PJAlexander

FIRST ASSIGNMENT: Write your story statement. Use whatever fame and influence he has left to convince people to stop eating people. SECOND ASSIGNMENT: Sketch the antagonist. Caesar Appletini is one of those Elon Musk or Jeff Bezos types. He was born into privilege, but feels he’s self-made just because he has managed to stay on top. He does have a certain charm and wields his power to seduce people into doing what he wants. And while he’s perhaps a little unhinged, it’s easy to laugh off because he’s rich. It’s why our protagonist isn’t too worried when Caesar initially hires him as an influencer. But the power Caesar already has, as the ruthless boss of a casino resort in the rebuilding Las Vegas, has its limits. For one thing, he’s just one boss among many. And how can he show he’s better than everyone else when where most of the stuff anyone wants can be found with an hour or two’s worth of scavenging? In fact, there’s only one real scarcity in this new world. Food. So, when Caesar discovers a source of abundant food that he, and he alone, controls? He’ll do whatever it takes to force everyone to start eating it. Even if that means staving an entire city until they’re hungry enough to switch to this very taboo, much-reviled new food; pig meat. THIRD ASSIGNMENT: Create a breakout title The Humanitarian Cookbook The Last Chef on Earth Meal Ideas for After the Apocalypse FOURTH ASSIGNMENT: - Two comparables for your novel. Starter Villain by John Scalzi is a comparable for the way it infuses humor into a genre novel. The protagonists also share a certain non-heroic, even somewhat hapless, quality. Tender is the Flesh by Agustina Bazterrica as a comparable is... Open for discussion. It shares an undeniable link with my novel, in that both take place in a future where cannibalism is the only viable choice due to a prion-disease that ravaged life on Earth. But the tone of the two novels is very different. Tender is the Flesh treats the subject as a horror, an allegory for much that is wrong with our society today. While my story takes a somewhat comedic and satiric approach to the subject matter. And since Tender is the Flesh is something of a funhouse-mirror comp, I’m going to throw in a current, hit TV show as well… Fallout on Amazon Prime hits a lot of the same notes and I suspect has some potential audience in common. And that’s even before the show’s season 2 which promises a post-apocalyptic Las Vegas setting. FIFTH ASSIGNMENT: A hook line (logline) with conflict and core wound. After a global collapse due to a livestock-borne illness, in a society rebuilt eating the only protein source still available, a fame-chasing chef with a once-popular book of humanitarian recipes is enlisted by a local strongman to use his waning influence to do the impossible… Convince people to stop eating people. SIXTH ASSIGNMENT: Sketch out the conditions for the inner conflict your protagonist will have. Inner conflict… Iggy Wiggins cares about Iggy Wiggins, and nobody else. And that’s okay. After all, if he doesn’t look out for himself, who will? He is famously, a humanitarian, a connoisseur of cannibalistic cuisine. But as he pursues his (admittedly somewhat selfish) goal of re-attaining fame and fortune, he comes to the stark realization that his self-serving ways are somehow, impossibly, maybe just a little bit of a problem. By looking out for himself, he’s putting an entire city at risk of starvation, or worse. And so he feels that inner turmoil start to rise, like nausea of the soul. And he must face the question... Is he, ultimately, going to be a humanitarian (one who eats human) or a humanitarian (the other kind)? Secondary conflict… Chef Iggy Wiggins just wants to put out a sequel to his once-famous cookbook, so everybody in town will love him and nobody will ever, under any circumstances, want to eat him. Sadly, it soon becomes apparent that the very actions he undertakes towards his goal are putting him into conflict with an entire city, and even his only two friends and allies. His pursuit of love and fame is quickly making him hated and infamous… which only increases the likelihood he’ll be killed (and quite possibly cooked). SEVENTH ASSIGNMENT: Sketch out your setting in detail. The city of Las Vegas is an oasis of phony grandeur in the middle of a wasteland at the best of times. But after several decades of apocalypse, chaos, ruin and, finally, rebuilding, it has become something else. A beacon of hope. There are comfortable places to live in all those high-rise hotels, even if they’re swelteringly hot and ill-lit. There are people, a few thousand of them, divided into vaguely egalitarian tribes who mix and mingle on the famous Las Vegas Strip. There’s ample water, entertainment and a