Because today he was having a meeting with a Mr Ernest Fudgepacker and his associates, to put the final seal on a film deal, the like of which the world had never seen before.

Mr Nelluss stood, his hands behind his back, looking out from the boardroom window of his towering corporation building at Docklands.

Below the hum of London traffic, above the clear blue sky.

Mr Nelluss coughed and clutched one hand against his chest. He was not a well man, he had a heart condition, the years of constant stress had taken their toll. But today. Today was going to be his day.

The intercom on the long black boardroom table buzzed and Mr Nelluss strode over and sat down in his big red leather chairman’s chair.

“Yes, Doris?” His voice had a deep American accent. They said that he hailed from the mid-west, but no-one knew for sure. The man was an enigma. A virtual recluse.

“Mr Fudgepacker and his associates are here, Mr Nelluss. Should I send them up?”

“Please do, Doris.” Mr Nelluss sat back in his chair and smiled a pleasant smile. Before him on the table were the stacks of contracts. The rights, the residuals, the spin-offs, the series, the video games, the whole world marketing deals.

At the far end of the boardroom the lift light blinked red and chromium doors opened in the wall of travertine marble.

Before him stood an ancient fellow in a long black coat, supported at the elbows by his two associates, a gaunt thin pinch-faced man in black and a beautiful blond woman in a golden dress and a fitted, buttoned jacket, also in black.

“Mr Fudgepacker, come in, sir, come in.” Mr Nelluss rose from his chair and came forward to greet his guests.

He wrung Mr Fudgepacker’s wrinkly hand between his own, patted the fellow in black on the shoulder and returned the flashing smile of the beautiful blonde. “Bobby Boy, Julie,” Mr Nelluss beckoned them in. “Come in. Sit down. Would you care for a drink? Tea, coffee, something stronger? Champagne, perhaps?”

“Champagne,” said Bobby Boy.

“Yes,” said Julie.

Mr Fudgepacker nodded.

Mr Nelluss pressed the intercom button and ordered champagne. “You got here all right?” he asked. “My guys pick up all the stuff? No problems?”

“No problems,” said Mr Fudgepacker, easing himself onto a boardroom chair.

Bobby Boy limped over, pulled one out from beneath the table and sat down upon it. Leaving Julie standing.

Mr Nelluss strode around and assisted her into a chair.

“Thank you,” said Julie. “At least there’s one gentleman in the room.”

Mr Fudgepacker grunted. Bobby Boy said nothing.

“Bobby Boy,” said Mr Nelluss, “I see you’re still limping. Went a little over the top with that stunt you pulled on us at the end-of-picture party at Hangar 18.”

Bobby Boy sniffed, it had been just two weeks since the screening and him getting shot in the kneecap.

“Quite some stunt,” said Mr Nelluss. “And quite some party. You really know how to throw a party, Mr F. Having a mock shoot-out and that guy dressed up as Adolf Hitler. And the flying saucer just vanishing in the car park. I’ve been in the movie game for nearly forty years and I’ve never seen anything like that.”

“Glad it entertained you,” said Mr Fudgepacker.

A door slid open and the champagne arrived.

“Just leave it, Doris,” said Mr Nelluss. “I’ll pour the drinks.”

After the door had shut once more, Mr Nelluss poured champagne and passed glasses round. “You didn’t bring the other guy with you,” he said. “Your producer, Russell. Where’s he today, then?”

“Russell is no longer with us,” said Mr Fudgepacker. “I don’t think we’ll see Russell again.”

“Shame. I kind of liked the guy. Although all I saw of him was him wielding the prop pistol. Seemed like a crazy dude.”

“Can we just talk about the movie?” asked Bobby Boy. “And the money?”

“Sure we can. Sure we can. That’s what we’re all here for, after all. Now, I’ve got contracts drawn up and you’re gonna like them, I promise.”

“How much?” asked Bobby Boy.

“For what?”

“For a start off my fee as star of the movie.”

“I thought twenty-five million,” said Mr Nelluss.

The corners of Bobby Boy’s mean little mouth rose halfway up his cheeks. “Sounds about right,” he said.

“But it’s chicken feed in the ultimate scheme of things. Now, before we start any signing, I have to know, did you bring everything? Everything I asked you to bring?”

Mr Fudgepacker nodded shakily. “Everything and I wouldn’t have done so but for your reputation and your standing.”

Mr Nelluss smiled once more. “But of course,” said he. “I know what I’m worth and you know what I’m worth. I am the power behind movies. You had to choose me, you know you did.”

Mr Fudgepacker nodded again.

“So you’ve brought it all with you? The negatives, the rushes, the out-takes, the videos and the Cyberstar equipment? That alone is going to gross us more millions than, well, shit, than I’ve had business lunches, for God’s sake.” Mr Nelluss laughed. But he did so alone.

“Quite so. Quite so. But this is an exciting day for me. If I was to tell you that I have looked forward to this day throughout all the long years of my career I would not be exaggerating. No siree, by golly.”

“Let’s get the contracts signed,” said Mr Fudgepacker. “I want to go down to your laboratories and personally supervise the copying of the negatives. It is absolutely essential that it’s done under my personal supervision.”

“No problem there. We’ll have them coming hot off the press and I do mean hot.”

“Give us another glass of champagne,” said Bobby Boy.

“Help yourself, my good friend. Help yourself.”

Bobby Boy helped himself.

“Some over here,” said Julie. Bobby Boy passed her the bottle.

Mr Nelluss rose from his big red chairman’s chair and took himself over to the boardroom window. “This is one hell of a day,” he said, flexing his shoulders. “One hell of a day.”

“Can we get on with the signing?” asked Mr Fudgepacker.

“Yeah, sure, that’s what we’re here for. But hey, what are those guys down in the car park doing?”

“I don’t give a damn,” said Mr Fudgepacker. “Let’s get this done.”

“No, you really should see this, come over to the window, do.”

“I’m not interested.”

“Sure you are, sure you are. Come over. Bobby Boy, you come over too and Julie, come on, all of you.”

“Oh all right!” Mr Fudgepacker struggled from his chair and limped over to the window. Bobby Boy joined him in the limping. Julie didn’t limp, she sort of “swept”.

“Look at those guys,” said Mr Nelluss. “What do you think they’re up to?”

Many storeys below tiny figures moved in the car park. They were tossing things into a skip.

“Just builders,” said Mr Fudgepacker. “Now let’s not waste any more time.”

“I don’t think they’re builders,” said Mr Nelluss. “Surely those are cans of film they have there.”

Mr Fudgepacker’s eyes bulged behind the pebbled lenses of his spectacles. “Cans of film?” he croaked. “That’s my film, they’re opening up the cans. They’re exposing the negatives.”

“By God,” said Mr Nelluss. “That does look like what they’re doing, doesn’t it?”

“They’re chucking it onto the skip.” Mr Fudgepacker swayed to and fro. “They’re destroying it.”

“Hey, and look at that guy.” Mr Nellus pointed. “Surely that’s the Cyberstar equipment he’s got there. He’s not going to … oh my lord, he’s thrown that on too.”

“No!” Mr Fudgepacker croaked.

“And who are those?” Mr Nellus pointed once more. “Those guys in the protective suits. Are those flamethrowers they’re carrying?”

Mr Fudgepacker chewed upon his fingers. “Bobby Boy, do something. Do something.”

“What can I do?” Bobby Boy had fingers of his own to chew. “Look what they’re doing now.”

“Isn’t that gasoline?” Mr Nelluss asked. “Surely it is. They’re pouring it into the skip.”