...now. As the storm continues to rage, the camera cross-fades to the shabby interior of a wood-paneled double-wide, where we find some middle-aged, unshorn, bemulleted, and tantalizingly beefy hesher kicking back in a tatty brown Barcalounger with a couple of beers while he tiredly eyes a nature documentary flickering away on his antique console television set. Coincidentally enough, the documentary's narration goes something like this: "The wildebeest lounges, lazy and self-content. He's oblivious to the fierce predator that stalks him from the shadows." Oh, show. Oh, clever, clever show. I'm sure the subsequent narration has just as much to do with the action at hand, but unfortunately for me and everybody else in the audience, the beefy hesher has chosen this moment to uncross his legs, thereby exposing the enormous hole worn through the crotch of his jeans, and I find myself utterly and distressingly unable to focus on anything else until something comes a-rattlin' at the double-wide's front door. Heshy The Soon-To-Be-Dead Beefstick glances suspiciously at the wriggling doorknob for a bit before hauling himself out of the Barcalounger to investigate. He carefully picks his way across the garbage-strewn floor and pauses with his mitt wrapped around the doorknob for a moment before flinging the thing open to find...nothing at all, actually! "Rats!" My sentiments exactly, Raoul. My sentiments exactly. In any event, after getting little more than a faceful of wind-driven raindrops, Heshy The Soon-To-Be-Dead Beefstick shuts the door and settles his holey crotch back in the Barcalounger until...the front door slams open, seemingly of its own accord! DUN! Or, you know, not, because it was just the wind, or something. "Drat!" But fear not, my faithful lizardly companion, for no sooner has Heshy The Beefstick slammed and locked the front door when... Zombie CLAY JAMES THOMPSON sneaks up on him from behind! "EEEEEEEEEEEEE!" Yep, sneaky Zombie Clay apparently wormed his way in through one of the double-wide's unlocked rear windows and now looms above the horrified Heshy, who stammers and stutters and staggers backwards in a panic until he stumbles across his handy sawed-off shotgun, which he quickly retrieves from the floor to dry-fire in Zombie Clay's face, because stupid Heshy forgot to load the damn thing. Ooops. Heshy finally finds his voice to shout, "No! Please, God, no!" but Zombie Clay's having none of it, and he wraps his grave-caked hands around Heshy's neck to throttle the dimwitted piece of trailer trash and his mullet to the floor. And as Heshy's thick neck cracks somewhere just out of our line of vision, the camera focuses in on the double-wide's primary decorative element: A poster emblazoned with the slogan "He Who Dies With The Most Toys...Wins!" Which, you know, makes Heshy the biggest loser on the planet. Wah. Wah. Waaaaaaaah! Also: