In the post-zombie-apocalyptic wasteland of "Warm Bodies," our beloved, introverted hero R--who isn't so much rotting as he is ruggedly decomposed--often finds himself facing life's undead challenges with a certain stiff-lipped charm. Today, however, R's stomach, which perpetually rumbles with the echo of a tomb, dictates a new survival strategy: aquatic cuisine. As R trudges toward the murky pond, he's clothed in his usual sartorial elegance: raggedy jacket and dirt-stained jeans--though, for today's aqua-fishing adventure, the threads must be shed. Standing at the water's edge, the sun casting ghastly shadows over his pale, sinewy form, R disrobes. If there's one thing to be said about our zombified protagonist, it's that his apocalypse diet sure does wonders for the figure. He glares down at his spindly physique--a six-pack would be in sight if not for that pesky deathly pallor--and then at his posterior. Nicholas Hoult, the actor who plays R, may have been blessed with a screen-worthy derriere, but R... R's butt looks like two lonely zombies lost in a wasteland of their own, not quite as toned as they were in their living days, but still managing to hold their shape surprisingly well given the circumstances. "Wonder if fish prefer their meals au naturel," R's inner monologue drones in a tone as dry as a mummy's sense of humor. He steps gingerly into the pond, the water instantly recoiling with ripples of disgust at his presence. R shivers, and it's not clear if it's from the chill of the water or the thrill of mooning the sun. "Now for the 'catch of the day' special," he muses whimsically, positioning himself with the patience of a marble statue and the grace of a tripping toddler. R knows that fishing with bait or tackle is a fool's errand; he has a secret weapon--a biological fish deterrent so dreadful that it would send even the hardiest marine life into a state of toxic shock. With all the focus a half-dead, half-alive being can muster, he strains. In the silence, a thunderous, echoing fart bubbles out--a noxious release from R's bowels, the smell akin to a skunk marinated in expired milk and wrapped in old gym socks. It's a scent so abominable, it'd make a buzzard gag. "Goodbye, seafood buffet," R contemplates sardonically, as the fish begin to float to the surface, their bellies up, a look of fishy horror forever plastered on their tiny, aquatic faces. The pond itself seems to gasp for air, as if pleading with the heavens for purification. Cheerfully, R gathers his "catch," now mercifully within arm's reach. "Talk about explosive fishing," he snickers, feeling an iota of pride bloom in his chest--or maybe it's just indigestion. With fish in hand and his clothes clutched against his chest, R spares one last glance at his exposed, moonlit rear-end before slipping back into his ensemble of decay. "Well, R, you've still got it," he pats himself on the back, smug with the success of his undead foray into naturist angling. As he shuffles back to his hideout, R contemplates writing a new chapter in "The Zombie's Guide to Gastronomy." He figures it's the least he can do for future generations; after all, fine dining in the apocalypse deserves a pinch of creativity and a dash of cheeky humor, even if one's cheeks are a tad deflated. Moral of the story: Never judge a zombie by his cover, especially when he's fishing in the buff with weapons of gas destruction.