The rain was falling heavily on the Owlwood Estate, the day was January 30th, 1973. Duke had been stayin home, he didn't even entertained the idea of going out during these type of days.
Duke didn't like january's in California cause of the rain. In his previous life, he visited Carnegie Mellon University once to check it's CS program, and was repulsed by the weather.
'Next January will be spend on Texas.' Duke said to himself.
Duke stood at the window of his study, watching it hammer the ground outside.
This wasn't the soft mist the movies liked to pretend Los Angeles ever got. This was the kind of rain that made you sleepy.
Of course, the weather was the least of the issues right now.
Just five days ago, the Paris Peace Accords had been signed.
America was finally crawling out of Vietnam, and the atmosphere in the streets was that of relief, but also exhaustion.
Then came Roe v. Wade, which had half the country cheering and the other half reaching for their Bibles.
Nixon got sworn in again.
And eight days ago, Lyndon B. Johnson died and even though Duke had never met the man, he still feel bad for his passing. He turned away from the window.
___
Bruce Lee sat in the leather armchair in front of Duke, in his study.
They were meeting about 'Five Fingers of Death'. The first kung fu film by Shaw Brothers Studio production was set to hit U.S. theaters soon with the help of Paramount, and Duke was paying attention to it.
"You look like you're nervous still," Bruce said, "What's on your mind, Duke?"
"The American audience," Duke said, leaning against his desk. "Everytime, a movie is going to be released by Paramount, I get nervous regardless of the quality. But I'm willing to bet that the america audience is interested in seeing the extend of what martial arts can do."
Bruce grinned. That famous flash of white teeth. "So you're saying they're ready for me."
"I'm saying Five Fingers is the start. When your movies hit, i hope for them to be the equivalent of an earthquake. The 'Kung Fu' series on ABC already cracked the door open."
The grin softened into something more thoughtful. "That TV show helps, yes. But television is... too censored. They don't really want anything, but the fights."
"Let's hope we can change that."
They talked for another twenty minutes about release strategies, marketing angles, the right way to introduce kung fu to America without scaring people off.
But Duke kept coming back to something elsehe noticed.
Bruce looked 'tired'.
Not in the obvious way. But a clear thinness to his face that hadn't been there six months ago.
And Duke had heard things. Rumors, mostly. About how Bruce was taking things he shouldn't be taking.
Duke knew what happened in the other timeline. July of this year. A cerebral edema. A legend gone at thirty-two, before he'd even really begun.
'You helped me train, so let's help you out once', Duke thought.
"Bruce," he said, his voice dropping into something more personal. "Can I talk to you as a friend?"
Bruce tilted his head. He sat back slightly. "This sounds like the beginning of a conversation I'm not going to enjoy."
"Probably not." Duke moved from behind the desk, pulling a chair closer. Sat down. "I see the pace you're keeping. And I've heard that you're using things to keep the engine running, you know... supplements."
Bruce's face went still and avoided Duke eyes.
"You're not wrong," Bruce said after a long moment. "About any of it. The demands are... heavy. Every project wants more of me, but i need to pass this mountain, and things will be easier."
"Or maybe you're climbing the wrong mountain," Duke said.
"You're not a machine, Bruce. And even if you were, every machine needs maintenance. What you're doing right now, drugs, sleep deprivation, will end up affecting you."
"Basically, your ego is writing checks your body can't cash."
"Have you ever seen this before?" Bruce asked.
"Let's say, I know what happens to men who burn too bright too fast," Duke said carefully. "Bruce, you have fifty years of cinema ahead of you. Don't trade them for six months of production hell."
Bruce held his gaze for a long time. Then, slowly, he exhaled.
"You're not the first person to say this to me," Bruce admitted. "I'll consider it."
"That's all I'm asking. Just... hear it. Think about it."
Bruce nodded. Gave a small smile, then he stood up, "I'll think about it. I can't promise more than that. Right now, the opportunity is... it's right now, Duke."
"Well, I am a firm believer that the Kung Fu wave is about to start." Duke had warned him, that more than he would do for most people.
"I have a training session I can't miss." Bruce moved toward the door, then paused and looked back. "Thank you for caring enough to say something. Most eexecutive just want to ride the horse until it drops."
Duke walked him out. Watched the silver car disappear into the rain.
-___
Duke finished the conversation and went to the living room that had become a disaster zone.
Lynda sat cross-legged on the rug, surrounded by a tangle of black and grey wires. She was wearing cream-colored silk pajamas, her hair falling messily around her face, and she was holding a screwdriver that Duke didnt know what she was planning to use it for.
In the center of the chaos sat the Home Pong console.
