Nick Miller, zombie novelist extraordinaire, stood in the kitchen staring at the pieces of fruit in his hands. As one of his roommates entered, he asked, "Schmidt, which fruit is sexier? A grapefruit, or … whatever the hell this is."

Schmidt glanced at the fruit in Nick's hands. "That, Nick, is a perfectly formed pomegranate from the jeweled shores of the Mediterranean," he said with a distinct roll of his eyes.

Nick looked at the fruit again and shrugged. "So which one is sexier?"

"I am glad you asked, Nicholas," said Schmidt, sliding onto one of the bar stools. "I would opt for the delectable pomegranate. The delicate red arils not only sound sinful, they are perfect for a variety of sexy dishes from scintillating smoothies to – of course you being a bartender would know – wine. And the fruit itself recalls the woeful tale of Persephone, who was lured to the Underworld…"

"Grapefruit!" called Winston, sticking his head around the corner of the kitchen.

"What?" asked Nick.

"Grapefruit – it's bigger."

Nick weighed each fruit in his hands, then tossed the pomegranate to Schmidt. "Thanks, man," he said and headed back to his room.

Schmidt slowly closed his eyes. "Heathens," he muttered.