Ah, Warm Bodies, the unique blend of post-apocalyptic drama and rom-zom-comedy. If R, our lovably dead and introspective zombie protagonist, were to find himself in the unenviable position of having to snack on piscine treats in his birthday suit, it might unfold something like this... --- As the sun sets over the decaying skyline, casting an orange hue that rivals the grotesque splendor of a rotting peach, R grumbles to himself, half-heartedly kicking a skull along the cracked pavement with his bare, pallid foot. The human food supply is dwindling, and his stomach - or what's left of it - growls with a hunger that's as melancholic as his undead existence. "Brains are in short supply," R muses, with the remnants of self-awareness poking through his foggy consciousness. "Fish... maybe fish don't carry memories of screaming and running. Nice break from the usual horror show." R's rumbling gut leads him to a stagnant pond on the outskirts of what was once a public park. The once-vibrant greens and blues have surrendered to the murkiness of neglect, just like R's memory of lively days. He eyes the murky water, a graveyard for long-lost goldfish and errant koi who thought they'd found a haven. With a shrug that dislodges a patch of rigor mortis, R begins to undress. His clothes, ragged and caked with who-knows-what, hit the ground with a sound that seems to say, "Good riddance." He stands there, as naked as the day he reanimated, noting the wasteland that is his body. Muscles that haven't flexed with intention in years, skin the grayish pallor of undercooked poultry, and a posterior that's as unremarkable as his once vibrant life. "Used to do squats," R recalls, a half-smile twitching his sallow cheeks. "Now it's just squats to get out of bed. Or... slab." And then, the water. R steps into the algae-skinned pond, water enveloping him like a putrid blanket, unfazed by the cold and the slime. Around him, the fish scatter, sensing an apex predator of an entirely different sort - death itself wading through their domain. With an arduous breath he no longer technically needs, he prepares for the hunt. But then, an opportunity arises... from his bowels. R's diet, hardly rich in fiber and all things living, has an effect. A sudden gurgle, an ancient instinct from the days of beer and tacos prompts him. And in the dead silence of the night, pierced only by the distant howls of his kind, R releases what can only be described as the epitaph of a chili cook-off. Bubbles surface, the water ripples, and a noxious cloud billows out with the subtlety of a trash fire. R watches, fascinated and mildly impressed, as the fish begin to pop up around him, bellies kissed by the moonlight, succumbing to the miasma of his undead backside. "Well, that was effective," R thinks, a chuckle rattling in his chest. "The butt giveth, and the butt taketh away." He gathers the fish, an embarrassed part of him glad that there's no one to witness this. The human part that's left, hidden deep within, mourns the bizarre necessity of it all, but the zombie, well, the zombie is pleased. Food is food, and in these end times, you take what you can get - even if it's served with a side of flatulence. As R dines on his quarry, he ponders the absurdity of his existence - and can't help but crack a grin. When life gives you lemons, you squeeze them over freshly-caught, fart-felled fish. Or something like that.