As the airy whispers of a post-apocalyptic arctic breeze swirl around the desolate yet cozy Northern Light listening post, Citizen Z, also known as Simon Cruller, hunkers down amidst the myriad of screens and blinking lights, swaddled in his eclectic collection of scavenged parkas and knit beanies. On any other day, his vigilant surveillance would be purely for the sake of humanity's remnants, nay today; today, his heart flutters with a mission tinged with personal interest, and perhaps a dash of quirky desire. Pushing aside his collection of canned rations and discarded candy wrappers, Citizen Z's fingers dance across the dusty console, bringing up his most-watched feed: the adventures of sniper prodigy and stoic survivor, 10K. A man of few words and fewer farts, but when he did let one slip, oh did the winds sing an ode to the peculiar allure that held Citizen Z in thrall. "Come on, be there," he mutters, the satellite feeds flickering across screens as he narrows in on 10K's last known locale--a verdant glen, untouched by the undead hordes and ripe for a peculiar sportsman's outing. And there in the HD glow, 10K appears like a Greek statue brought to life, standing in his birthday suit at the edge of a serene pond. Citizen Z's heart leaps as an involuntary chuckle escapes his lips--a chuckle poised to orbit the globe twice-over before settling back into the isolated chamber. But the voyeuristic glee is cut short when 10K, with the calm demeanor of a monk in meditation, bends his knees ever so slightly. "He's not going to... is he?" Citizen Z leans forward, hands gripping the edges of the console as though it were the railing of a ship in high seas. And then, the water's surface shudders, gently at first and then with undeniable intent. With a mighty gaseous bellow, 10K breaks the silence, and the pond quivers in response. Even the few shuffling zombies in the backdrop freeze, sensing that something of cosmic significance just transpired. The resulting smell, powerful enough to travel through the digital ether, has Citizen Z reaching for a facemask, solely for the placebo effect. Unperturbed, 10K opens his eyes, the faintest hint of relief etched upon his chiseled features, as several fish float to the surface, victims of the most unconventional fishing technique known to man or zombie--fartfishing. "A good day's hunt," 10K seems to murmur, though the feed is silent. Citizen Z's laughter balloons into a crescendo, tears of amusement frosting on his cheeks. "Ooh, that's going to confuse the data analysts," he chortles to the baffled arctic winds, who reply with an indifferent gale. 10K retrieves the defeated fish, stacking them with the casual expertise of a grocer placing apples on display. With a speed as if he'd been practicing for this moment all his life, Citizen Z's fingers flit about, immortalizing the moment with a snapshot, and adding it with a deft click to his '10K's Greatest Hits' folder. He then composes a cheeky tweet for the small community of survivors following his feed, hashtagging it #PondGasGrill and #ApocaFishy. Resuming his surveillance duties, Citizen Z stores this particular tale in his memory palace, located between 'That Time Murphy Turned a Z into an Undercover Spy' and 'The Great Twinkie Quest of '21'. But one thing is now clear as the arctic sky: fartfishing shall henceforth be enshrined as a legendary staple of post-apocalyptic wilderness survival, courtesy of 10K, and unbeknownst to him, his secret admirer up north.