One pitch a day: in August of 2011, I dedicate twenty minutes each day to writing an "elevator pitch" for a story or a game.
It begins with a few weird rumors. A disease that only affects women. Quickly, the rumors acquire the strange quality of unexpected cataclysms. The disease is highly contagious. The women lose their mind. The first few officially diagnosed cases create an official panic.
All around the world, the minds of afflicted women begin to revert to primitive and even animal thinking. Only the most basic functions remain. Open the fridge. Eat. Left unattended, victims do not manage to procure food and become aggressive, not unlike starving dogs.
Only one thing prevents or reverts this degradation. If a sick woman experiences a climax, she regains all capacities. Women need one climax a day to remain functional.
Pandemic. The economy crumbles as people realize that no amount of emotional blackmail manages to induce women back into sanity and the workstation, let alone the kitchen. Children beg for attention. Wars stop. The disease becomes the only event, the permanent headline.
After two weeks, the world smells. The United Nations launch a global plan to teach sex best practices; everywhere in the world, leaflets about masturbation are circulated to a wide audience in just about every language. Everybody and her cousin hire men and women skilled in the ways to properly stimulate climaxes. Wild becomes the norm. Men cook.
Scientists announce they are about to find a cure. Their conference ends in a boom. A faction of female terrorists threaten any who would follow their example.
On the long run, the number of climaxes in the world raises to unprecedented levels. Thanks to the effort, women get back to work.
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