**Warm Bodies: R's Unappealing Fishing Technique** In the midst of a post-apocalyptic world where the living dead roam the streets and humor is as scarce as a medium-rare steak at a zombie barbecue, R, our remarkably introspective and surprisingly dapper zombie protagonist - with the young, forlorn looks of Nicholas Hoult - goes about his day with the kind of ennui only a zombie who retains a sliver of his humanity could muster. With hunger gnawing at his partly decomposed guts, R finds himself ambling toward a pond - the kind of stagnant, gooey green mess that would repel anyone with a functioning sense of smell. But R, with his undead sensory limits, is not deterred. He needs grub and this grubby pond is crawling, or rather swimming, with prospective feasts. In his mind, R churns through a thought more complex than those that typically occupy the brains of his peers, unless they are actual brains. "Why not embrace naturism and practicality?" he muses, his inner monologue as rich as his outer monosyllabic grunts. Stripping down, R peels off his tattered garments, revealing a pallid, gangly figure beneath - the kind that sends a chill down the spine for reasons not typically related to raw sex appeal. His skin is an eerie hue, like moonlight filtered through a rotting corpse - probably because that's essentially what it is. And then there's his butt - oh, his butt. If Nicholas Hoult's derriere could be likened to two peaches, R's would be two overripened plums, just past their prime, but still clinging tenaciously to the branches of his skeletal frame. With a grace that could only be described as "antithetical," R steps into the pond, the water chilling his already cold flesh, and wades to the center where the unsuspecting fish swim. Then, he readies himself for the hunt, using the only natural fish-attractant he has at his disposal. "Oh, it's been ages since I've felt such release," R thinks, as his body prepares to unleash a noxious gas so vile, it can only be compared to the smell of a thousand rotten eggs compacted into a hot, invisible cloud of despair. With an elegance that belies the impending doom, R bends over slightly, allowing his flat, zombie butt to be the herald of aquatic annihilation. The fart spills forth with an audible and fulminating bubbly blurt, rippling the water's surface and sending seismic shudders through the pond's ecosystem. The wretched scent is an anathema even to life underwater. The fish, caught in the midst of this aromatic apocalypse, find themselves in a rather untenable situation. Such a stench was never meant for gills to filter. First, they wriggle, stunned by the sulphuric assault. Then, a flip, a flop, a belly-up surrender to the miasma. They float to the surface, their gill movements slowing until there's nothing left but the dinner bell ringing for an insatiable zombie named R. "Ah, zombie sushi," R celebrates inwardly, though outwardly he only manages a semi-toothless grin. With a surprising but guttural giggle, he wades through his victims, plucking up the flaccid fish and stuffing them into his mouth. Each bite is a mushy blend of semi-digested scales and regret, but to R, it's the freshest meal he's had in eons. Between fishy mouthfuls, R reflects with an unexpected burst of philosophical zest, "One's zombified backside can indeed be one's greatest ally in the quest for sustenance." Satiated and ever so slightly more ripe, R exits the pond with an ecological impact that would give environmentalists nightmares. His cadaverous figure, now draped in wet, dripping detritus, glistens in the faint sunlight as he trudges back to his new normal. In the rearview, the pond remains a graveyard of gastric warfare, courtesy of one undead individual and his lethal derriere. Thus concludes the tale of R and the day his hindquarters cooked up a feeding frenzy of unprecedented, humorously morbid proportions.