The neon sign of the diner flickered with a persistent, erratic buzz, casting a weird lighting that was very similar to that Hong Kong movie, Chungking Express.
Outside, the Dallas night was finally beginning to cool, shedding the heat of the Texas afternoon. But inside, the air remained warm. It was 9:00 PM.
Tobe Hooper sat in a cracked vinyl booth near the back. His left leg was bouncing under the table rapidly.
His hands were wrapped tightly around a battered, stained satchel resting on the table in front of him. He clutched it, inside were his script treatments, and storyboards.
He checked his cheap wristwatch for the tenth time in five minutes.
Tobe had spent his entire adult life being told his ideas were too dark, and entirely unmarketable for the film industry.
Yet, earlier the day before, the Chairman of Paramount Pictures, a man who had just dropped millions of dollars on the university had handed him a card and told him to call.
Tobe was terrified. He was sort of expecting this meeting to be an elaborate prank, or worse, a setup where some Hollywood lawyer would arrive to attack his confidence and offer to buy his ideas for cheap.
The bell above the glass door chimed, a sharp sound that disrupted Tobe's thoughts.
Duke Hauser didn't walk in with an entourage.
He still had his security detail, of course, but the had ordered them to remain outside in unremarkabled cars, dressed in plainclothes.
Duke walked into the diner wearing a simple gray shirt with the sleeves casually rolled up to the forearms, and a pair of dark trousers.
He spotted Tobe in the back booth, offered a friendly nod, and slid into the seat opposite the trembling filmmaker.
Duke didn't immediately wave down a waitress to order a coffee. He simply sat back, rested his hands flat on the table, and fixed his eyes on Tobe.
"You look like you're waiting to be arrested, Tobe," Duke said, he offered a warm, easy smile, trying to defuse the nervousness radiating from the man across from him.
Tobe forced a laugh. He wiped the sweat from his forehead. "I'm just... I'll be honest, Mr. Hauser, I'm surprised you actually showed up. I figured you'd send a PA or some junior development executive to talk to me. Let me down easy."
"I don't have time for assistants to filter the world for me," Duke replied, leaning back slightly, "And if your work was trash, I wouldn't have asked you to meet me at all. I would have just smiled at you in the auditorium and walked away."
Tobe's brow furrowed, confusion cutting through his anxiety. "But you've never seen my work. I mean, nobody has. Not really. I'm a nobody."
Duke's smile widened, "I saw Eggshells, Tobe. 1969. I managed to catch a screening."
Tobe froze. The bouncing in his leg stopped instantly. His mouth opened, closed, and opened again before he spoke again. "You... you saw Eggshells? But that was an experiment. It barely even got released. It played in a handful of theaters and vanished."
"Movies that get released and play on three thousand screens and make everyone feel great, those are in the minority when you look at the history of our industry," Duke said, his tone positive, "It was strange, yes. It lacked conventional narrative cohesion. But it was memorable, Tobe. I can assure you, I am very interested in the way you see the world."
Tobe looked down at his satchel, he took a deep breath, then looked back at Duke.
"I have a pitch," Tobe said, his voice dropping a little. "But I should warn you right now, it's not for everyone. It's not a clean either."
Duke gave a subtle nod. "The floor is yours."
"I've been looking at the old 1932 film, White Zombie." Tobe started, "But I want to strip the gothic romance out of it. I want to do something... visceral. Something that people pull their cars up to see at midnight drive-ins, and they leave talking about the dread they feel. But I don't know if you would want me to dial down the..."
"Stop right there," Duke interrupted softly. He tapped his index finger against the table. "Why would I want you to dial it back? Do you think I tookover Paramount Pictures because I wanted to churn out sanitized family films? I financed The Last House on the Left, Tobe. Do you think I'm afraid of a little blood?"
Tobe leaned forward, his eyes widening. "You financed The Last House on the Left? Wes Craven's picture? That was you?"
"I keep a low profile on the projects that aren't meant for polite society," Duke said, a hint of amusement in his voice. "But you know as well as I do that 'Hick-ploitation' is the wave right now. The market is shifting."
Duke possessed the supreme advantage of his memory.
He knew that in the wake of Deliverance's massive box office impact and The Last House on the Left reception, both released in 1972, the following year, 1973 would see a massive influx of Hickplotatioin.
Films like Gator Bait, White Lightning, and Lolly-Madonna XXX were about to hit the market hard.
"It's not just a trend," Tobe argued passionately, "It's a reality. We're living in a country that is coming apart. You look at the evening news and it's all there. The violence is everywhere now."
"Precisely," Duke agreed, "This is an era defined by its violence. Look at the Zodiac Killer in California. Everyone is obsessed with the letters, the ciphers, the mysterious phone calls to the police. Everyone thinks he's an unstoppable phantom still lurking. Yet the last confirmed murder was all the way back in 1969. A movie about him would be great."
