Turner raised an eyebrow, remaining silent.
"While Hanna-Barbera's library is vast, you can't just run The Flintstones and Yogi Bear 24/7. The audience will get bored, and the GG network will get even more bored," Takuya Nakayama said, tapping the table. "You need fresh blood—lots of it, cheap, and the kind that will keep kids glued to the screen."
With that, he exchanged a meaningful glance with Yasuo Miyakawa.
Miyakawa immediately opened his briefcase and spread the prepared documents across the table.
"[ Mashin Hero Wataru ] and [ Magical King Granzort ]," Miyakawa said, trying to make his English sound less stiff. He pointed to the brightly colored mecha on the poster. "Each episode features 22 minutes of main content with standard GG ad slots. The stories are simple, require no deep thought, and most importantly, Bandai should be willing to pay a GG fee that will satisfy you."
He placed a Bandai toy sales report on top of the poster.
Turner glanced at the astonishing sales figures, his previously indifferent gaze sharpening slightly.
He picked up the documents and flipped through them quickly, his fingers pausing for two seconds on the images of the exaggerated robots. Then he closed the folder and tossed it casually back onto the table.
A soft click made Yasuo Miyakawa's heart skip a beat.
"In principle, it's fine," Turner said, his voice betraying no emotion. "CN does need a large volume of animated content, and I don't mind adding some Japanese animation. I'll have the content evaluation department look into it. As long as it's not excessively violent or pornographic, and the price is right, we'll take it."
Just as Miyakawa was about to breathe a sigh of relief, Turner leaned forward, his hawk-like eyes passing over Miyakawa to fix on Takuya Nakayama.
"However, Mr. Nakayama, business is business, and personal connections are personal connections," Turner said, a playful smirk tugging at his lips. "I don't believe you came all the way to Atlanta just to help Sunrise sell two anime series. I want something in return."
"Go ahead," Takuya Nakayama said, unsurprised.
"I want to buy a copyright," Turner said, his fingers tapping a rhythmic beat on the table. "I know your father-in-law is the president of TV Tokyo, and you have considerable influence there. I'm interested in your most popular variety show format."
Takuya Nakayama paused mid-air as he raised his coffee cup, then chuckled. "Mr. Turner, you're not by any chance interested in [ Supermarket Sweep ], are you? To be frank, with the American people currently enjoying the fruits of global prosperity and a booming economy, I doubt a show about people scrambling for steaks in a supermarket would resonate with the middle class."
Turner blinked in surprise, then burst into laughter, the oppressive atmosphere instantly dissipating. "You're quite the wit, Nakayama. You're right, Americans aren't hurting for groceries these days. What I want is that—that adrenaline-pumping show that lays bare the seductive power of money."
"[ Who Wants to Be a Millionaire ]," Nakayama supplied.
"Bingo." Turner snapped his fingers. "The stage design, the lighting, the tension of that single lifeline... that's what Americans want to see. That's the ultimate romance of capitalism. I want the North American adaptation rights."
Yasuo Miyakawa listened, dumbfounded.
He'd originally thought they were just there to sell Japanese animation, never imagining Executive Director Nakayama would pivot to negotiating a deal that could reshape the American television landscape.
"Your eye for talent is exceptional," Takuya Nakayama said, setting down his coffee cup. He couldn't help but admire the media mogul's keen business sense.
Introducing Who Wants to Be a Millionaire at this particular time would be a ratings bomb.
"Agreed," Takuya replied decisively. "However, you'll need to send someone to Tokyo to negotiate the specific import details and licensing fees with TV Tokyo. I'll only facilitate the connection, not the bargaining."
"Done," Turner said, standing up and extending his hand. This time, his smile was genuine. "As long as the show gets greenlit, and we can secure the animation import deal, I'll arrange for a trial broadcast during the prime after-school hours."
The two men shook hands.
Ted Turner was a man of extreme efficiency.
The moment their hands separated, he glanced at his gleaming gold Rolex, snatched a folder from the table, and strode toward the door.
"Betty, handle the remaining details," Turner instructed the middle-aged woman waiting in the corner without looking back. "Take Mr. Nakayama and the others to Bacchanalia for lunch—charge it to the company. I have to leave now."
Before Yasuo Miyakawa could react to this sudden dismissal, the media mogul had already vanished at the end of the corridor, leaving behind only a lingering trail of expensive cologne.
Betty, the vice president, adjusted her glasses and offered a professional smile. "Mr. Nakayama, Mr. Miyakawa, the Boss's afternoon schedule is fully booked. Please excuse the inconvenience. The chef at Bacchanalia has prepared a table—it's the best French restaurant in Atlanta."
"We can eat later," Takuya Nakayama said, waving his hand. His gaze shifted to the Americans entering the conference room from the other side, clutching a stack of documents. "Let's handle business first. We'll have a better appetite afterward."
The subsequent negotiations were now the Sunrise Business Team's time to shine.
The business executive brought by Yasuo Miyakawa clearly understood Takuya Nakayama's principle of "you can't catch a wolf without sacrificing your child."
When they placed the meticulously edited pilot episode—each episode strictly controlled at 22 minutes, with even the GG insertion points clearly marked—on the table, the CN channel's programming managers were visibly taken aback.
They were accustomed to half-finished products that required extensive cuts with scissors and desperate efforts to pad the runtime.
This was the first time a Japanese distributor had ever offered something so ready-made, something that could be plugged straight into a playlist.
But the real killer blow was the price.
"Five hundred dollars per episode for first-run broadcast rights."
When Sunrise's business executive announced this figure, a brief, deathly silence fell over the conference room.
The content director at CN even cupped his ear, suspecting a translation error.
After all, even acquiring the rerun rights to Hanna-Barbera's decades-old classics, or buying grainy stop-motion animation from some obscure Eastern European country, cost far more than that.
Five hundred dollars? What was the difference between that and giving it away for free? In Atlanta, that wouldn't even cover two hours of air conditioning for this conference room.
"Are you serious?" the content director asked suspiciously, scrutinizing Yasuo Miyakawa. "Does this show have any copyright issues, or is it some banned material that was boycotted by the PTA?"
"Clean record, fully licensed by Sunrise," Miyakawa replied, steadying himself and reciting the script Takuya Nakayama had taught him. "But we've added a clause to the contract."
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