and my backing so go ahead."
Duke reached inside his pocket and pulled out a battered paperback book, staring at it for a moment.
Joe Haldeman's The Forever War.
"I read this on the long flight over," Duke noted, tracing the title with his thumb. "It's a story about soldiers. It reminded me of another classic, Starship Troopers."
Duke let his gaze drift away from the table, staring at a blank wall.
In the history of Anime, Starship Troopers would come to have a certain standing in the industry, specially for what it inspired.
A slow smile spread across Duke's face. "Tell me, Masao, have you ever heard of a Gundam?"