As the lurid orange sun cast its weakening glow over the apocalyptic hellscape, R, the introspective and surprisingly gentlemanly zombie boy-band lookalike, meandered through the derelict streets with the grace of a swan with a limp. Played by Nicholas Hoult, whose hulking 5'11" frame was now alarmingly gaunt thanks to the zombie diet, R was on a mission for sustenance--his stomach growled louder than his guttural moans. His skin was as ashen as the dust-covered Cadillacs strewn about, his hair a tousled bird's nest that even sparrows would boycott, and his piercing blue eyes, which somehow retained their sparkle amidst decay, appeared just as hungry as his moaning belly. Stumbling upon a murky pond--the sort of place teenage delinquents might describe as "sketchy" in pre-apocalyptic times--R had an epiphany. "Maybe I can fish? Do zombies fish? Can I even swim?" His thoughts grappled with his primal urges like two squirrels fighting over the last acorn before winter. With all the confidence of an Olympic streaker, R disrobed, dropping tattered garments to the mucky ground. His physique, though eternally on a corpse diet, still boasted the lingering embers of Hoult's once chiseled abs, an ironic display of decayed health. And as for his butt, well, let's just say that death had not robbed it of its curves--a zombie peach within the vast orchard of ruin. R waded into the putrid waters, cooling his undead skin. The gunk squished between his toes in a sensation he imagined a spa day might emulate, if spas catered to decomposing clientele. Drawn by a sense of primitive instinct, he began the hunt. With his back to the sinking sun, R looked like a grotesque sea deity emerging from the abyss, unaware that the real spectacle was his posterior majestically reflecting the dying light. He poised himself to 'fish' in the most unconventional of ways. "I wonder how zombie flatulence compares to the living," he mused whimsically. "Guess there's one way to find out." R bent forward, as though the bow of Titanic and his rear were ready to herald in a new age of fish catching. His buttocks squeezed with a focus he hadn't demonstrated since his SATs, and then, with the finesse of a sous chef flambeing creme brulee, he let out a fart that would mark the annals of zombie history. The silent but deadly expulsion caused the water to churn and froth as if a jaundiced whirlpool had formed beneath him. Fish floated to the surface, their bellies turned upward in testament to the olfactory horror they'd encountered--a piscatorial Armageddon. "Apologies, friends," R remarked dryly, plucking the incapacitated marine life from the water. "But a zombie has to eat." As he feasted on his catch of the day, R considered the day's events. "Perhaps a bubble bath is in order," he pondered, his stomach finally satiated. "With extra bubbles." And so the sun dipped below the horizon, leaving the naked, farting zombie to enjoy his meal and muse about the future--a future where aquatic hunting may well become the trend of the aftermath. "Just call me R, the flatulent fisherman," he thought, content for the moment in his bizarre niche of the food chain.