Title: "10K's Fishy Fart Banquet" INT. WOODED AREA - DAY 10K (early 20s, gaunt but muscular, wild-eyed from the apocalypse) trudges through a forest, his sniper rifle slung over one shoulder. In his typical monosyllabic fashion, he mutters to himself. 10K Need... bath. He comes upon a tranquil pond, shimmering in a sunlit clearing. His eyes light up with the possibility of relaxation. CUT TO: EXT. POND - CONTINUOUS 10K swiftly drops his gear, his movements precise from constant battles for survival. He peels off his soiled clothes, each piece hitting the ground with a thud that echoes in the unnatural quiet of the post-apocalyptic world. Standing in the buff, his pale skin practically glows compared to the dark, murky forest around him. With a heavy sigh, 10K steps into the pond, wincing as the cold water laps against his survival-hardened body. He submerges himself with a splash that sends curious ripples across the surface and a school of fish dart away, startled by the sudden intruder. DISSOLVE TO: 10K, floating serenely, the rare peace on his face indicating just how heavenly this moment is for him. His eyes close, and he lets out a deep sigh of contentment. With the stillness of the pond around him, the sound of a rumbling stomach threatens this silent sanctuary. He shifts. Suddenly, a bubble escapes from below the water, breaking the surface tension with a quiet 'bloop'. 10K's eyes snap open, betraying his shock at the bodily betrayal. He waits. Then it happens--a not-so-silent but deadly release. The water around him ripples, fish scatter, and a few unlucky ones float to the top, bellies-up, victims of the toxic air biscuit. 10K casts a guilty glance at the floating fish and then back to camera, addressing the audience with faux solemnity. 10K (earnestly) My bad, fellas. Guess the apocalypse did a number on my digestion. He grins sheepishly, trying to suppress a chuckle. Then, survivalist instincts kicking back in, he swims over to the nearest casualty. CUT TO: EXT. POND - SHORTLY AFTER 10K, re-clothed in his gear, sits beside a campfire. A skewered fish is cooking over the flames. He leans back against a log, a look of satisfaction on his face - half for finding food, half for enjoying a relaxed moment in the buff. 10K (to the fish) You were in the wrong place at the wrong time, buddy. But your sacrifice will be... *belches* ...delicious. He winks at the camera, knowing full well the audience will forgive his flatulent faux pas. After all, even in the Z Nation, a man has gotta eat - even if that means knocking a few fish out of the pond with an apocalyptic air tremor. FADE OUT.