As a creative exercise, let's imagine a deleted scene from a very alternate universe, one that's much lighter in tone and perhaps a bit cheeky, quite literally. This involves R, our lovable zombie hero played by the dashing Nicholas Hoult, on an absurd quest for sustenance that doesn't involve gnawing on the cerebellum. --- The Zombie Apocalypse, a time of desolation, despair, and...dietary deficiencies? R, skin ashen and eyes deeply circled, stumbled upon a pond, his stomach grumbling with the ferocity of a chained beast. His body, once lean and athletic, had withered slightly under rigor mortis' cruel regime, muscles still outlined beneath the pallor like strokes of an artist's brush, albeit an artist with a dark sense of humor. R contemplated his reflection, noting the irony of his undead state as he poked at his stubborn "abs," still there, albeit a tad less firm than his human years. The moonlight filtered through the fog, casting a silver sheen over everything, including R's bare, pale derriere as he disrobed. Full moon indeed. He winced, or at least, his face attempted the movement, mostly lost in translation due to zombie physiology. His inner monologue, still intact despite his semi-decayed brain, provided a running commentary. "Nice, R. Real classy. Bathing in the buff during the apocalypse. Is this what we've come to?" Teetering on the edge, he launched into the water, a zombified Olympic diver aiming for gold in the 'Most Awkward Entry' category. His buoyancy was off due to his unique undead state; buoyancy was apparently a luxury afforded only to the living. Submerged in pond water, R contemplated his next move. "Fish. Fish are food." A beat. "Right, but how do I catch 'em without a rod and reel? This could be challenging..." A slow, impish grin, or the zombie equivalent, crept onto his greyish features. "Oh, right, the secret weapon." R positioned himself in the deeper part of the pond, turned his back to a sizeable school of fish, and braced. "Sorry little dudes, it's survival of the... least rotten." He remembered then, amidst the bloops and bleeps of curious fish, that zombies don't really breathe, or maybe they don't need to breathe--or maybe they just forget to breathe--but then, they don't need to do a lot of things normal folks do, like sleeping, or sunbathing, or, apparently, maintaining any semblance of dignity. With a Herculean effort, R focused all his will into his undead core, summoning a force from the depths of his bowels that had not been utilized since before the fall of humankind. Pbbrrt. The sound bubbled up through the pond, a clarion call to all aquatic life that doom was imminent. The ripple of displaced water, the vibration on the surface - it was like an underwater opera, but the kind that signaled end times rather than evoked applause. The water around R began to shift and turn as the fish reacted to the grave new stimulus. A few of the closest ones went belly-up immediately, surrendering to the noxious fumes of R's last-resort biological warfare. He grabbed the casualties with an apologetic wince. "In item descriptions, this would be called 'lightly fermented', right?" Floating triumphantly back to the shore, his prize in hand, R draped himself in his tattered clothing, the moonlight catching his behind, which now seemed to carry a sort of victorious glow. "Probably should have warned them with a 'no swimming' sign," he thought, regarding the stunned fish with a mixture of triumph and unexpectedly genuine remorse. "Next time, fellows." Back on land, fire crackling, fish sizzling, R assessed his cooking skills with the same skepticism one might use when watching paint dry. "If I can still taste, this will be...questionable." But as the stars twinkled above and the crackling drifted through the air, along with the smell of roasting fish mingled with Eau de Zombie Pond Fart, R allowed himself a moment of appreciation. In a world picked clean to the bone, a fish dinner meant a night of living like kings--or as close to living as one undead guy could get.