sense of safety, at least compared to the lawless desert surrounding the city. And there’s food, despite the total extinction of all livestock back when that prion disease wiped out the vast majority of humanity. That food, by necessity, comes from other people. From tourists attracted to the good life in the city, who spin a roulette wheel to either win a place in Las Vegas, or a spot in the butcher’s display case. Given the nature of my protagonist (a chef famous for his humanitarian recipes, enlisted to convince people to start eating pigs instead) much of our time in Vegas is spent around the industry of food. We visit the butchers shop, and drop by the market where everyday folks buy their scavenged tins of soup or beans from back in the day. We attend cookfires and kitchens around the city, and eventually visit an ill-fated July 4th barbecue where the whole city’s invited to come eat Iggy’s cooking (not knowing he’s serving them taboo pig meat, instead of the barbecue tourist ribs they were expecting). We do take an excursion out of the city, too. As our protagonist makes some questionable decisions that turn pretty much everyone against him, we take a roadtrip out into the surrounding wastelands. It’s terrible out there, dry and hungry and with roaming packs of skin traders waiting to collect the flesh of anyone they find. Thus, refuge must be taken, and so we go underground into a series of cramped shelters, built by disaster preppers back before the apocalypse. But it’s a temporary respite, and our final movement takes place back in the city, amid the crumbling remains of the iconic Las Vegas Strip.

OPENING SCENE - Introduces the protagonist, setting and tone, and foreshadows the primary conflict Chapter One Iggy followed an insistent Keandra down the middle of Las Vegas Boulevard, until they finally reached the man being crucified. She pointed up at him and said, “Look.” But Iggy was distracted by the crowd taking in the mid-day action. “There must be thirty people here,” he said, disbelieving. “Not one of which has recognized me, by the way.” He cast a grumpy look around at the dusty assemblage. They gathered in front of the charred remains of an eatery that had been burned to the ground decades before, payback for serving up so many lethal patties, nuggets and milkshakes. All that remained were blackened walls and those soaring golden arches that were occasionally used for a crucifixion or to hang a piñata. Keandra squinted against the sun reflecting off the remaining windows over at Mandalay Bay. “A man’s getting nailed up, and you’re talking about the size of his crowd.” “Nailing him? Nah.” This came from one of the two centurions doling out the punishment. He balanced atop an aluminum ladder while his safety-conscious compatriot braced it for him. “We use zap straps when it’s just a misdemeanor crucifixion.” A teenager in the crowd with a sunburnt nose and a nail-studded baseball bat asked, “What’d he even do?” “Card counting,” snapped the centurion on the ground. “Stealing from Caesar.” Centurions were half soldier, half mascot, in bulky, ancient body armor and motorcycle helmets. Their gear, even the rifles, was covered in faded, flaking gold paint. And a stencil of Caesar’s face smirked out from their chest plates. Of all the casino bosses in Vegas, Caesar had the worst reputation and the best branding. The one up the ladder clunked down to the ground. He left behind a painted cardboard sign hanging around the crucified man’s neck, with tidy painted lettering in, yes, gold. Keandra pointed it out for Iggy. “That’s why I came to get you.” The (alleged) card counter saw Iggy and Keandra peering up at him. He spoke with a voice that sounded thirsty and resigned, even more thirsty and resigned than people in Vegas usually sounded. “What’s it say?” Iggy read the sign aloud. “This Sunday. July 4th BBQ. Caesar’s Palace. Free food. Free booze… Special appearance by celebrity chef Iggy Wiggins.” He turned to the centurions and said, “I don’t understand. Why’s my name on it?” From their expressions, it was clear the centurions numbered among those who didn’t recognize Iggy. “Because I’m absolutely not working for Caesar.” Iggy Wiggins looked to Keandra, maybe for reassurance, or maybe to reassure her. “Never even met the man. For sure, he never asked me to cook at some barbecue for him.” “Caesar doesn’t ask,” said one of the centurions. “I would never…” Iggy shook his head at Keandra. Then read the sign again. “How many people you figure’d come out for something like that?” # Out there somewhere, it was a relentlessly sunny Las Vegas morning. But down here in Treasure Island’s nether regions, the only light came from the occasional LED bulb, powered by a trickle of electricity from