"I think the machine is winning," she said without looking up. "I have tried the antenna switch. I tried the secondary input. All I'm getting is a screen full of static, maybe it's broken..."
Duke laughed. "Having trouble?"
"Don't." She pointed the screwdriver at him. "Don't say anything condescending. Understand that I want to play the game, and the console is refusing to cooperate."
He knelt down beside her, gently taking the cables from her hands.
"Do you know how to connect this?"
"No idea." His fingers moved sliding the specialized adapter into the back of the set. Click. He stood up, turned the dial to channel 3.
The snow vanished.
The screen went black. Deep, solid black. And then two vertical white bars. A single glowing square in the center.
No sound. No color. Funtional.
"There she is," Duke said, handing Lynda one of the rectangular controllers. "The future of entertainment."
Lynda stared at the screen. Then at the controller. Then back at the screen. "This is it?"
"This unit has twelve different logic programs built into the circuit boards. Pong, Ski, Hockey, Simon Says, Analogic, States, Cat and Mouse, Submarine, Football, Haunted House, Roulette, Invasion. Plus a shooting gallery if we plug in the light gun accessory."
"That sounds like a list of things that are not Pong."
"Let's start with the classic." He sat down beside her, their shoulders almost touching. "Let's play some Pong."
The first match was a massacre.
Duke played with a relaxed demeanor, with enough effort to keep the ball in play, yet never enough to make it too fast.
Lynda, meanwhile, was leaning forward like her life depended on it, her brow furrowed in concentration, twisting the knob so hard he was surprised it hadn't snapped off.
"You're too good at this, Hauser," she said, sending her paddle flying toward the top of the screen. "You must have spent the whole weekend practicing while I was at the studio."
"Technically, I did help refine the gameplay."
"That's not fair."
"Technically-"
"If you say 'technically' one more time, I'll throw this controller at your head."
He laughed, easily deflecting her shot. "You're overthinking it. It's all about the instincs."
"Intincs, huh?" She narrowed her eyes. Then, with absolutely no warning, she leaned over, her shoulder brushing against his, deliberately pushing him. "By the way, did you ever get those tickets for the Muhammad Ali-Bugner fight? I heard that it's already sold out."
Duke didn't move. His eyes stayed on the white square as it bounced toward his paddle. "Nice try. You're not distracting me that easily."
"Did it work?"
"No."
"Damn." The square flew past her paddle and disappeared off the edge. "I really thought the Ali mention would get you."
"I have excellent reflexes."
Lynda set down her controller in exasperation. "Fine. Did you see the Elvis special, by the way? It was the First global satellite telecast. What a beautiful thing to felt the whole world watching the same thing at the exact same moment."
"I saw it." He nodded, "Paramount is working on some satellite stuff too for our TV division."
"Tell me more of that," she said, grabbing his controller and resetting the game, "by the way, are you putting money on Ali?"
"Significant money."
"Significant money on a man who's been talking about retirement for three years."
"Bugner's tough, but Ali's going to eat him alive."
"You sound very confident for someone who don't even watches sports"
"I've seen the future."
Lynda raised an eyebrow. "Have you now?"
"Yes, Ali wins, after 8 rounds on a knockout." He grinned, lying, in reality he didn't even know who was goin to win. "Now serve."
___
The knock came at exactly the right moment, just as Lynda was threatening to accidentally unplug the console.
Robert Evans burst through the door with Raquel Welch, his current girlfriend following behind him, his young son Josh balanced on her hip.
"Evans," Duke said, standing up to greet him. "You're... early."
"I'm never early. I'm exactly as late as I intend to be." Robert pulled him into a warm embrace, then held him at arm's length. "You look tired. Good tired, though."
"Something like that."
Raquel had already settled on the sofa, settling in next to Lynda. Josh immediately began trying to bite the Pong controller.
"Don't let him put that in his mouth," Lynda said. "I have no idea where it's been."
"It's been in a factory," Duke said. "And then a box and then our living room."
"That's not reassuring enough when it comes to kids."
Robert caught Duke's eye and tilted his head toward the study.
They retreated into the study, the door clicking shut.
Robert paced the length of the room once, then turned to face Duke.
"I was talking to Leo and Stanley Jaffe this morning."
"Columbia's Jaffes? Why are they calling?"
"Yes, the Jaffe's. They're in a bad state, Duke. Drowning." Robert ran a hand through his hair, a little nervous. "They've sunk a fortune into this musical remake of Lost Horizon. You know the one?"
"1937 film. Frank Capra directed the original."
"Right. Well, the new version is... different, Duke, they want an objective eye before they commit to the full domestic marketing spend."
