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drones. Like, just put the conversation out there in dramatic form, okay?”
    “Right. Let me see if I’ve got this clear,” Niles said, slowly. “You want me to write a new version of The Delicious Mr Doll – ”
    “Current title is just Mr Doll, ” Dean said quickly.
    “A new version that isn’t a remake, but is a... re- envisioning... ”
    “See, that’s a great word. That’s why you’re the writer, Miles.”
    “...which is very ’sixties retro but also bang up to 2013. And you want to keep the Dolly Birds and the leopard-skin bed that revolves but you want to handle it all in a very serious and dark way. But with lots of latex and leather outfits. And at some point the main character has to engage in a debate – I say debate, but more of a physical fight – about the use of drone warfare.” He paused, feeling his temples throb.
    “Yes,” Dean said, smiling widely. “That’s exactly right.”
    Blazing with fury, the author drew himself up to his full height. “ The Delicious Mr Doll is not my favourite film,” he intoned, in a voice of thunder, “not anymore. That would be Apocalypse Now. All the same, I will not assist in the desecration of what I’m sure some people would call a work of art, and one that helped them, I assume, through a very difficult adolescence. You have wasted my time, my agent’s time, and your own time, and furthermore the water I ordered has still not arrived and the décor in this hole is hideous beyond description. And now,” the writer continued, picking up the man’s bowl of cold, glutinous fries and upending it on his head, “you may go. I wish you satisfaction, sir, in mangling Mr Doll to your heart’s content – for you will never do the same with Kurt Power!”
    The man from the studio gasped, shocked at the sheer unfettered machismo of the author’s gesture of contempt – and then clutched his hand to his heart and slumped to the floor. The scene had been too much for the frail, black organ.
    He was dead!
    “Justice is done,” the author murmured, in a tone of cold contempt.
    “I suppose I could do that,” Niles said, slowly. “When did you want the pitch, exactly?”
    Dean thought for a moment. “I’ll need something for the day after tomorrow.”
    Niles frowned. It was quicker than he’d like, but he was confident he could throw something together. “Can we, um... talk about pay?”
    Dean waved the question away. “We can ‘talk turkey’ later” – he did finger quotes and winked at Maurice – “on the basic rate for the screenplay, but if we ended up using yours for the translation, you’d get incentives for this film plus any new ones in the franchise, so...”
    Maurice sat up straight and grinned, showing his gold molar again. Niles looked at him, then back at Dean. “I’m sorry, translation?”
    “Talisman Pictures is taking this whole Mr Doll thing very seriously, Miles. We’re creating a brand new Fictional for the franchise.” He chuckled. “I mean, I say we, you know, we’d handle the look of him, but...”
    “But I’d create him.” Niles said, leaning forward. “I’d create Dalton Doll’s personality. Something I wrote would enter the world as a living being. Something I created...”
    “Well, technically something some guy in 1966 –” Maurice started to say, and shut up. Niles was staring into space.
    Dalton Doll reached out a hand. His creator took it in a firm grip and pumped twice. Then Doll turned to the window, looking out at the beauty of the world he had been given. As the studio executives looked on, in awe of the creative talent that had brought this new being into existence, Doll took a deep breath, savouring the sweetness of the air.
    “You’re a good Joe, Niles,” he breathed, in the authentic voice of the working man of the mid-’sixties. “You sure are a gosh-darned good Joe.”
    Niles smiled, reaching out to shake Dean’s grease-coated hand. “Well, then. Let me just say that it’s a