Gary clawed his way out of the grave with all the moaning menace he could muster. His fingers were grey, his jaw slack, and hunger gnawed at his gut like a chainsaw.
“Braaaains,” he groaned, stumbling towards the nearest house.
Inside, a family cowered behind the sofa. Gary smashed through the window, glass spraying everywhere. He lunged, grabbed the father by the shoulders, opened his mouth wide in anticipation of lunch—and immediately broke into hives.
“Urghhh!” Gary staggered back, clutching his face. His tongue swelled like a balloon. Red blotches flared across his decaying skin. “Braa—ghhh—aghhh!”
The family stopped screaming.
“Are… are you okay?” the mother asked.
Gary wheezed, eyes watering. He fumbled in his torn suit pocket and pulled out a crumpled card: Severe allergies. Carry epinephrine auto-injector at all times.
Unfortunately, it was empty. He jabbed it into his thigh anyway, and fell to the carpet in a wheezy heap.
“Maybe… not braaains,” he croaked.
The teenage daughter, still trembling, offered him a slice of leftover pizza.
Gary sniffed it cautiously. No hives. He took a bite. Chewed. Swallowed.
“Peeeepperoni,” he sighed.
From that day forward, Gary became the world’s first “pizza-based” zombie. Instead of terrorising towns, he hung around takeaways, moaning until someone gave him a calzone. He still shuffled, still stank, still dropped the occasional finger, but at least he wasn’t itchy anymore.
And if you ever hear a groan outside your window at night, don’t panic. It’s probably just Gary, asking politely for a leftover slice of stromboli. And maybe a barbecue dip.
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