Robert stopped pacing. "They asked for you specifically. They trust your gut more than anyone else right now."
Duke leaned back against his desk.
"Tell them I'll do it," Duke said. "Tonight. But keep it quiet. I don't need the trades hearing that Paramount's CEO is doing consulting work for Columbia."
Robert's face relaxed into something like relief. "You're a darling of the industry. I'll set it up. Private room at the Columbia lot, 8 PM. Just you, the Jaffes, and a bottle of something expensive."
____
The Columbia Pictures screening room smelled like cigars.
Duke sat in the center row, notebook on his lap. Leo Jaffe sat to his left, Stanley to his right, neither man spoke.
The lights dimmed.
For the next two and a half hours, Duke watched a... unique film.
The film was unique.
t felt like it had been designed by a committee that had never actually met a human being.
It wasn't just bad. It was very bad. The kind of bad that couldn't be fixed in editing, couldn't be saved with reshoots, and couldn't be explained away with a clever marketing campaign.
Duke could only say one thing by the end. 'Worse than Sharknado.'
The lights came up.
Leo and Stanley looked at Duke waiting for a statement they already knew.
Duke closed his notebook softly.
"I'm going to be honest with you," he said, keeping his voice calm "There's no way to fix this in the edit. The film is a bad film. If you release this with a full domestic push, the critics will tear it apart and people won't come watch it."
Leo slumped back in his seat, running a hand through his face.
"My advice?" Duke continued. "Bury the domestic market. Don't spend another dime trying to convince Americans to watch this. Instead, promote it abroad. Lean into the big sets, music and go for a traditional Hollywood epic marketing. It won't save the investment, but it might stop the bleeding."
Stanley let out a dry laugh. "I think Columbia's situation might be even worse than you think, Duke. We've spent money we don't have on things that aren't coming true. The board is going to look for a way out, an acquisition, a merger, something."
Duke felt a genuine pang of sadness for Stanley, but he also didn't know what to say
"How bad is the current Columbia state, Stanley?"
Stanley leaned forward, lowering his voice. "The stock is in the gutter. We're trading at two dollars a share."
Duke pretended to do the math in his mind, he still didn't understand shares and all that. "That's catastrophic."
"It gets worse. You could buy a controlling stake in this entire studio for two million dollars right now. Two million. It's a bad asset, everyone knows it."
Duke was momentarily stunned into silence. He'd bought Paramount for $150 million three years ago. Here was another major studio available for the price of a mid-budget movie.
"Two million," Duke repeated. "That's liquidation price."
"Exactly." Stanley's eyes took on a strange light. "And that's why I'm talking to you. My father and I still have enough influence to steer the board, but we need a 'White Knight.' Someone who can come rescue us."
"You want me to buy Columbia."
"I want you to take a stake on Columbia. You come in, you make an offer, we convince the board to accept on the condition that the Jaffe family remains in operational power. We keep the lights on."
Duke was quiet for a long moment. His mind was already spinning through the implications, antitrust issues, and political blowback.
"The Justice Department will have a field day," he said finally. "They'll see this as a monopoly."
"The climate is changing, Duke." Stanley's voice gained strength. "Nixon's back in for a second term. The focus is on economic stability."
"If you frame this as saving a dying American institution, preserving jobs, protecting an industry, the Justice Department might look the other way."
"Especially if the two studios maintain the illusion of competition"
Duke stood up and paced the small room.
"I need to talk to my team," he said finally. "I'm not saying yes. But I'm not saying no. Give me forty-eight hours."
He shook their hands and walked out of the screening room.
---
The rain had stopped, but the smell of wet asphalt filled his lungs as he stepped onto the Columbia lot. His security detail fell into step beside him as they moved toward the waiting car.
He pulled out his car phone and dialed Barry Diller's private line.
Diller answered on the second ring. "Duke? I assume the screening was a disaster?"
Duke leaned against the car door, a small smile playing on his lips. "The movie is horrible, Barry. But the studio is an opportunity. I just got offered a controlling stake in Columbia for two million dollars. Two dollars a share."
"Two million?" Diller's voice was uncharacteristically flat. "Duke, that's... you could pay for that with the petty cash from The Godfather's secondary run. But the antitrust issues-"
"Are manageable if we move fast. And if we have the right friends in the right places. We need to expedite our political play."
"We need to be the Republicans' best friends in California. We need to frame this as a rescue, a 'White Knight' saving Columbia from the brink."
Diller's voice regained its edge. "I'll get the legal team on it. I'll start reaching out to our contacts in Sacramento and D.C. If we can get a favorable nod from the administration, we could have this wrapped up by spring."
____
I will go into detail about the State of Columbia in 1973 in the next chapter