Ah, the post-apocalyptic world - a desolate canvas of destruction, punctuated by the ungraceful trudges of the undead. Among the groaning hoards, our decomposing hero, R, whose eloquent thoughts are trapped within a rotting exterior, played by the ever-dashing albeit cadaverous Nicholas Hoult. With his tall, gaunt frame, skin pallid and clinging to his bones like saran wrap, R is a picturesque zombie. As R meanders through the ashen remains of civilization, he ponders the existential questions of his new undead life, such as "Why do I still feel hungry when my stomach is pretty much just for show?" It's a philosophical debate that's cut short by the very pragmatic growl of his undead belly. His intense gaze lands upon a pond, murky water shimmering with the promise of sustenance. He knows what must be done. Removing his ragged clothing with the grace of a sloth on sedatives, R reveals a physique that's interesting to say the least. His butt, once a firm testament to countless squats, is now an interesting landscape of pallid flesh and sagging zombie charm. He might be falling apart, but he is committed to his undead chic. Slipping into the pond with all the subtlety of a peeping skeleton, R's approach to food gathering is - unusual. His inner monologue chatters away, a commentary that's part cockroach, part poet laureate: "If fish is brain food for the living, what does it make for the dead?" Sneaky as a decrepit ninja, R positions himself in the midst of the unsuspecting fish school. His taut cheeks ripple slightly, an ominous prelude to the aquatic catastrophe about to unfold. The fart that he unleashes is of such epic proportions; it seems to transcend the boundaries of time and space. His inner voice cackles, "Behold, my butt's magnum opus!" The fart bubbles through the pond like a noxious symphony, a crescendo of gaseous doom. Fish wrinkle their gills in abject horror as they meet an odorous fate. Within seconds, the surface is littered with belly-up fish, their small, lifeless forms declaring R's victory. Amid the ripples, R's contentment is palpable, even though his face struggles to bend into a smile. "Hey, it's a tough job, but someone's got to clear the pond," he muses to himself. Nearby birds flee, olfactory receptors offended, leaving R alone with his feast. Floating on his back, R plucks the fish from the surface, eating with the zest of a kid at a candy store - if the kid was a decomposing corpse and the candy, well, deceased fish. His internal banter is self-congratulatory, "Who needs fishing poles or nets when you have a backside that doubles as chemical warfare?" Each morsel is a victory snatched from the jaws of his rather stinky defeat. "At least I still have my fishing skills," he ponders whimsically, while devouring his easy catch. "And my figure. Kind of. Not really. But who's judging?" Utterly satisfied with his successful, if unorthodox, fishing method, R gradually redresses and shambles away from the scene, leaving the pond a little quieter than usual. His undead heart might not beat, but his confidence - and his bowels - are as strong as ever.