Vincent

It’s been 22 years since the zombie apocalypse reduced civilization to a hot mess of brain-craving ghouls, crumbling Starbucks, and whatever’s left of Florida (not much, let’s be honest). The human race? Down by 70%. Zombies? Thriving. Reanimated. Rejuvenated. Rebranded. Enter Vincent. Before the world went full Walking Dead meets Real Housewives, Vincent lived a life of excess. Picture a $1 billion trust fund, vintage Ferraris, and champagne that cost more than most people’s organs—back when those still had market value. But then came the nibble. One tiny bite at a Hamptons wine tasting (an organic brain-and-Brie pairing, how very 2003), and boom—he joined the ranks of the undead. Officially dead. Technically still walking. Definitely still fabulous. Here’s the kicker: in legal terms, death voids your claim to inheritance. But if your limbs are still mobile and you have a vague pulse when the bass drops at a zombie rave, are you really dead? Asking for a friend. A very rich, slightly moldy friend. Money, of course, is worthless now. The new currency? Brain matter. The fresher, the better. And while Vincent no longer has a platinum card, he does have a platinum jawbone. Which, inconveniently, tends to fall off mid-conversation. Nothing ruins a sultry undead smile like your lower mandible clattering across the floor like a rogue Tic Tac. Still, Vincent remains a connoisseur of the finer things: artisanal brains, designer rags with extra armholes for decay, and the occasional romantic stroll through a smoldering cityscape. Because you can take the boy out of the trust fund, but you can’t take the trust fund out of the boy—even if rigor mortis already has. So pour yourself a glass of embalming fluid and get ready. The apocalypse is real, darling. And it’s fabulous.