Zombie Gangster: The Origin
(As told by a Zombie Gangster who saw it all.)
Chapter 1: The Disgraced Genius
Look, before the Dons rose from their graves, before we stopped feelin’ bullets and fear, there was just one man. A guy who knew way too damn much for his own good. Dr. Victor Veins. A freakin’ genius. And trust me, that’s rarely good news. Veins used to work for the government, cookin’ up things they called “miracles” until his miracles got a little too dark. Resurrection, bringin’ the dead back, unnatural shit. So they burned his research, buried his files, and sent cleaners to erase him completely. But here’s the kicker. They messed up. Veins didn’t disappear.
He didn’t crumble into nothing. No, he slipped into the shadows, hid away in some forgotten hole where no badge or bureau could find him. And in that darkness, he got even better.
The man brewed nightmares. He cooked up a glowing green serum, a liquid that shimmered inside glass like trapped lightning. One jab of that needle shut off death as easy as blowin’ out a candle. But miracles always carry curses. The serum came with side effects, ugly ones. Rage. Madness. Hallucinations that clawed at your brain. Worst of all, it sharpened your mind in ways you did not want. It turned street-smart into razor-sharp cunning poisoned by paranoia, obsessions, and impulses you could not control. Veins did not want rats. He did not want soldiers. He needed men already seasoned in violence, men who had stared death in the eye a hundred times.
He needed real tough guys, gangsters who had already made peace with dyin’, but who still craved somethin’ bigger.
Yeah. Guys like us..
Chapter 2: The Gathering
Brooklyn, 1947. The city wore rain like a funeral veil. Streets glistened slick, lamplight stretchin’ long shadows across the cobblestones. The air carried the stink of gunmetal, wet brick, and promises nobody planned to keep.
Every Don worth a damn, from New York to Chicago, got the same letter. No signature. No trail. Just an invite to an abandoned slaughterhouse crouched by the docks. The kind of place where screams never made it past the rust.
Everybody figured it was a setup. A bullet party with their names on the wall. Still, not a single one stayed home. Pride’s heavier than fear, and no Don could afford to look soft.
They came drippin’ power. Don Enzo Ferro of the Bronx struttin’ in with his boys, mouth runnin’ sharp as always. Don Lucian Marino, dressed silk-smooth, eyes calculatin’, voice like he was sittin’ in marble halls instead of a meat locker. Carlo “The Barber” Lombardi, quiet, clean, precise, like every word had to be cut with a straight razor before it left his lips. And Vinny “Teeth” Calabrese, always chewin’ gum like he was gnawin’ bones, laughin’ at nothin’, hands twitchin’ for a bat.
Inside, they found him.
Dr. Veins. Standin’ tall in the dark, pale face lit by the sick glow of a silver case beside him. Syringes lined up neat, green liquid shimmerin’ like bottled witchcraft. He adjusted his cracked glasses, voice steady, polite, almost too calm for a room thick with egos and pistols.
“Gentlemen,” he began, not a trace of slang on his tongue.
“You kill for power. But I offer something greater. Immortality. Intelligence beyond human measure. Strength that does not bleed. Only one condition: first… you must die.”
The room went dead quiet.
And for the first time in years, every Don hesitated.
Chapter 3: The Test Subject
Silence wrapped the room tight. Nobody wanted to be the first. Pride kept their jaws locked, egos like loaded pistols pointed at each other.
Then Enzo Ferro broke it. The Bronx boss leaned back in his chair, slow-clappin’, grin wide and cruel. His voice carried that street sneer, always makin’ a joke outta danger.
“Time’s money, fellas. Let’s stop wastin’ it. This freak show ain’t gonna start itself.”
He turned to his right-hand man, Sal Nicci, a lean kid with sharp eyes and shaky hands. Ferro’s grin curled like smoke.
“Sal, go give the good doctor his demonstration.”
Nicci stiffened. “Boss, I… I don’t know if”
Ferro’s laugh cut him down. He pulled his pistol, spinning it casual like a toy. His voice dropped low and mean.
“You either take the needle, kid… or you take my bullets. Your choice.”
The room held its breath.
Nicci swallowed hard, stepped forward, and let Veins slide the glowing green into his vein. The plunger went down, and within seconds his body convulsed. He hit the floor, spasming, rattlin’ like bones in a can. Then flatlined. Stone still.
No one moved.
Until,
Sal Nicci stood up. Not shakin’. Not stumblin’. Calm. Too calm. His skin had gone pale as wax, his eyes faintly lit with that sick green shimmer. He smoothed his coat with steady fingers.
“You good, kid?” Ferro asked, voice dripping with fake amusement, though his eyes flickered with doubt.
Nicci’s lips curled into a cold smile. “Never better, boss.”
Ferro chuckled, pressed the barrel of his gun against Nicci’s chest, and pulled the trigger. The shot cracked like thunder.
Nicci didn’t even flinch. He reached into his coat, plucked the bullet out with two fingers, and held it up like lint. Then, slow as winter, he raised his pistol, pressed it to Ferro’s forehead, and squeezed.
The Bronx Don dropped.
No one spoke.