Tobe let out a breath, relaxing his shoulders. "Well, that's a dangerous way of thinking to put on film. What if people get inspired by violence? Some folks out there already think guys like Ed Gein were 'artists' of their own sick kind. They read about him turning corpses into furniture, making bowls out of skulls, and treating human skin like upholstery, and they think there's some dark genius in it."
Duke's expression tightened for a fraction of a second. He remembered, Ed Gein had once fashioned a belt entirely out of human nipples. What a weird guy.
"So... Hooper, I want you to make a film for Paramount, but will make this for my label, Ithaca Productions. You get the budget. You get a crew. You get some autonomy. You make the movie you want to make, and I will distribute it in every theater and drive-in across this country. Are you in?".
"I'm in," Tobe whispered, his voice trembling while he shook Duke's hand.
"Excellent," Duke said, standing up smoothly from the booth. "Start writing the treatment then. You have my assistants phone. Call when you have a plan."
___
The following morning, the scene replaced by the brightness of a Texas oil patch.
Duke Hauser stood at the edge of a dusty rustic road, shielded by his aviator sunglasses. Beside him was a sprawling field of "nodding donkeys", or well also reffered to as Pumpjacks. They moved with a steady rhythm.
Standing next to Duke was David Griffin, the newly appointed CEO of Vanguard Petroleum.
Griffin was a sturdy, middle-aged man, who held a metal clipboard against his forehead, shielding his eyes from the sun.
"We're pulling roughly thirty barrels a day from this specific cluster of wells, Duke," Griffin shouted slightly over the groaning of the machinery.
He gestured with his pen toward the horizon, where dozens more pumpjacks dotted the landscape. "These are old assets. Most of the majors abandoned them a decade ago. But if we modernize the infrastructure, optimize the downhole pressure, replace the aging valves, inject a little capital into the maintenance, we can bump that daily yield by forty percent."
"The problem is, we're hitting the ceiling of our current capital allocation. You seeded us with ten million, and we've already acquired three hundred wells on our own."
Duke watched the nearest metal arm dip and rise. Thirty barrels a day wasn't a gusher. But wait for the geopolitical shocks of 1973 to drive the price of crude through the roof and you would be printing money.
"We don't need to look for more capital, David," Duke said, his gaze fixed on the horizon. It felt strange to look out and not see the sprawling grid of Los Angeles. "The money isn't the issue. I can write a check tomorrow to double our holdings. What we need to look for are partners."
Griffin frowned, looking confused. "Partners? You want to let the Texas 'Good Old Boys' club into our books? Duke, these families have been running oil in this state for generations. If you invite them in, they're going to want a seat at the table. They'll want a say in the operations."
"Let them have a seat," Duke smiled, turning away from the pumpjacks and walking back toward the idling Lincoln Continental parked on the dirt road. "I don't mind sharing my table, David. I need to be viewed as a permanent fixture here, not just new money passing through."
Griffin opened the rear door of the Lincoln for Duke. "You're making a play for the social scene."
"I am securing my base," Duke corrected him, sliding into the plush leather interior. "Within the next year, Vanguard is going to spin off a lot of cash. I plan to take that cash and start buying media assets right here in this state. I'm looking at regional newspapers, television stations, and sports holdings."
Duke had already purchased the ABA's Dallas Chaparrals, setting the stage for their future transformation into the Dallas Mavericks.
"If I just swoop in and start buying up their media," Duke continued as Griffin climbed into the passenger's seat, "the elite will block me, maybe some politician will freeze me out of the regulatory boards."
"But if I'm their partner in the Permian Basin? If I'm making them money in the dirt? Then I'm one of them. I need connections, David, not just capital."
"That's a hell of a long game," Griffin admitted. The tires crunched over the gravel as they headed back toward the highway.
As they drove, Duke reached into the center console and lifted the heavy, bulky receiver of the car phone, a rare, incredibly expensive luxury in 1972.
He waited for the operator, gave the routing instructions, and listened to the static ringing as the signal bounced across the Texas grid.
He had a specific person to call.
"George," Duke said smoothly when the line clicked open.
"Duke! Man, I am still hearing about that speech yesterday," George W. Bush's highly energetic voice boomed through the receiver. "You are the absolute talk of the faculty lounge. I think the Dean is still having palpitations."
Duke laughed. "I'm glad you enjoyed the theater of it, George. Listen, the reason I'm calling is I'm out in the field right now. I'm doing some long-term strategic planning with my new company, Vanguard Petroleum. We are looking at a very significant expansion in the Permian over the next few months, acquiring undervalued assets. I'd like you to be a part of it."
