Mulholland Street in Latveria was the territory of 'Crippled' John...
Those who knew him were aware that he had once served in Poland's Thunder Special Forces before being discharged after losing a leg in a terrorist attack.
Yet no thug or hoodlum on this street dared mock or provoke him... not just because he worked for the warlord Razio, but also because he had once crushed the skull of the previous gang boss of Mulholland Street with his bare hands...
It happened at the Mole Bar on the corner.
Crippled John had pressed his palms against the bald man's head, thumbs gouging out his eyes before squeezing until the skull cracked. The bloody, brutal spectacle had left a lasting impression, and was still a topic of hushed conversation to this day.
Now, John lounged in his executive chair, counting stacks of cash piled high on his desk, a satisfied smirk on his face. He was no longer the kind of gang leader who fought on the front lines.
On the surface, this intimidating man with a prosthetic leg was the owner of a Latverian transport company. In reality, he ran a lucrative smuggling empire with over a thousand n under him.
Those beat-up cars roaming the streets? Their main business was transporting drugs and contraband for the mafia.
Besides John, there was also a Russian nad Levandov, who controlled an arms factory and was another trusted lieutenant of Warlord Razio.
Rumors said Razio himself was backed by the old aristocracy, a tangled web of interests that ford the dark underbelly of Latveria.
*RIIIIING!*
The shrill telephone in the lavish office shattered the silence...
Crippled John frowned, irritated, as he snatched up the receiver.
A panicked voice reported:
"People die in Latveria every damn day! Call again for this shit, and I'll snap your neck too!" the gang leader barked.
Crippled John's heart lurched... No one had dared challenge them in years...
In a backwater like Latveria, Razio commanded a well-equipped private army... He was effectively a feudal lord with the old aristocracy's backing.
Even the military had to show him so respect. Who would be foolish enough to provoke him?
John stood, his muscular fra straining against his black leather jacket. His prosthetic leg gave him a slight limp as he paced.
His first instinct was to call Razio, but then he reconsidered. Even if this mystery man had single-handedly taken out dozens of thugs and cabbies, he wouldn't last long against Levandov's heavily ard enforcers.
Besides, watching that arrogant Russian bastard take a hit wouldn't be so bad. John had long coveted the arms trade but had kept his ambitions in check, wary of the Russian's ruthless thods.
"F*cking Russki," John spat, sitting back down to his paperwork...
Short of the national army, he couldn't imagine anyone capable of threatening an arms factory.
That belief held until 7 PM, as the gang leader cracked open an Alaskan king crab claw, savoring the tender at inside.
The phone scread again.
John's face darkened with fury as he wiped greasy fingers and snatched up the receiver: "How many f*cking tis do I have to say it, don't call during dinner–"
The commanding voice on the line froze the gang leader mid-rant, his curses dying in his throat like a doused fla.
"R-Razio, sir! I didn't realize it was you! Those damn idiots keep bothering , I swear, I'd never disrespect you–"
The warlord cut off the babbling.
"Levandov's… dead?" The words hit like a thunderbolt.
A chill crawled up John's spine as he repeated them numbly.
As the warlord's furious tirade ended, Crippled John nodded frantically before hanging up and imdiately dialing dozens of numbers... the police chief, city officials, casino managers, transport coordinators...
In an instant, the entire city seed to erupt into chaos. Like a machine roaring to life, every cog turned with terrifying energy.
The evening news interrupted programming to broadcast a top-priority manhunt...
A terrorist in a green cloak had stolen a highly dangerous substance. The city was under lockdown, with police conducting sweeping searches. The sa officers Latverians usually mocked now moved with startling efficiency, sirens wailing through the streets.
anwhile, the underworld buzzed with a bounty worth millions... a blurred image of a cloaked man.
Thugs and killers salivated at the prize, scouring every corner like rabid dogs, desperate for this once-in-a-lifeti opportunity...
...
In a rusted shack on the outskirts, the man behind this storm stood calmly, inspecting the ring-shaped tal in its case... a crude-looking lump weighing 5.3 kg, roughly 11 cm in diater...
"Doom... You've deviated from the plan."
The cold voice belonged to Skynet, the all-seeing eye that watched over the planet. Nothing escaped its gaze.
"Too slow," Doom rasped in reply, "Cooperating with warlords, climbing the ranks, gaining the Pri Minister's trust… it would take too long."
The reborn Doctor Doom lifted his hood, steel mask glinting with a lethal sheen. His voice was tallic, devoid of warmth, "This nation is rotten. From top to bottom. Just as our master said... I have returned to bring destruction and rebirth. And first… I must unleash the storm."
He closed the case containing the weapons-grade plutonium, his hollow eyes flickering with white-hot electricity.
He would beco Latveria's uncrowned king. In the na of Doom...
~~~
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