geriatric solar panels on the hotel’s roof. Most of the resort’s juice went to what was really important, a quartet of Wheel of Fortune slot machines in the casino, but a few lights got the leftovers. Iggy was near the front of an early-morning lineup of his fellow Islanders. They collectively waited, chatting and bored, in the broad, echoing corridor outside the Nassau Conference Room. His next-door neighbor was right behind him in line. Reginald wasn’t a young man, but he still boasted those lean, muscled arms that everyone except Iggy seemed to have. “Next,” called a voice from inside the conference room. The person at the front of the line hurried in, and everyone shuffled forward a step. Reginald said, “Hope we didn’t keep you up last night.” Iggy thought about denying it, but only for a moment. “Yeah, isn’t she pregnant enough?” “Yvette’s birthday’s coming up fast,” Reginald said. “Wants a party. Like being old and married to me is something to celebrate.” “I heard that.” Yvette eased into line beside her husband. Her red onesie pajamas stretched nervously over her hugely pregnant belly, looking like they might burst a button with every teetering step. “Peeing in this thing is no joke.” “Next!” The voice beckoned again from inside, luring in another from the waiting line. Iggy would be up next. He mouthed his usual silent prayer he wouldn’t pick elevator. Reginald said, “So this party. Can we ask you something?” Iggy lit up. “For my neighbors? Of course. How many invited? And I always suggest finger food, so you don’t have to bring up all that water to wash dishes.” Yvette and Reginald shared a glance, and she said, “We just need to borrow your chairs. You have four of them, doncha?” “Oh. You don’t want me to cook,” Iggy said. “Most of our people haven’t been in Vegas too long,” Reginald said. “You’re not really a thing to them.” “Of course not,” Iggy said tightly. “Next!” Iggy’s turn. He left the hallway to pace across the cavernous, almost empty conference room. A folding table holding a wire bingo cage full of numbered balls waited for him, along with the Scrum Master. She perched behind the table, a well-preserved older woman in a billowy, white silk shirt. Pirate-style. Rumors were rife she had a thing going with the boss of Treasure Island, Captain Stubing. And that’s why she got to be in here every morning doling out grueling tasks to the other residents, while she sat in a comfortable chair with ample lumbar support. With eyes shut, Iggy poked a hand into the metal basket and pulled out a ball. ‘Casino bartender – day shift’. It would be a tedious twelve hours, but at least he wouldn’t be in the basement, tug-o-warring an elevator up and down all day. The Scrum Master inspected the ball then scribbled his job for the day on a sticker, right under where it said, ‘Hello my name is’. She gave it to him and said, “Bell desk. One hour.” The neighbor couple got on the same elevator to head back upstairs. Reginald couldn’t hide his grin. “Croupier! Something that isn’t garbage-related…” Yvette was pleased, too. “She says I’m too pregnant for Service, finally. She said she doesn’t want my water breaking all over the customers.” Yvette put both hands on the stretched flannel. “And once the baby comes, I get to roll to see how many weeks of mat leave I get!” They arrived back to their floor after an unusually jaunty elevator ride. A young kid, flush-faced and out of breath, waited outside Iggy’s door. He was a newspaper delivery orphan, dressed in yellow neon from head to toe. The paper had adopted the recognizable, high-visibility gear after a few accidental shootings during early morning deliveries. These incidents had been a problem ever since ‘Stand your ground’ was officially adopted as one of the church’s 19 Commandamendments. When the neon-clad boy spotted them, he spoke up. “Message for Iggy Wiggins. You’re him, right?” Iggy nodded. He could see Reginald and Yvette pause outside their next-door room to eavesdrop. “Manali wants to see you down at The Tribune right away.” Iggy’s brain lurched forward an excited gear or two. “What about? Did she say?” “Nope.” The kid turned and hurried away down the hall, calling out every few yards, “Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!” Right away. Iggy turned to Reginald and Yvette, moved towards them. “Of course, you can borrow my chairs. I just need a tiny favor. Just until I get back from this meeting. I have to go right away, you heard.” Yvette looked down at the sticker as Iggy stuck it on her pregnant stomach: ‘Hello my name is Casino bartender.’ She started to say, “But what if my water-“ Iggy called back over his shoulder as he hurried away. “And I’ll cater your party, too. No charge.” Reginald said, “We don’t need-” “No charge!”