There was a brief pause, the crackle of static filling the silence.
"Me? Invest in oil?" Bush sounded genuinely taken aback. "Duke, I'm flattered, but I'm just getting my feet under me with my own projects. I'm not exactly sitting on a war chest."
"That's exactly why you should do it," Duke countered, keeping his tone friendly, "Get in on the ground floor with me. I'm not asking you to take a major stake. Take a small position. After all, your family knows the landscape of Texas far better than I do. I could use some people that are locals in the scene."
Bush sounded and looked like one, but he wasn't a fool.
Beneath the affable, party-boy exterior was a political mind. He understood the subtext of the offer perfectly.
He knew that Duke Hauser wasn't just a filmmaker, he was a newly risen media mogul, a man that even his own father, was actively courting.
"You're a hell of a salesman, Duke," Bush laughed, the hesitation vanishing. "Alright. Send me the details to my office. I'm in."
"Great decision, George," Duke said. "We'll sit down and talk through the numbers when I'm back in Dallas."
Duke hung up the heavy receiver.
He knew the history. He possessed the roadmap of the future. He knew that George H.W. Bush, was on a trajectory that would take him to the chairmanship of the RNC, then to the directorship of the CIA, and ultimately to the Presidency of the United States.
By bringing George W. Bush into his personal business sphere, Duke was doing a defensive maneuver.
___
By the time Duke returned to The Adolphus Hotel, the sun was beginning its descent.
He unlocked the doors to the penthouse suite and stepped into a room that looked a mess.
Lynda was at the center of the chaos, moving as she organized the packing of several massive trunks for her impending flight to London.
Designer gowns in silk, chiffon, and velvet were draped across the king-sized bed, alongside a small mountain of shoes and jewelry cases.
Duke took off his sunglasses, tossed them onto a table, and walked quietly into the bedroom. He found her standing by the walk-in closet, meticulously folding a pale blue cashmere sweater.
He stepped up behind her, wrapping his arms securely around her waist, and buried his face in the crook of her neck, inhaling the scent of her floral perfume and the faint trace of hotel shampoo.
"You know, you really don't have to go," Duke murmured against her skin, "You can just stay right here. Tell them you changed your mind. I can just pay whatever breach of contract fine the pageant organizers throw at us. We can fly to... have you ever been in Thailand? We could go there for a month."
Lynda laughed with her back against his chest. She leaned back into his embrace, resting her hands over his.
"Duke, you cannot simply 'pay off' the Miss World organization," Lynda said, turning her head to press a kiss to his cheek. "The logistics alone would be awful. The press would have a field day. And besides, I made a commitment. I have a job to do, just like you."
"I know," Duke sighed dramatically, pulling her tighter against him. "I just hate the idea of you being thousands of miles away, across an ocean, dealing with those pageant judges and the British tabloids. They're vultures."
"I can handle vultures," Lynda assured him, turning around in his arms to face him. She reached up, tracing the line of his jaw with her thumb, her blue eyes sparkling with affection.
"Then again, if you miss me that much, you could always come visit me. The actual competition isn't for a feww weeks. If you fly to London, I might just have a surprise waiting for you."
Duke raised an eyebrow, a slow smile spreading across his face. "A surprise? I like the sound of that. What kind of surprise?"
Lynda stepped closer, lowering her voice to a whisper. "Well, I was thinking... maybe the Dallas Cowboys cheerleader outfit could make a return appearance in my hotel suite."
Duke let out a chuckle, his hands sliding down to rest on her hips. "That is a very compelling argument. "
"Or," Lynda continued, her eyes flashing, "maybe... maybe I'll try it with the Wonder Woman costume. I've been reading those comic books you had sent to the room, and I have to say, I think I might look good in those gold cuffs."
Duke's eyes widened slightly. The image of Lynda Carter, the actual Wonder Woman, wearing the costume for him was... appealing.
"You are a dangerous woman, Miss Carter," Duke laughed, pulling her against him for an entirely necessary kiss.
"I know," she murmured softly against his lips, her hands tangling in his hair. "That's why you love me."
"I promise you," Duke said softly, "I will be there in a few weeks."
He stepped back, letting her return to the meticulously folded cashmere, and simply watched her for a moment.
___
Speaking of Serial Killers, one of my buddies almost got killed in 2022 by that Stockton Serial killer that killed Latinos.
He literally survived cause he stopped walking his dog for a few weeks cause we made fun on discord about him being the perfect target
(my buddie is latino, late at night outside, on the age range of the guy's victims, unaware of his surroundings which was literally the kind of victim the guy was going for.)
We were making fun of him cause he believed a serial killer wouldnt target a man, until he looked it up and it literally said the guy targeted almost exclusively men