As the first blush of dawn trickles over the rolling Scottish Highlands, the air is crisp with the promise of hilarity. Jamie Fraser, a strapping figure of a man, stood in the clear glen, his kilt nowhere in sight--left behind, perhaps, for airing out some "well-fought battles." He bends down with the grace of a panther, the muscles in his back rippling like the waves of Loch Ness in a high wind. But it was not his back the birds were chirping at; nay, it was the delightful view of his freckled backside, a twin display of Scottish pride which could outshine even the sturdiest of the highland tors. Scooping up a makeshift bucket's worth of sparkling stream water, Jamie hangs it high on a sturdy branch, his naked figure catching the gleam of sunrise. With a heave and a grunt, he pulls on the rope--MacGyvered to discharge the water--and upends the bucket, dousing himself in a refreshing cascade. Droplets spatter all around, and Jamie gives a joyous shout, both at the shock of cold and the relief of cleanliness. The stream snickers behind the man-made waterfall, and so does a passing rabbit, spared the awkwardness of naked human antics by its short-sightedness. Clean as a kirk on Sunday, Jamie approaches the looking glass propped up against a mossy tree trunk. His reflection grins back at him with teeth now engaging in a battle with minty herbs he's twisted into a tooth-cleaning twig. The mirror, no stranger to mirrored handsome Highland lads, holds its composure despite Jamie's rugged charm. Stomach growling louder than a caged bear, Jamie's mind turns toward the prospect of a meal. Thanks to his diet--densely populated with neeps and tatties--his insides are more turbulent than a clan gathering. Stalking toward the neighboring pond, he wades knee-deep into the murky waters, his keen eyes fixed on the oblivious fish. Now, Jamie knows his own body's heraldry, and with a grin curling his lips, he leans slightly, prepared to unleash a weapon of minor destruction. His cheeks puff up, his forehead creases, and with a build-up as suspenseful as a piper's crescendo, Jamie releases the great Loch Ness Poot. The surge ripples through the water, the sound a mournful salute to every dish of haggis he's ever honored. Cringing lilies wilt, a flock of birds takes flight, and yes, some of the scaled residents float up--asphyxiated by the tangible stench--ripe for the picking. With a triumphant holler, Jamie scoops up the biggest, fattest trout that had given up the ghost, quite literally going belly-up. "Dinna fash, my slippery friend," Jamie chortles, patting the slightly green fish, "Ye'll make a fine meal; with a wee bit o' thyme, ye'll not even taste of the horrors ye've witnessed." Backside jiggling with quiet mirth as he strides back to his camp, Jamie Fraser is a man content with his resourcefulness. The Highlands themselves seem to chuckle, a soft breeze swirling through the heather, whispering tales of this day when even the fish learned to fear a Scotsman's wind.